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COPYRIGHT INFORMATION
Copyright © 2012 by James C. Glass
Published by Wildside Press LLC
www.wildsidebooks.com
DEDICATION
For the writers, editors, and readers who have encouraged me over the years. Thank you very much for the support.
FOREWORD
Here is the second set of stories rewritten specifically for this volume and appearing in print for the first time. The mix is a bit different from that of “Touches of Wonder and Terror.” There is a poem, two novelettes, and a couple of psychodramas for your consideration. The poem “Night Demon” was inspired by the fondness my wife and I had for the TV series Beauty and the Beast. “Moon-Man” sold to Eldritch Tales, “Following the Rain” went to Owlflight, but neither appeared in print before the magazines folded. “Social Security” was sent to a couple of mystery magazines and lay forgotten in my files for many years until now. The rest of the stories were near-misses in the magazine market, and I have used useful comments by editors such as Kris Rusch, A. J. Budrys, and Dean Wesley Smith to do the rewrites. Some rewrites have been extensive. “Cold Sleep” in its present form is thirty percent shorter than the previous draft. And, in response to comments on “The Depths of Love” by Kris Rusch, the entire story has been changed.
Rewriting the stories in this volume has been an educational experience for me. Rewriting is necessary, but difficult. In the heat of publishing efforts, a piece can often be sent out too quickly before an author can see what work remains to be done. On the other hand, it’s possible to rewrite a story to the point where no life is left in it. A balance must be found, and I have tried to do it here. I would appreciate reader comments on these stories. Please send them to my web site at www.sff.net/people/jglass/ and, if nothing else, at least let me know which stories were your favorites.
My hope, of course, is that you enjoy all of them.
RAINBOW LADY
A practitioner of The Field arrived in morning mist with showers of gold and red leaves stirred by wind streaming down from the summits of Three Sisters. The small Oregon town was not yet awake, did not see her sudden appearance, a flash of bright colors in thick fog at the end of the main street. She followed the wind down the center of the street past the gas station and pharmacy, a café where lights newly glowed from upstairs windows. Her heavy coat was striped in rainbow colors, and she carried a small black satchel in one hand. She walked straight to the little shop she had rented by mail, and hung out her sign as the sun appeared over the mountains to the east.
“Ellen Barstead, Energy Practitioner and Quantum Healer,” said the sign.
Within a day she was the talk of the town: an attractive, middle-aged woman, pleasant and well-spoken, likely some new-age practitioner who had come for the tranquility and tourist trade of a mountain town. Children who first saw her called her the Rainbow Lady. She did her grocery shopping and greeted her new neighbors in a friendly way, but was rarely seen outside after that first day. In her shop, she sat near the window where people could see her, and seemed to be lost in a meditative state for much of the time. Other times she watched the street carefully, perhaps waiting for a client to arrive.
And quite soon, when the wind was again blowing swirls of colorful leaves down the center of the street, someone did come to see her.
* * * *
Nina Cole had always dreamed vividly in color, and in her dream the walls and ceiling were painted gold, and light flashed from a thousand facets in the crystal chandeliers hanging above her. Mark whirled her around the floor in a fast waltz and Nina tilted her head back, laughing. They had never actually danced here, but she remembered the place, a grand ballroom in Spokane’s Davenport Hotel where they had once spent a night of delicious luxury before Angie was born. Mark whirled her to the rhythm of music unheard, kissed her neck and murmured, “I love you, wife,” and she kissed him back hard on the lips, but the intensity and warmth of the kiss broke something inside her and the light went away.
She awoke in the darkness of the bedroom, and the bed was empty beside her. Mark was still dead, Angie recovering from the terrible accident that had nearly killed both of them, the drunken man responsible for it imprisoned for the next twenty years of his young life. Tears gushed as Nina sobbed into a clutched pillow. Her breath came in little hiccups and her cheek was wet against the pillowcase. She cried until she heard the click of a door latch, and sat up abruptly in the bed.
Angie stood in the doorway, pressing a stuffed turtle named Oscar to her chest. The eight-year-old’s jammies were decorated with running bears, and reflected light from outside made her eyes seem huge in the darkened room.
“I’m sorry, honey, did I wake you up?” Nina sniffled, and held out her arms towards the child.
Angie was silent, but ran to the bed, climbed up onto it and crawled into Nina’s arms. She reached up and touched her mother’s wet face.
“I had another dream about daddy,” said Nina. “It made me sad. I miss him so much, and I know you do too.”
Angie hugged her turtle, and closed her eyes.
“We’ll talk about it when you’re ready; there’s no hurry, but you’ll feel better when you talk about it.” Nina hugged Angie tightly to her, and the child made a sad sound in her throat.
In minutes Angie was asleep again. Nina carried her to the other bedroom and tucked her in with Oscar. The wheelchair stood in a corner, unused for the past seven months. Physically Angie was whole again, but something remained broken inside her, a mental thing. She had cried in the hospital when they treated her broken bones, had called for her mommy and daddy, but since the day she’d learned her father was dead she hadn’t spoken a single word.
Her imaginary playmate had come later.
Nina watched her daughter sleep and then left the room, closing the door softly behind her. She returned to her own half-empty bed and cried softly into her pillow before finally falling asleep. And if there were new dreams to make her feel sad, she didn’t remember them.
* * * *
“I’m sorry, Nina, but there’s nothing more I can do. I’m not a psychiatrist,” said Doctor Branson. “The x-rays are clear. She’s perfectly mended. The rest of it has to be psychosomatic. In time it should go away. Be patient.”
“I know she can talk. I hear her talking to somebody in her room sometimes, but when I go in there she’s alone, and when I ask her about it she won’t say anything. Could she be angry at me about something?”
“You’re stretching, Nina. This has nothing to do with you. Angie has lost her father, and misses him. It’s common for people to find comfort in speaking to a dead parent or loved one. It can be healing, as long as it doesn’t become obsessive.”
Nina shook her head. “It’s not her father, but an imaginary playmate. When she’s alone outside, swinging or in the sandbox or twirling around like she’s dancing, I see her chattering away, and when I get close it’s just gloomy silence. It’s getting worse. We had our interview for a private school last week, and she was catatonic for it. They won’t take her when she’s like this.”
“There’s a child psychologist in Bend I can refer you to,” said Branson.
Nina’s eyes brimmed with tears. “She doesn’t need a psychologist, she needs her father, and I can’t be that for her.”
Branson nodded his head, sighed, and thought for a moment. “There is something you might try locally, though my colleagues would not be happy with me if they knew I suggested it. A new-age healer recently opened an office here. You know: auras, chakras, energy balancing, that sort of thing. Reminds me a bit of Native American shamanism. I’m a professional skeptic, but I’ve seen it work, especially when there was no obvious physical disorder in the patient. You might give it a try. Her office is just down the street, where the old candy store used to be.”
Nina