Interlaced Pathways: Contemporary Fantasy Tales

Interlaced Pathways

Contemporary Fantasy Tales

By William F. Wu

Artwork by Linda Cappel

Copyright 2020 William F. Wu

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Dedication

For Alan Brennert, longtime friend

and an author who can make us all believe in magic.

Acknowledgements

My longtime friends and colleagues Michael D. Toman, Rob Chilson, and Dorothy Howell had crucial roles in the creation of this collection. Thanks are also due to my wife Fulian Wu and our son Di Wu Wang. Special thanks also go to Jo O’Brien and Boruma Publishing and to cover artist extraordinaire, Linda Cappel.

Copyright Acknowledgements

Wong’s Lost and Found Emporium, copyright @ 1983 William F. Wu.

On the Road, copyright @ 2009 William F. Wu.

The Spirit From the Ninth Heaven, copyright @ 1996 William F. Wu.

Year of the Fiery Horse, copyright @ 1991 William F. Wu.

Indigo Shade, Alizarin Light, copyright @ 1986 William F. Wu.

House of Cool Air, copyright @ 1994 William F. Wu.

Red Gate Highway, copyright @ 1994 William F. Wu.

Kenny, copyright @ 1986 William F. Wu.

Grid of Ice, copyright @ 1996 William F. Wu.

Missing Person, copyright @ 1992 William F. Wu.

Table of Contents

Introduction

1. Wong’s Lost and Found Emporium

2. On the Road

3. The Spirit from the Ninth Heaven

4. Year of the Fiery Horse

5. Indigo Shade, Alizarin Light

6. House of Cool Air

7. Red Gate Highway

8. Kenny

9. Grid of Ice

10. Missing Person

Introduction

"Not all those who wander are lost…"

—J. R. R. Tolkien,

The Riddle of Strider,

from The Fellowship of the Ring.

I’ve always like wandering. In context, the quote above refers to the character Aragorn, in The Lord of the Rings trilogy, as he wanders but knows his mission. In my wandering, I often had no mission, but never felt lost.

This collection of fantasy stories, all contemporary in the time I wrote them, owes a great deal to my wandering of all kinds. Wandering can be not only literal, but intellectual and emotional, as well. Together these wanderings can be an interesting mix, unique to each person.

When I was a kid, my friends and I gradually explored our suburban neighborhood, which held few mysteries for adults. With childhood wonder, we followed a creek that meandered between a long line of back yards until it flowed through a dark, scary tunnel into the local shopping center. The creek had crawdads, sometimes tadpoles, and was lined with wild garlic that we pulled up and took home.

On bicycles, we discovered a cemetery, without a sign giving information, surrounded by suburban developments that had grown up around it. Back yards abutted it on three sides, with the fourth facing the street.

The cemetery had a well-tended lawn and a chain-link fence. After climbing the fence, we found that the weather-worn headstones had dates going back to the 1860s. Long before the post-World War II suburbs had been built, this cemetery had served the area in pioneer times. Remnants of the Santa Fe Trail are still in the area. This discovery of local history was exciting and mysterious. We read names on the headstones and as we wondered what the people had been like, our imaginations wandered.

At the same time, I was fascinated by reading the works of Edward Eager, Jim Kjelgaard, and Howard Pyle. When I was old enough, I wandered through the novels of C.S. Lewis and J.R.R. Tolkien. Many of Kjelgaard’s books are fantasy in that they are told from the viewpoint of an animal; Pyle’s The Merry Adventures of Robin Hood, while looking like a historical novel on the surface, of course is based on legends that have very little historical foundation. My exploration of these novels became entwined with Narnia and Middle Earth, as though I was following interlaced paths from world to world.

The realm of ideas—facts, controversies, falsehoods, myths and legends, and opinions—offers all kinds of wandering. They interlace well with speculative fiction.

People sometimes ask writers of speculative fiction Where do you get your ideas? Hearing the question repeatedly can make us cynical about coming up with answers. In my case, story ideas often come from the intersection of these pathways.

Some of the stories in this collection represent my take on established story-telling concepts such as an odd shop and a deal with the devil. Others offer a new take on Chinese folktales. I hope wandering through them will entertain.

I’ve always liked reading about the context for the creation of stories by other authors, so I’ve written afterwords for readers who might share this interest. Thanks for reading.

—William F. Wu

Wong’s Lost and Found Emporium

The sharp clicking of high heels echoed in the dark shop. The brisk footsteps on the unpolished wooden floor slowed and became irregular and uncertain as my new visitor saw some of the stuff on the shelves. They always did that.

I was on a different aisle. The shop was very big, though crammed with all kinds of objects to the point where every shelf was crowded and overflowing. Most of the stuff was inanimate, or at least dead. However, many of the beasties still stirred when adequately provoked. The inanimate objects included everything from uncut diamonds to nail-clippers to bunny bladders. Still more of the sealed crates and boxes and bottles contained critters, or other things, that might or might not be counted among the living. I had no idea and didn’t care, either. For instance, whoever had hung big wooden crates from the ceiling—and there were plenty, up there where they couldn’t endanger anybody—must have had a good reason.

The edges of the shop were a little mysterious. I tried not to go too far down any of the aisles except the two big perpendicular corridors that ended in doors to the outside. They formed a cross in the center of the shop. The farther from the middle I went in any direction, the darker the place became, and colder. On a few occasions, I had had to go out to shelf space on the fringe that was mostly empty, and in almost complete darkness. All the edges were like that, except for the four doors at each end of those main corridors.

I didn’t dare venture into the real darkness, where nothing was visible. Cold stale air seemed to be all it contained, but I wasn’t going to investigate. I also had a suspicion that the shop kept growing of its own accord, outward into that nothingness. I had seen for myself that new stuff spontaneously appeared on all the shelves, but if the shop had been finite in size, it would have been absolutely crammed to the ceiling. Instead, I guessed, it simply extended its aisles and plain wooden shelves outward somehow, always providing just enough new empty space to avoid total chaos. The place was weird enough where I was; I didn’t see any need to wander off the edge of the world or something.

I was seeking my destiny in this world, or at least I had been hoping to when I first came in here. My visitor was probably doing the same right now.

I came around the corner into one of the two main corridors, where the light was a little better. For a second, I thought I heard someone in one of the aisles, but that sort of thing happened all the time. Some of the live beings thumped and slithered in their containers occasionally.

My customer was a woman with snow-white hair, slender and well-dressed with a good tan. She wore a peach-colored suit and four gold chains around her neck. One hand with long, peach-colored fingernails clutched a small handbag. She looked like a shriveled peach in a light snowfall.

Oh—uh, I’m looking for Mr. Wong, I guess. She smiled cautiously.

That’s me, I said, walking forward briskly. After I had been here a while, I had put my signs on the four doors, saying Wong’s Lost and Found Emporium.

She looked me over in some surprise; they always seemed to expect a doddering old geezer with a wispy white beard and an opium pipe, muttering senilities to the spirit world. I wore a blue T-shirt, fading Levi’s, and Adidas indoor track shoes. After all, I’d only been here a few months, though time was different in here than on the outside. This was that kind of place.

Oh, I’m sorry. She smiled apologetically, fidgeting now with all ten peach fingernails scratching at her purse.

The name is Wong, I said casually, but you can call me Mr. Double-you for short.

She didn’t get the joke—they never do.

Thank you. I, uh, was told that…this is an unusual shop? Where one can find something…she lost?

If you lost it, I got it. Like most of the others, she needed more encouragement. I waited for her to ask.

I mean…well, I suppose this will sound silly, but…I’m not looking for a thing, exactly, not a solid object, I don’t suppose you have a…second chance? She forced herself to laugh, a little, like it was a joke. Well, no, I’m sorry, I really just need a restroom, and—

Of course I have it, I said. If you lost a chance at something, it’s here. Follow me.

I looked around the floor and pointed to the little blue throw rug. Have to watch out for this. It slips.

She smiled politely, but I could see her shaking with anticipation.

I glanced around the shelves, looking for the little spot of white. What’s your name? It didn’t matter, but asking made me sound official.

I’m Mrs. Barbara Patricia Whitford and I live here in Boca. Um—I was born in New York in 1926. I grew up…

I didn’t care. A bit of white light was shining on a shoulder-high shelf across the main corridor from me. This way, I said, signaling over my shoulder. She shut up and followed me.

As we walked, the light moved ahead of us toward the object she wanted to recover. I had no idea how it worked—I had figured it out by trial and error, or I might say by accident. I had come in here myself looking for something I had lost, but the place had had no one in it. Now, I was waiting for the proprietor, but everyone else who came in thought I was in charge. So I was.

What kind of chance was it? I asked over my shoulder, like it was a shoe size or something. It might be a long walk.

Well, she said, just a little breathless behind me. I always wanted to be an artist—a painter. I didn’t get started until fifteen years ago, when I started taking lessons in acrylics. And even oils. I got pretty good, even if I do say so. Several of my paintings sold at art fairs and I was just getting a few exhibited, even. I got discouraged, though. It was so hard to keep going.

The white light turned down another aisle, more cramped and dimly lit than the last. The light was brighter in these shadows, but she couldn’t see it. Only I could. I had tested that on earlier customers. Unfortunately, I couldn’t see my own.

A shadow shifted in the corner of my eye that was not mine or hers, but I ignored it. If something large was loose in here, it was apparently shy. It was nothing new.

Six or seven years ago, she continued, all of my friends were going back to school. It was easier than painting—I went for my Master’s; and since I was just going to go, I didn’t really have to hurry, or worry about grades. It was the thing to do, and so much easier than painting. Only, I didn’t care about it. Her voice caught, and she paused to swallow. I do care about my painting. Now, well, I just would like to have the chance I missed, when my skills were still sharp and I had more time and business connections. It—I know it sounds small. But it’s the only thing I’ve ever accomplished. And I don’t have time to start over.

She began to cry.

I nodded. The white light had come to a stop, playing across a big open wooden box on an upper shelf. Just a moment. I’ll get it. It’s very important to get exactly the right one, because if you get the wrong object, you’re still stuck with it.

She nodded, watching me start to climb up the wooden shelves.

For instance, if I gave you someone else’s lost chance to work a slow freighter to Sakhalin Island, why, it would just happen. You’d have to go.

I would? …oh. Well, be careful. She sniffled. No, uh, glove cleaner or anything like that. If you know what I mean.

The shelves were dusty and disgusting. My fingers caught cobwebs and brushed against small feathery clumps that were unidentifiable in the shadowy aisle. Tiny feet scurried away from me on the shelves as I climbed, prodded aside old jars with my feet. Faint shuffling noises came from inside some of them.

I finally got my head up to the shelf with the little light. It was now sitting on a transparent cylindrical container inside the wooden box. Inside, ugly brown lumps swirled around in a thick, emerald-green solution.

The box had several similar containers and a lot of miscellaneous junk. I grabbed one of the smaller pieces at random and stuck it in my pants pocket. Then I tucked the swirling green cylinder under one arm and started down.

When I had reached the floor, I held it up. Her eyes grew wide when she saw the liquid spinning inside. Okay, I said. When you open this, the contents will evaporate very quickly. You have to breathe in the vapor before it disappears, or the chance is lost forever. I had done this before.

She took it from me, glowing like a half-lit wino.

You can do it here if you want, I said, but the light’s better in the main corridors.

She nodded and followed me as close as one dog behind another.

We turned along the main corridor, and I walked at a good clip back toward my beat-up steel desk and battered piano stool. They were near the junction of the main corridors. This was her business.

Before I got there, I heard a slight gasp behind me and turned around. She had slipped on the throw rug and as I turned, her slender legs were struggling for balance. Her arms reflexively made a sharp upward movement and her precious transparent cylinder was tossed out to one side.

The woman let out a wail as it sailed away and smashed on the hard floorboards. She clattered after it clumsily in her high heels. When she finally reached it, she bent over and started sniffing around like a bowser at a barbecue.

I got up stiffly and walked over.

Did I get it? Did I get it? she whimpered frantically.

Doubt it, I said, sniffing around. If the stuff had lingered long enough for her to inhale it, I would have smelled some residual scent.

Oh, no—I…uh…but, but— She started to cry.

Criers bore me. I had a vague sense that I was expected to be sympathetic, but I had lost that ability. That’s what I was here for, in fact.

Wait a minute, I said, tapping her on the shoulder. I reached into my pocket for the other lost object I had taken from her box. It was a metal ring with four or five keys on it and a leather circle with BPW stamped in gold. The keys looked fairly new; I figured she had lost them some time in the last decade or so. Here, I said. You lost these, too.

What? She looked up between sobs.

I gave her the keys. I’m glad you came. Have a nice day.

What? She stared at the keys. It was the only thing I ever accomplished, she whimpered. Ever. She turned away, in shock, her wide eyes fixed blankly on her old car keys. It was my very last chance, she squeaked in a high, tiny voice.

That way. I took her shoulders and aimed her down the corridor that led to a shopping mall in Florida.

She staggered away, snuffling.

I sat down disgustedly on a nearby stool. My time was almost up. I had to leave soon in order to get any sleep at home and then show up at work tomorrow. Without savings, I couldn’t afford to leave my job, even for something as important as this. If the proprietor had been coming back, then he, she, or it would probably have returned by now. The dual passages of time in here and outside meant that I had spent over two months here, and I had only spent one week of sick days and vacation days back in New York, on the other side of one of the doors.

I had even taken my job on a loading dock in Chinatown just to be near this shop. That was why I had moved to New York. When a friend had first told me about this establishment, she had warned me of the trickiest part—the doors could not always be located. Different people could find them at their own times, sometimes. The door in New York appeared, when it did, in the back hall of a small, second-story Chinatown restaurant. Most of the time, the hall ended in two restroom doors. For a select few, though, it occasionally had three, and now the mystic third door bore my sign.

I had checked the spot often, and when I had found the door, I had phoned in immediately for a week off, begging an emergency. It had taken some arguing, but I had managed. The presence of the restaurant had allowed me to stay so long, since I sneaked food out when night fell in New York. Naturally, the shop had a few misplaced refrigerators and other appliances; a few even worked.

Once I left this place, I might not find the door again for years—if ever.

I kicked in annoyance at a random bit of crud on the floor. It unfolded five legs and scurried away under a nearby shelf. Well, I had left a mark; the doors all bore my handmade signs, minor amusement though they were.

At least my stay had been eventful. My first customer, after I had figured out how the place worked, had been a tall slender Chinese guy from the San Francisco corridor. The door there was in the back of a porno shop. He had been in his fifties and wore a suit that had been in style in 1961, when it was last pressed. Something about him suggested Taiwan.

He had come looking for the respect of his children, which he had of course lost. I found him a box with five frantic mice in it; what he had to do was pet them until they calmed down. However, while he was gingerly poking at them, a boa constrictor glided silently out of the shadows unnoticed. It ate all the mice and then quietly slithered away. The guy got hysterical. I almost pointed out that snakes have to eat, too, but actually I didn’t care about the snake, either. I’m strictly neutral.

My youngest visitor had been a little boy, maybe about ten, who came in through the boarded-up gas station in Bosworth, Missouri. It was a one-stoplight town that didn’t send me much company. The kid wore jeans and a blue Royals baseball cap. He was looking for a dog whistle he had lost. I found it for him. Nothing happened to him or it. That was okay with me, too.

I sighed and stood up. No one else would be coming in. As I rose, I saw a large shadow out of the corner of my eye and glanced toward it, expecting it to slide away among the shelves as usual. Instead, it stayed where it was. I was looking at a young woman of Asian descent, wrapped up in a long white crocheted shawl. She also wore