Legenda Maris

  Legenda Maris

  Tanith Lee

  England

  Legenda Maris

  By Tanith Lee

  © 2015, ebook edition 2015

  This is a work of fiction. All the characters and 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.

  The right of Tanith Lee to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988.

  Cover Art by Tanith Lee and John Kaiine

  Cover Design by Danielle Lainton

  Frontispiece illustration by Tanith Lee

  New (future) Author Web Site, as the original has been stolen: http://www.tanith-lee.com

  An Immanion Press Edition

  http://www.immanion–press.com

  info@immanion–press.com

  Praise for Tanith Lee

  “Tanith Lee possesses a delicate, sharp, sidelong sensibility. She never observes head-on, but sees to the heart of things from strange angles. Her work is about blood, and darkness, and the salt sea, and cats, and much more. Her velvet touch will carry us into the future.”

  —Liz Williams, author of Worldsoul and Winterstrike

  “Tanith Lee doesn’t merely write fantasy stories. She casts spells. With her incantatory prose and alchemical plots, she transforms genre tropes into the stuff of High Art. The oceanic-themed Legenda Maris collects some of her finest pieces, from the chilling and sensual ‘Because Our Skins are Finer’ to the hauntingly beautiful ‘Magritte’s Secret Agent’.”

  —Craig Laurance Gidney, author of Sea, Swallow Me & Other Stories and Skin Deep Magic

  “Impossible tasks are often the most rewarding to attempt. Summing up Tanith Lee as either a writer or a person is one such. In both regards, Tanith is a marvel: unique, irrepressible, without peer. Thinking of her brings a smile to my lips and a tear to my eye. Thank you, Tanith, for the wonder of your words and the warmth of your friendship, and for leaving us your work to revisit and revel in.”

  —Ian Whates, author of Pelquin’s Comet and The Noise Within, publisher of NewCon press books

  “Tanith Lee possessed an acute insight into passion and a visionary’s eye for beauty. Her creativity was boundless, her imagery compelling. She was a stylist with a profound and original talent, who could write of the exploits of demons, queens, warriors, madmen and beggars with the same conviction and compassion. She was a creator and a conjurer, a high priestess and a mouth-piece for the gods.”

  —Sarah Singleton, Author of Dark Storm and The Stranger

  “‘The Birthgrave’, Tanith Lee’s first novel changed British fantasy. Here was an author who charged fantasy with dark fire, but also convincing realism. Her characters were not stereotypes, but living, breathing people. The writing itself was beautiful, flowing like poetry. I was not the only young writer greatly influenced and inspired by Tanith Lee. Her love of language taught us how to shape our own words into living textures. Her ability to see beyond the ordinary guided us to peer beyond the veils of the mundane world and to report what we found there. As both a writer and a mentor, Tanith Lee is irreplaceable.”

  —Storm Constantine, author of ‘The Moonshawl’,

  publisher of Immanion Press books.

  “We always live in the Age of Legends without knowing it. In such times living gods and goddesses walk among us, and share this Flat Earth and mold its shadow fabric. It is only when the gods depart do we realize in retrospect what fragile miracle we’ve been privileged to observe, and what is now gone from the world... The divine Tanith Lee has slipped away. And yet, both legends and deities leave a permanent brand in the hearts of mortals. The brand is seared with the wild flame of Story, and it holds a fragment of elusive divine Wonder. Here is one remarkable collection. And now it breathes in her stead, as it will always – in tandem with every last one of her stories and books and poems and images, a great holy bellows of fire. Forgive me if I speak in such exalted language, but none other will do when it comes to Tanith Lee.”

  —Vera Nazarian, author of Cobweb Bride,

  publisher of Norilana Books

  Contents

  Introduction by Storm Constantine

  Girls in Green Dresses

  Magritte’s Secret Agent

  Paper Boat

  Lace-Maker, Blade-Taker, Grave-Breaker, Priest

  Under Fog (The Wreckers)

  The Sea Was In Her Eyes

  Because Our Skins Are Finer

  Leviathan

  Where Does The Town Go At Night

  Xoanon

  Land’s End, The Edge of The Sea

  Publishing History of the Stories

  About the Author

  Introduction to ‘Legenda Maris’

  ‘Legenda Maris’ is the first of a series of themed short story collections that Tanith Lee planned to publish through Immanion Press. Tanith died on 24th May 2015 at the age of 67. We see the publication of this book as our tribute to a remarkable author with whom we were privileged to work for several years and whose writing I personally have adored and found inspiring since I began reading it back in the 70s. While some of these stories have been in print before, Tanith always ensured that any new collection of her work included unpublished pieces. The new tales in this book were written only a few months ago, and are among the last ones she wrote. By collecting her stories within a theme, Tanith produced a new work entirely – almost like a series of chapters in a novel where the characters of each chapter never meet. In this work particularly, the only recurring protagonist is the sea. And the sound of it, the smell of it, permeates every story.

  As most people who are familiar with Tanith’s work will know, to say she was a prolific writer is an understatement. She lived and breathed writing, and even when incapacitated by illness endeavoured to keep working. She was reading the proofs of this book and marking corrections on them only a week or so before she died. Producing words almost continually never meant a lessening of standards. Tanith’s stories were – and are – always fresh and innovative. She had an ability to conjure atmosphere in a way that only the best writers can. To read her work is to immerse yourself in her dreams and visions. She accomplished what many aspire to: virtual realities, magical worlds, in which you simply forget you are reading. You are there.

  Tanith described her writing as ‘channelling’. Stories poured out of her, characters spoke through her. While for some authors, writing can be like a war with their ability to describe accurately what they see so vividly in their minds, for Tanith writing was never a struggle. This was a wonderful gift, almost an extra sense. It speaks to me of a serene confidence; she never doubted for a moment that she was a story-teller to her very core – it was her purpose – and the buffets and blows of the publishing industry, which quite frankly was not always good to her, never undermined that confidence nor damaged her creativity.

  The new stories in this book, ‘Leviathan’ and ‘Land’s Edge, The Edge Of The Sea’, were written when Tanith was aware she didn’t have much time left in this life, and this makes them particularly poignant. They explore passing and change, but also eternity and cycles, the sureness of life, as well as its ebb and flow. They are written with dignity and strength. With Tanith’s passing, the world has lost a great writer, but many of us have also lost a beloved friend. The words of some of these friends can be found at the beginning of this book.

  The less recent stories in ‘Legenda Maris’ include a couple of my favourite Tanith tales ‘Magritte’s Secret Agent’ and ‘Because Our Skins Are Finer’; like strange dreams washed up on the shore of sleep, they stay w
ith you long after you’ve finished reading. Several of the other pieces are uncollected, and I’d not even read them myself before Tanith sent me the manuscript for the book. These had been published previously in magazines or anthologies, so I suspect they will be new to many other readers of this collection too. The cover was created from an original collage by Tanith, which I scanned into the computer in two parts, (it was a long picture!), and which Immanion artist Danielle Lainton then ‘stitched’ together deftly so you cannot see the joins. Tanith’s husband, John Kaiine, then worked on the picture some more to create the beautiful finished image that now adorns this book.

  John wishes Tanith’s work to continue, and part of this will be to go forward with the collections she planned to publish through Immanion Press. For now, though, please enjoy this jewel-spilling treasure chest of tales. And listen to the sea.

  Storm Constantine

  16th June 2015

  “Though we come and go, and pass into the shadows, here we leave behind us stories told – on paper, on the wings of butterflies, on the wind, on the hearts of others – there we are remembered, there we work magic and great change – passing on the fire like a torch – forever and forever. Till the sky falls, and all things are flawless and need no words at all.”

  Tanith Lee

  Girls in Green Dresses

  This is for John Kaiine, who, on my mentioning the story-less title, told me who they were, and promptly recounted most of the tale of Elrahn.

  In the dim diluted light an hour before the dawn, the girl’s father took her hand. And soon after they set out on the long walk to the lake among the reeds.

  The river flows into the lake from the hills, then flows away again, down to the sea. It is a green river, and the lake, tidal but also capable of deep stillness, is green too. The tallest reeds grow there, taller far than a child-girl of thirteen years, as was Elaidh that morning. Men and women, and children too, go there now and then to cut the reeds for the thatch, and for their healing value. But not so often any more. Since the lake is thought an unsafe and mysterious place, not gentle with humankind.

  Yet it looked well, that morning, the water a milky green among the circle of the round hills, and the mist just stealing away as the sun came up unseen, only the sky lighting to show its path. A heron rose from the reeds, steel-pale in the twilight, but every stem shivered, and the ripples fled over the lake as a woman gathers her stitches when she sews a cloth. But then the reeds were once more still as if made of iron, and the lake was like a plate of misty glass. And silence spoke with its own voice.

  “Are you cold?” asked the father, Elrahn.

  “No, dadda.’’

  “Are you afraid?”

  “No, dadda.”

  “We’ll sit, then. We must wait. We’ll eat our breakfast on the shore.”

  So in the lea of a willow they ate their bread, dipped in sweet black tea. They waited. He did not tell her the story then, for he had already told her, over and over, all the years of her life that she could listen. Only the silence spoke, then sang

  He had been a baby, Elrahn, when he took the snow-sickness Not many take it, nor live that take it. Those that do are ever after marked.

  And that was how he grew up then a fine young man, but with hair and skin so white, and his face and body, all his fleshly surface, pitted by the silvery pocks the fever had made on him, that are like a mountain leopard’s paw-marks in the snow.

  “He will have second sight,” said the old women. But he did not.

  “He’ll go off for a soldier,” said the men. He never did.

  “Religion is always a refuge and consolement,” said the priest, standing lonely under the church’s dome. But Elrahn did not come to be taught about God.

  “He will never wed,” said the girls, “though we should like him, if it were not for his snow-leopard skin.”

  And Elrahn did not court or marry. He did not even glance at the girls, and if he thought of them when he was not with them, it was impossible for them to say.

  His mother was a widow—his father was long dead of the spirit that he had brewed at his own still. But when Elrahn was seventeen or so, the mother too died. And besides she had never liked Elrahn much nor been very kind to him, preferring her other sons. These presently kicked him out, and it was winter too. “Go cuddle the snow or find a leopard to live with, or a wolf, Elrahn. It’s sick of the sight of your white scales we are.”

  Elrahn did not answer. He seldom said a lot. He picked himself up and walked off along the village street through the snow, not looking back once. Only the priest followed him a little way, shouting, “Return, dear Elrahn. God loves you.” But Elrahn did not return.

  Elrahn walked all through the dark, white day, and when he was hungry and thirsty, he took up some of the snow, or plucked an icicle and sucked it. Later he found a barn to sleep in and there was a cow there with a calf, and he had a little of the warm milk

  The next day Elrahn met a kind of travelling show. There were three painted wagons strung with bells, and drawn by shaggy ponies, and in the wagons were those who danced or jumped through fire, or performed magic tricks for money. And also there was a woman pretty enough to make you blink, but she was only the height of the back of a young dog. And also there was a dog, that had wings. Though it could not fly until hoisted up in a harness from invisible wires by night, to deceive the ignorant in various villages.

  The show-master was a man in a fine coat with brass buttons. He gave Elrahn a piece of cheese with bread and a cup of liquor. “Well, my handsome fellow, are you marked like that all over? What do you say to going with us? You can be our serpent prince, the child of a man and a female snake. Your food, and one hundredth of whatever we’ll take in coins.”

  Elrahn was staring at a blue ape that could walk across the tops of narrow sticks and was doing so. The cheese was tasty, and besides the pretty dwarf had given him a sort of look he had never been given—or noticed he was given—before.

  “I will,” said Elrahn.

  Some while Elrahn was with the show-wagons. In the villages and little rambling stone towns, he stood naked but for a kilt and some ornament painted to look like gold. The people gaped, for in those parts they had never even heard of the snow-sickness. And when he stuck out his tongue, stained black for purpose, they gasped.

  Life among the wagons was not bad. It was better than it had been in the village and with the mother and her other sons.

  The blue ape was full of jokes and the winged dog liked running, and would warm your feet by the fire. The troupe were daring. And besides, there was the lovely dwarf.

  But then one day, in a town above a high forest, a rich man saw the dwarf and he made her an offer of love and marriage.

  “Elrahn,” said she, “we have been good friends, but I would be a fool to refuse this chance. He is a kind man, if not good-looking or young. And I am coming to the end of my bloom. You’ll tire of me, in any case.”

  Another man in Elrahn’s place might have said, Never! But Elrahn said nothing like that. Nor did he say, You are breaking my heart, or, You are a bitch. Only his eyes filled with tears, but he looked away, and she did not see, or if she did she did not say. Instead he answered, “I wish you well and happy.”

  After the dwarf woman was gone, Elrahn had less interest in the wagons. He told the master so.

  “Ah, then, just come down to the reedlands with me,” said the man, “for they say there you can find a mermaid, and I should like, I would, to have a mermaid among my show.”

  Elrahn agreed to this. He thought he might as well go on with them until he found some other thing to do.

  The spring was begun, and the reedlands were green. The greenest place on earth they seemed, as they always do then, and in the summer. Even the sky looks green, in its way, between the stems, and from willow islands in the rivers, the emerald ducks fly out in swarms like bees.

  There was a big old inn, and here the three wagons stopped for several days
.

  As he drank beer under the low beams, the show-master asked to hear the local tales.

  So then they were telling him everything, of giants in the hills who had left the ruins of their castles there, of ghosts that dance on the thirteenth night of every month and of the demon-fox that steals babies left in the fields and changes them to foxes.

  The show-master and his troupe listened to all this, but Elrahn could see the master was impatient. Elrahn wondered why the master did not ask straight out for the tale he wanted, the story of the mermaids. But as Elrahn never said a lot, he never said a single word now.

  And then an old man came over and held out his mug for some beer.

  ‘‘Welcome, grandda,” said the master. “What tale do you have, then?”

  “No tale at all,” said the old man. “Only this warning. Do not go down to the lake in these days of the spring.”

  “And why is that, grandda?”

  “If you do, you may see there the girls in green dresses. And then no man alive, nor God in His sky, can save you.”

  A great thick hush had fallen. Even the fire dropped down on the hearth, and the winged dog folded his wings close, and went under the table.

  “Why is that, then, grandda? Are they so terrible, these girls in green dresses?”

  “So they are.”

  “And why are they?”

  The old man said, “Ask the dead, for they know.”

  Then the show-master nodded, and refilled the old man’s beer-mug, and said the ape would dance on the rafters upside down, which it did. And the other matter was let go.