The Midnight Circus, стр. 3
Justplain old-fashioned M. R. James and that Other James—Henry, the authorof The Turn of the Screw. Or more modern: The Haunting ofHill House, which is a 1959 gothic horror novel by American authorShirley Jackson. It was a finalist for the National Book Award, so thattells you something about the quality of the writing. It is stillconsidered one of the best literary ghost stories of the 20th century.
Andin a pinch I will reread the Mother of Gothics—Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein.The Barry Moser illustrated edition.
Soonce Tachyon agreed they liked the idea of Midnight Circus, Ibegan to research my collections, magazines, and journals to seewhether I had enough stories to fill the book. I started with ourdatabase and then reread stories of mine in Asimov’s and F&SF.Then I tackled the anthologies in my attic library. Must be well over ahundred such volumes, each with a story (or stories) of mine safelyheld within.
Imade lists, annotated them. Sent what I considered my A and B storiesto Tachyon to find out what volumes or magazines they already had andwhich stories we needed to copy here in my office. I must havestarted—after that early cull—with forty dark stories I still liked.Who knew?
ThenI deleted any that had been in my first two Tachyon collections.
Ihad about twenty-five stories left to send to Tachyon. Publisher JacobWeisman and my buddy Jim DeMaiolo wrestled with who loved which storiesmost. I think they disagreed on three. Small arguments ensued. No bloodwas spilt.
Nextwe talked about which stories went first, last. No fingernails werepulled. I had been an editor with my own line of books for Harcourt,had also produced or co-edited a bunch of anthologies, so I knew thedrill. (Wait, no drills, no carving knives, no box cutters, no. . . .)
FinallyI wrote this intro, did the backmatter about each story, and chosewhich poem of mine worked best with the individual story, some poemspublished, some new.
Inthe end, with only a bit of sweat, we produced the book. You are nowjudge and jury of it all.
Therewill be no executions.
Muchtoo bloody.
JaneYolen
TheWeaver of Tomorrow
ONCE,ON THE FAR SIDE of yesterday, there lived a girl who wanted to know thefuture. She was not satisfied with knowing that the grass would come upeach spring and that the sun would go down each night. The trueknowledge she desired was each tick of tomorrow, each fall and eachfailure, each heartache and each pain, that would be the portion ofevery man. And because of this wish of hers, she was known as Vera,which is to say, True.
Atfirst it was easy enough. She lived simply in a simple town, wherelittle happened to change a day but a birth or a death that was alwaysexpected. And Vera awaited each event at the appointed bedside and, inthis way, was always the first to know.
Butas with many wishes of the heart, hers grew from a wish to a desire,from a desire to an obsession. And soon, knowing the simple futures ofthe simple people in that simple town was not enough for her.
“Iwish to know what tomorrow holds for everyone,” said Vera. “For everyman and woman in our country. For every man and woman in our world.”
“Itis not good, this thing you wish,” said her father.
ButVera did not listen. Instead she said, “I wish to know which king willfall and what the battle, which queen will die and what the cause. Iwant to know how many mothers will cry for babies lost and how manywives will weep for husbands slain.”
Andwhen she heard this, Vera’s mother made the sign against the Evil One,for it was said in their simple town that the future was the Devil’sdream.
ButVera only laughed and said loudly, “And for that, I want to know whatthe Evil One himself is doing with his tomorrow.”
Sincethe Evil One himself could not have missed her speech, the people ofthe town visited the mayor and asked him to send Vera away.
Themayor took Vera and her mother and father, and they sought out the oldman who lived in the mountain, who would answer one question a year.And they asked him what to do about Vera.
Theold man who lived in the mountain, who ate the seeds that flowersdropped and the berries that God wrought, and who knew all aboutyesterdays and cared little about tomorrow, said, “She must beapprenticed to the Weaver.”
“Aweaver!” said the mayor and Vera’s father and her motherall at once. They thought surely that the old man who lived in themountain had at last gone mad.
Butthe old man shook his head. “Not a weaver, but the Weaver,the Weaver of Tomorrow. She weaves with a golden thread and finisheseach piece with a needle so fine that each minute of the unfolding dayis woven into her work. They say that once every hundred years there isneed for an apprentice, and it is just that many years since one hasbeen found.”
“Wheredoes one find this Weaver?” asked the mayor.
“Ah, that I cannot say,”said the old man who lived in themountain, “for I have answered one question already.” And he went backto his cave and rolled a stone across the entrance, a stone smallenough to let the animals in but large enough to keep the townspeopleout.
“Nevermind,” said Vera. “I would be apprenticed to this Weaver. And not eventhe Devil himself can keep me from finding her.”
Andso saying, she left the simple town with nothing but the clothes uponher back. She wandered until the hills got no higher but the valleysgot deeper. She searched from one cold moon until the next. And atlast, without warning, she came upon a cave where an old woman in blackstood waiting.
“Youtook the Devil’s own time coming,” said the old woman.
“Itwas not his time at