Strange Fires

By P.M. Biswas

Within each of us is a strange fire—a way we burn which is uniquely ours, a heat that defines us, forges us, drives us, liberates us. Strange Fires is a richly diverse collection of queer speculative short fiction, starring pagan gods, psychic violinists, telepathic pyromaniacs, rebellious priests, gender-bending time travelers and fairy-tale villains. Each of these characters is driven by their own fire. Some yearn to understand; some to transform; some to be bound; some to be free.

Pooja Mittal Biswas is the author of nine books of fiction, poetry and non-fiction, with her ninth book, a collection of poetry, due to be released by Cordite Books in 2023. She has been reviewed and interviewed in The Age, The Australian and ABC Radio National’s The Book Show, and has been anthologized in both The Best Australian Poems and The Best Australian Poetry. Pooja has written for Writer’s Digest and has been widely published in literary journals such as Meanjin, Cordite, TEXT, Hecate and Jacket. Biswas is currently pursuing a PhD in Creative Writing from the University of Sydney, where she was awarded the Stanley Sinclair Bequest Scholarship for poetry. She is a sessional academic teaching Creative Writing at the University of Sydney, and she also teaches several writing courses of her own design at Writing NSW, Writers Victoria and the University of Sydney’s Centre for Continuing Education. She has been invited to speak at literary festivals such as the Emerging Writers’ Festival and the National Young Writers’ Festival. While still living in New Zealand, she was selected as the country’s national representative for UNESCO’s Babele Poetica project.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rebel Satori Press
• Release date: Apr 19, 2022
• ISBN: 9781608642144

P.M. Biswas

Pooja Mittal Biswas is the author of nine books of fiction, poetry and non-fiction, with her ninth book, a collection of poetry, due to be released by Cordite Books in 2023. She has been reviewed and interviewed in The Age, The Australian and ABC Radio National’s The Book Show, and has been anthologized in both The Best Australian Poems and The Best Australian Poetry. Pooja has written for Writer’s Digest and has been widely published in literary journals such as Meanjin, Cordite, TEXT, Hecate and Jacket. Biswas is currently pursuing a PhD in Creative Writing from the University of Sydney, where she was awarded the Stanley Sinclair Bequest Scholarship for poetry. She is a sessional academic teaching Creative Writing at the University of Sydney, and she also teaches several writing courses of her own design at Writing NSW, Writers Victoria and the University of Sydney’s Centre for Continuing Education. She has been invited to speak at literary festivals such as the Emerging Writers’ Festival and the National Young Writers’ Festival. While still living in New Zealand, she was selected as the country’s national representative for UNESCO’s Babele Poetica project.

Book preview

STRANGE FIRES

P. M. Biswas

Published in the United States of America and United Kingdom by

Queer Space

A Rebel Satori Imprint

www.rebelsatoripress.com

Copyright © 2022 by P.M. Biswas

All rights reserved. Except for brief passages quoted in newspaper, magazine, radio, television, or online reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced in any form or any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or information or retrieval system, without the permission in writing from the publisher. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

Paperback ISBN: 978-1-60864-1213-7

Ebook ISBN: 978-1-60864-214-4

Library of Congress Control Number: 2022935634

Contents

The Endless Reverb of a Long, Dark Night

Gemini

Drifter

Acts of God

Corvus

Carte Blanche

Wings of Air

The Endless Reverb of a Long, Dark Night

What if you could hear death?

Around the deathbed stood four p eople. The first was the wife of the patient, Mrs. Meredith Tam, who wore a silver cross around her neck, a sky-blue cardigan with pearl buttons, and an expression of such utter exhaustion that Juhi was half-tempted to fetch her a coffee from the waiting lounge outside. The second individual was the patient’s son, whose eyes were red-rimmed but dry, and who sported the hardened jaw and clenched fists of a grudge-holder. Finally, there was the doctor, observing the form of his misfortunate patient with a sort of impatient sorrow; he clearly had other urgent cases to attend to. Cases where the patient had an actual chance at life.

It was a familiar tableau to Juhi. Only the players changed, but their roles remained the same: the patient, the relatives, and the physician. It was almost comfortable. A routine. Because even dying, if witnessed often enough, became routine. The same words, the same rituals, repeated over and over, like the mantras Juhi’s mother used to chant every morning while bathing miniature gods from the household shrine.

The gods were absent here. They always were, given that they were only colourful figments dreamt up to console the innocent—little brass statues clad in scraps of yellow silk and adorned with crimson threads and jasmine flowers, sweet-smelling and shrouded in incense, as if to smother the stench of death. Juhi did not, of course, ask Mrs. Tam if the cross around her neck meant that she still believed in a god. Let the widow-to-be keep her innocence.

Juhi was directed to the chair closest to Mr. Tam’s bedside. Ironic, that she was to be closer to this stranger in death than those who loved him. She opened the oblong, medium-sized case she had brought with her and lifted out her violin, pretending not to notice how Mrs. Tam flinched at the sight of the instrument. Juhi couldn’t blame the woman for flinching; to her, the appearance of the violin must seem a brutal finality, like the glint off the blade of a guillotine moments before it dropped.

Mr. Tam himself looked blissfully unaware, the frown-lines between his brows eased in sleep. His hair—what was left of it—was wispy and white, combed carefully over his scalp by a nurse or his wife, and his jowls were sweating slightly. The mask attached to his face concealed his nose and mouth, but Juhi didn’t need to see them. She only needed to listen.

Juhi dug her phone out of her pocket and set it to record on the bedside table, beside a box of tissues and a wilting bouquet of flowers. She brought her violin up to nestle under her chin and raised her bow. The sour, woodsy scent of old varnish that wafted up to her nostrils didn’t quite drown out the smell of sickness and hospital-grade disinfectant, but it was enough. It was grounding.

Mrs. Tam reached out for her husband’s hand.

At that point, Juhi tuned out. Her eyes drifted shut, blocking out all distractions. She was distantly aware of movement in the background; conversation; the beeping of the life support machines being switched off; the gasping sound of the ventilator’s suction being released; sobbing. But it was irrelevant. It wasn’t what she was listening for. It wasn’t the song.

But then, it came. So soft, so subtle, that to an ear less gifted, it might have escaped unnoticed. But Juhi was one of the gifted. She was a Witness. And to her, it was as palpable as a susurration of silk. Every hair on her body was standing on end. She had left the window of her mind wide open, and sure enough, that susurration swept in, like a wind through rushes, swaying the grasses gently as it passed. Atonal, acentric, meandering. Rising and falling as if on breaths. Rhythmic, but slowing. Mr. Tam was dying, and his life was leaving him in a series of notes.

That susurration, that whisper, rolled through Juhi, through her flesh and bones, as if she was transparent. Her hands moved without her knowing. Music filled the room. It was a quiet song with hints of light and memory, dappled like a sunlit riverbed under swift-flowing water. Flashes on the surface. Here one minute, gone the next. Evocations of experiences that would never happen again. Shapeless, nameless, but felt nonetheless.

Juhi opened her eyes long after the last note had lapsed. Her surroundings re-materialized around her, oddly surreal, like a half-forgotten dream. The overhead bulb was flickering; the wilted flowers seemed browner than before. The doctor was conversing lowly with a newly arrived nurse. Mr. Tam was much as he had been before—immobile, serene. Both Mrs. Tam and her son were weeping openly, as if their emotions had been unlocked by the music; they slumped against each other, exhausted by grief. Rather than disturb them, Juhi discreetly packed up her violin and phone, and left for the waiting lounge.

There, amid the hubbub of chattering visitors, bustling janitors and trundling trolleys stacked with foil-covered food, Juhi waited. Eventually, the nurse that had been speaking to the doctor emerged from the intensive care ward and headed towards her. Juhi straightened, chucking the Styrofoam cup she’d been sipping coffee from into the nearby bin.

The nurse stared at Juhi, looking distinctly spooked, and Juhi realized that she’d forgotten to fix her face. It tended to lapse into an unnatural blankness whenever she Witnessed, a blankness that most people found alarming. Juhi could never be bothered to explain that in hollowing herself out like a flute to let someone else’s song play through her, she had to give up her own personality, her own self. Reclaiming it was a gradual process. Doing bodily activities to revive her physical senses—such as eating a good meal, having a hot bath or making love—helped her reclaim herself in the days that followed a Witnessing. She could hardly ‘act normal’ immediately afterwards, as she was often instructed to do.

Still, Juhi adopted what she hoped was a sufficiently sorrowful mien, and saw the nurse relax. Li-Ying, Juhi addressed her by the name on her badge, and the nurse smiled. Thanks for your help today.

No worries. Li-Ying shook her head and her short bob bounced. She was pretty, if timid, with a pink mouth and eyes that darted away, like mice. It’s a real pity about Mr. Tam, he’s been with us for more than a decade. I suppose his family thought it was finally time to let him rest. It must have been a difficult decision; it always is. But they asked for a Witness. For a melody to remember him by.

A common decision. Juhi’s tone may have been a bit brusque. She’d performed nine such Witnessings in the past week. They had taken a toll on her, especially the ones in which Juhi’s subject was conscious and interactive to begin with. When Li-Ying blinked, however, Juhi sighed and amended, It is only natural to wish to preserve the memory of a loved one for posterity.

Evidently, that was a sufficiently romantic response. Li-Ying brightened and handed Juhi a clipboard holding a pen and a sheet of paper. Yes, the family expressed their gratitude for your presence today. In their LI form, they stated that they would like you to notate the complete sonata based on your performance today, and to perform it again at Mr. Tam’s funeral in two days.

Ah. An expensive option, but perhaps the Tams were well off. I’ll do my best, Juhi said, with as much sincerity as she could muster while still hollowed out, empty without Mr. Tam’s music to fill her up. She’d have to fill that emptiness soon or suffer the consequences. Please advise them that I am amenable to performing his Life Impression at the funeral, and that I will be honored to attend.

Li-Ying beamed. That’s great! Um, you’ll have to sign here to indicate that you won’t use the phone recording of your playing—and of Mr. Tam’s passing—for any purpose but the requested musical notation, and that you will delete the recording as soon as the notation is complete. Should you not do so, the standard fines and penalties will apply.

Juhi hummed in vague agreement and signed, barely aware of returning the clipboard. She was already thinking of home, of that hot bath, of calling Ben and Anya over for dinner. Li-Ying’s mouth was a similar shade of pink to Ben’s, and Li-Ying’s diffidence had Juhi missing Anya’s take-charge attitude.

People to whom she need not lie. Those were the only people whose company Juhi could tolerate right now. Lying took more energy than she had.

Back home, amongst neglected, drooping houseplants, rumpled clothing, and stacks of books, Juhi found the discount voucher she’d tucked away for the Chinese takeout joint down the block. She rang them up and placed an order for Kung Pao chicken, steamed rice and garlic prawns. Deciding she wasn’t in the mood to go out again, she texted Ben to pick up the order on his way and went for her much-awaited bath.

Juhi emerged from the bathroom to see Anya already on the couch, flipping idly through the channels. She must’ve let herself in with the key Juhi had given her ten months ago. Juhi wondered, not for the first time, when they’d all finally start cohabiting.

Where’s Ben? Anya muted the TV and pinned Juhi with her sharp, bright, measuring gaze. It was like being on the receiving end of a paring knife. Anya looked Juhi up and down as if cataloguing her injuries, both seen and unseen, and then murmured, Oh, honey.

Juhi winced. If she was eliciting that reaction from Anya, it must be really bad. Juhi wrapped her arms around herself, suddenly too cold in her bathrobe, but mercifully, Anya didn’t want to talk—unlike Ben, who preferred talking about feelings. Anya only got up and kissed Juhi on the brow, and then on the mouth, and took her hand to pull her down onto the couch. They tangled together, easy and natural, like they always had. Anya’s dark skin glowed in the low light. In the background, a rerun of M.A.S.H. ran silently on the telly.

Ben’s getting takeaway, Juhi mumbled into Anya’s collarbone.

Let him. I get to have you all to myself, for a change. Anya trailed her fingers through Juhi’s damp hair, burying her nose in it. You smell like a jungle orchid.

How would you know what a jungle orchid smells like? Juhi teased. She felt a deep unwinding within her, as of a dyed cloth, stained by death in all the places except where she’d wound herself up protectively. Those untouched spaces could finally unfurl—vulnerable, but no longer painfully so. You’ve never been to a jungle. And you’re allergic to flowers.

Hush. Anya tightened her arms around Juhi. Have a pre-dinner nap. I’ll wake you up when Ben gets here.

As