The Third Bear

  PRAISE FOR THE THIRD BEAR

  "Vandermeer's stories hit one's hindbrain slantwise - they offer no easy answers and no comfort. Rather they are hard, brilliant gems meant to cut and shine - these are some of the most beautiful, upsetting, and accomplished tales I have ever read."

  - Catherynne M. Valente, author of The Orphan's Tales

  "The Third Bear contains some of my favorite stories of recent years. There's the meticulous workplace surrealism of `The Situation,' the remorseless multi-world cataclysms of `The Goat Variations,' the beautiful eldritch heartsickness of `The Surgeon's Tale: Jeff VanderMeer is one of the very best."

  - Kevin Brockmeier, author of The Brief History of the Dead

  "Jeff VanderMeer knows what story can do to human consciousness, as is delightfully evident in his latest collection, The Third Bear. These stories are smart, gorgeous, allusive, and tricky. VanderMeer is a fantasist extraordinaire."

  - Jack O'Connell, author of The Resurrectionist

  "Annexing the weird half-lit spaces between genres, these stories lean sometimes into fantasy and sf, sometimes into metafiction, but are always deft and pleasurable reads. VanderMeer is one of the few writers out there able to coax something startling and necessary from anything ...a very strong collection."

  - Brian Evenson, author of Last Days

  "Jeff VanderMeer's work is subversive and disquieting, possessed of an almost kinetic force in its impact upon the mind. Body horror gone viral, fairy tales wrapped in their own entrails, and metafictional murder; these and other images herein are sure to leave their mark and fester in the subconscious. Already a well-regarded fantasist, The Third Bear reveals VanderMeer at his most fearsome."

  - Laird Barron, author of The Imago Sequence and Other Stories

  PRAISE FOR JEFF VANDERMEER

  "VanderMeer may be creating the dominant literature of the 21st century."

  - The Guardian

  "In the hands of a brilliant writer like Jeff VanderMeer, writing fantasy can be a means of serious artistic expression. In VanderMeer's hands, it is also playful, poignant, and utterly, wildly, imaginative."

  - Peter Straub, author of Ghost Story

  "One of modern fantasy's most original and fearless pioneers."

  - Richard K. Morgan, author of Altered Carbon

  "Jeff VanderMeer is an extraordinary writer... passionate, beautiful, complex, terrifying."

  - Tamar Yellin, author of The Genizah at the House of Shepher, winner of the Jewish Book Council Award

  "One of the most literary fantasy writers or fantastic literary writers we've got working these days, take your pick."

  - Ron Hogan, Mediabistro's GalleyCat

  JEFF VANDERMEER

  Copyright © 2olo by Jeff VanderMeer.

  This is a work of collected fiction. All events portrayed in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to real people or events is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form without the express permission of the author and the publisher. Interior and cover design by Jacob McMurray

  Tachyon Publications 1459 ,8th Street #139 San Francisco, CA 94107 (4,5) z85-5615 www.tachyonpublications.com [email protected]

  Series Editor: Jacob Weisman Editor: Jill Roberts ISBN 13: 978-1-892391-98-8 ISBN 1o:1-892391-98-8

  Printed in the United States ofAmerica by Worzalla First Edition: 2010 987654321

  ALL COPYRIGHTS © BY JEFF VANDERMEER

  "The Third Bear" © 2007. First appeared in Clarkesworld Magazine, No. 7, April 2007.

  "The Quickening" © 2010. Original appearance in this collection.

  "Finding Sonoria" © 2008. First appeared in Polluto, No. t, Spring 2008.

  "Lost" © 2005. First appeared in TEL.• Stories, edited by Jay Lake (Wheatland Press: Eugene, Oregon).

  "The Situation" © 2008. First appeared as a limited edition (PS Publishing: East Yorkshire, England).

  "Predecessor" © 2009. First appeared in Conjunctions, No. 52, Spring 2009.

  "Fixing Hanover" © 2oo9. First appeared in Extraordinary Engines: The Definitive Steampunk Anthology, edited by Nick Gevers, (Solaris: London: England).

  "Shark God Versus Octopus God" © 2004. First appeared in Postscripts, No. z, Summer 2004.

  "Errata" © 2009. First appeared on Tor.com. Includes excerpts of materials from the following short stories: "Box of Oxen" by Alan Dean Foster. Copyright © 2005 by Alan Dean Foster. Not yet published. "The Telephone" by Zoran Zivkovic. Copyright © 2,005 by Zoran Zivkovil. First published in Argosy #3. "The Gate House" by Marly Youmans. Copyright © 2005 by Marly Youmans. Not yet published. "The Dragons of Manhattan" by John Grant. Copyright © 2005 by John Grant. First published in Argosy #3. "My General" by Carol Emshwiller. Copyright © 2004 by Carol Emshwiller. First published in Argosy #z. "The Mystery of the Texas Twister" by Michael Moorcock. Copyright © 2004 by Michael Moorcock. First published in Argosy #I. "The Carving" by Steve Rasnic Tem. Copyright © 2004 by Steve Rasnic Tem. First published in Argosy #I, edited by Lou Anders and James A. Owen (Birmingham: Coppervale International Studio Press, 2004). And from the following books and articles: Sergeev, Mark. "Words of a poet." W W W Irkutsk 2003. Irkutsk Computer Center, 9 Jan 2oo9. Thubron, Colin. In Siberia. New York: HarperPe- rennial, 2000. Crimethlnk Ex-Workers' Collective. Days of War, Nights of Love: Crimethlnk for Beginners. Salem: Crimethlnc., Zoos. All actual people mentioned in this story appear with their knowledge and permission.

  "The Goat Variations" © 2009. First appeared in Black Clock, No. 9, Spring/Summer 2008.

  "Three Days in a Border Town" © 2004. First appeared in Polyphony, No. 4, edited by Deborah Layne and Jay Lake (Wheatland Press: Eugene, Oregon).

  "The Secret Life of Shane Hamill" © 2006. First appeared as "My Report on the Secret Life of Shane Hamill" in Eidolon I, edited by Jonathan Strahan and Jeremy G. Byrne (Eidolon Publications: Crested Butte, Colorado).

  The Surgeon's Tale (D 2007 by Cat Rambo and Jeff VanderMeer (Prime Books: Rockville, Maryland).

  "Appoggiatura" © 2007. First appeared in Logorrhea: Good Words Make Good Stories, edited by John Klima (Bantam: New York).

  Dedicated to my wife, Ann

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  i • The Third Bear

  19 • The Quickening

  43 • Finding Sonoria

  61 • Lost

  67 • The Situation

  95 • Predecessor

  105 Fixing Hanover

  121 • Shark God Versus Octopus God

  133 Errata

  161 • The Goat Variations

  177 • Three Days in a Border Town

  199 • The Secret Life of Shane Hamill

  209 • The Surgeon's Tale (with Cat Rambo)

  241 • Appoggiatura

  269. Afterword

  273. About the Author

  THE THIRD BEAR

  It made its home in the deep forest near the village of Grommin, and all anyone ever saw of it, before the end, would be hard eyes and the dark barrel of its muzzle. The smell of piss and blood and shit and bubbles of saliva and half-eaten food. The villagers called it the Third Bear because they had killed two bears already that year. But, near the end, no one really thought of it as a bear, even though the name had stuck, changed by repetition and fear and slurring through blood-filled mouths to Theeber. Sometimes it even sounded like "seether" or "seabird."

  The Third Bear came to the forest in mid-summer, and soon most anyone who used the forest trail, day or night, disappeared, carried off to the creature's lair. By the time even large convoys had traveled through, they would discover two or three of their number missing. A straggling horseman, his mount cantering along, just bloodstains and bits of ski
n sticking to the saddle. A cobbler gone but for a shredded hat. A few of the richest villagers hired mercenaries as guards, but when even the strongest men died, silent and alone, the convoys dried up.

  The village elder, a man named Horley, held a meeting to decide what to do. It was the end of summer by then and the leaves had begun to disappear from the trees. The meeting house had a chill to it, a stench of thick earth with a trace of blood and sweat curling through it. All five hundred villagers came to the meeting, from the few remaining merchants to the poorest beggar. Grommin had always been hard scrabble and tough winters, but it was also two hundred years old. It had survived the wars of barons and of kings, been razed twice, only to return.

  "I can't bring my goods to market," one farmer said, rising in shadow from beneath the thatch. "I can't be sure I want to send my daughter to the pen to milk the goats."

  Horley laughed, said, "It's worse than that. We can't bring in food from the other side. Not for sure. Not without losing men." He had a sudden vision from months ahead, of winter, of ice gravelly with frozen blood. It made him shudder.

  "What about those of us who live outside the village?" another farmer asked. "We need the pasture for grazing, but we have no protection."

  Horley understood the problem; he had been one of those farmers, once. The village had a wall of thick logs surrounding it, to a height of ten feet. No real defense against an army, but more than enough to keep the wolves out. Beyond that perimeter lived the farmers and the hunters and the outcasts who could not work among others.

  "You may have to pretend it is a time of war and live in the village and go out with a guard," Horley said. "We have plenty of able-bodied men, still."

  "Is it the witch woman doing this?" Clem the blacksmith asked.

  "No," Horley said. "I don't think it's the witch woman."

  What Clem and some of the others thought of as a "witch woman," Horley thought of as a crazy person who knew some herbal remedies and lived in the woods because the villagers had driven her there, blaming her for an outbreak of sickness the year before.

  "Why did it come?" a woman asked. "Why us?"

  No one could answer, least of all Horley. As Horley stared at all of those hopeful, scared, troubled faces, he realized that not all of them yet knew they were stuck in a nightmare.

  Clem was the village's strongest man, and after the meeting he volunteered to fight the beast. He had arms like most people's thighs. His skin was tough from years of being exposed to flame. With his full black beard he almost looked like a bear himself.

  "I'll go, and I'll go willingly," he told Horley. "I've not met the beast I couldn't best. I'll squeeze the `a' out of him." And he laughed, for he had a passable sense of humor, although most chose to ignore it.

  Horley looked into Clem's eyes and could not see even a speck of fear there. This worried Horley.

  "Be careful, Clem," Horley said. And, in a whisper, as he hugged the man: "Instruct your son in anything he might need to know, before you leave. Make sure your wife has what she needs, too."

  Fitted in chain mail, leathers, and a metal helmet, carrying an old sword some knight had once left in Grommin by mistake, Clem set forth in search of the Third Bear. The entire village came out to see him go. Clem was laughing and raising his sword and this lifted the spirits of those who saw him. Soon, everyone was celebrating as if the Third Bear had already been killed or defeated.

  "Fools," Horley's wife Rebecca said as they watched the celebration with their two young sons.

  Rebecca was younger than Horley by ten years and had come from a village far beyond the forest. Horley's first wife had died from a sickness that left red marks all over her body.

  "Perhaps, but it's the happiest anyone's been for a month," Horley said.

  "All I can think of is that he's taking one of our best horses out into danger," Rebecca said.

  "Would you rather he took a nag?" Horley said, but absent-mindedly. His thoughts were elsewhere.

  The vision of winter would not leave him. Each time, it came back to Horley with greater strength, until he had trouble seeing the summer all around him.

  Clem left the path almost immediately, wandered through the underbrush to the heart of the forest, where the trees grew so black and thick that the only glimmer of light came from the reflection of water on leaves. The smell in that place carried a hint of offal.

  Clem had spent so much time beating things into shape that he had not developed a sense of fear, for he had never been beaten. But the smell in his nostrils did make him uneasy.

  He wandered for some time in the deep growth, where the soft loam of moss muffled the sound of his passage. It became difficult to judge direction and distance. The unease became a knot in his chest as he clutched his sword ever tighter. He had killed many bears in his time, this was true, but he had never had to hunt a man-eater.

  Eventually, in his circling, meandering trek, Clem came upon a hill with a cave inside. From within the cave, a green flame flickered. It beckoned like a lithe but crooked finger.

  A lesser man might have turned back, but not Clem. He didn't have the sense to turn back.

  Inside the cave, he found the Third Bear. Behind the Third Bear, arranged around the walls of the cave, it had displayed the heads of its victims. The heads had been painstakingly painted and mounted on stands. They were all in various stages of rot.

  Many bodies lay stacked neatly in the back of the cave. All of them had been defiled in some way. Some of them had been mutilated. The wavery green light came from a candle the Third Bear had placed behind the bodies, to display its handiwork. The smell of blood was so thick that Clem had to put a hand over his mouth.

  As Clem took it all in, the methodical nature of it, the fact that the Third Bear had not eaten any of its victims, he found something inside of him tearing and then breaking.

  "I...." he said, and looked into the terrible eyes of the Third Bear. "I...."

  Almost sadly, with a kind of ritual grace, the Third Bear pried Clem's sword from his fist, placed the weapon on a ledge, and then came back to stare at Clem once more.

  Clem stood there, frozen, as the Third Bear disemboweled him.

  The next day, Clem was found at the edge of the village, blood-soaked and shit-spattered, legs gnawed away, but alive enough for a while to, in shuddering lurches, tell those who found him what he had seen, just not coherent enough to tell them where.

  Later, Horley would wish that he hadn't told them anything.

  There was nothing left but fear in Clem's eyes by the time Horley questioned him. Horley didn't remember any of Clem's answers, had to be retold them later. He was trying to reconcile himself to looking down to stare into Clem's eyes.

  "I'm cold, Horley," Clem said. "I can't feel anything. Is winter coming?" "Should we bring his wife and son?" the farmer who had found Clem asked Horley at one point.

  Horley just stared at him, aghast.

  They buried Clem in the old graveyard, but the next week the Third Bear dug him up and stole his head. Apparently, the Third Bear had no use for heroes, except, possibly, as a pattern of heads.

  Horley tried to keep the grave robbery and what Clem had said a secret, but it leaked out anyway. By the time most villagers of Grommin learned about it, the details had become more monstrous than anything in real life. Some said Clem had been kept for a week in the bear's lair, while it ate away at him. Others said Clem had had his spine ripped out of his body while he was still breathing. A few even said Clem had been buried alive by mistake and the Third Bear had heard him writhing in the dirt and come for him.

  But one thing Horley knew that trumped every tall tale spreading through Grommin: the Third Bear hadn't had to keep Clem alive. Theeber hadn't had to place Clem, still breathing, at the edge of the village.

  So Seether wasn't just a bear.

  In the next week, four more people were killed, one on the outskirts of the village. Several villagers had risked leaving, and some of them had eve
n made it through. But fear kept most of them in Grommin, locked into a kind of desperate fatalism or optimism that made their eyes hollow as they stared into some unknowable distance. Horley did his best to keep morale up, but even he experienced a sense of sinking.

  "Is there more I can do?" he asked his wife in bed at night.

  "Nothing," she said. "You are doing everything you can do."

  "Should we just leave?"

  "Where would we go? What would we do?"

  Few who left ever returned with stories of success, it was true. War and plague and a thousand more dangers lay out there beyond the forest. They'd as likely become slaves or servants or simply die, one by one, out in the wider world.

  Eventually, though, Horley sent a messenger to that wider world, to a fardistant baron to whom they paid fealty and a yearly amount of goods.

  The messenger never came back. Nor did the baron send any men. Horley spent many nights awake, wondering if the messenger had gotten through and the baron just didn't care, or if Seether had killed the messenger.

  "Maybe winter will bring good news," Rebecca said.

  Over time, Grommin sent four or five of its strongest and most clever men and women to fight the Third Bear. Horley objected to this waste, but the villagers insisted that something must be done before winter, and those who went were unable to grasp the terrible velocity of the situation. For Horley, it seemed merely a form of taking one's own life, but his objections were overruled by the majority.

  They never learned what happened to these people, but Horley saw them in his nightmares.

  One, before the end, said to the Third Bear, "If you could see the children in the village, you would stop."

  Another said, before fear clotted her windpipe, "We will give you all the food you need."

  A third, even as he watched his intestines slide out of his body, said, "Surely there is something we can do to appease you?"