– which was wonderful for short
stories because she handed me the whole thing at once, whereas with
novels it was one chapter at a time—and she likes to end her
chapters in a way that will “keep people reading”, but I digress—I
had actually read the story in question. It was, of course,
excellent, and had all of the earmarks of a Tanya Huff story: It
was funny, it made me sniffle in places, and it was completely
rooted in contemporary culture from beginning to end. So when I
realized that this fledgling story would be in the same book as her
story, I knew damn well that I wasn’t going to write a contemporary
piece. She laughed when I told her this. She laughs when I remind
her of it. But really, it was true, and it still is; I love her
writing, and it is just so different from mine that I always feel
nervous after finishing something she’s written because I know my
work won’t evoke the same response.
I was living in my first house, and the room
that I worked in—which was my office until my oldest son was born
-- was painted bright pink (a leftover gift from the previous owner
of said house—we had always intended to repaint that room, but we
had never gotten around to it, and in the end, my mother painted
that room pale blue while I was in the hospital delivering my first
child because she wasn’t going to condemn a child to that despised
and loathsome pink), and the story was written on a Mac SE30, and
it was many, many months before Christmas, but all of that story
came to me in a sitting, in a mad rush of messy words and the
emotions that come out of that particular time of year.
I tweaked it afterwards, of course, poking
and prodding it, and stripping out words so that I would actually
come in at the right length, but I was happy with the story as it
came out, and it was this story that I chose to read at
Harbourfront, when I was—as usual—petrified about having to do
anything in a public venue.
I really hope you like it.
Toronto, 2003
Birthnight
On the open road, surrounded by gentle hills
and grass strong enough to withstand the predation of sheep, the
black dragon cast a shadow long and wide. His scales, glittering in
sun-light, reflected the passage of clouds above; his wings, spread
to full, were a delicate stretch of leathered hide, impervious to
mere mortal weapon. His jaws opened; he roared and a flare of red
fire tickled his throat and lips.
Below, watching sheep graze and keeping an
eye on the nearby river where one of his charges had managed to
bramble itself and drown just three days past, the shepherd looked
up. He felt the passing gust of wind warm the air; saw the shadow
splayed out in all its splendor against the hillocks, and covered
his eyes, to squint skyward.
“Clouds,” he muttered, as he shook his head.
For a moment, he thought he had seen ... children’s dreams. He
smiled, remembering the stories his grandmother had often told him,
and went back to his keeping. The sheep were skittish today;
perhaps that made him nervous enough to remember a child’s
fancy.
The great black dragon circled the shepherd
three times; on each passage, he let loose the fiery death of his
voice—but the shepherd had ceased even to look, and in time, the
dragon flew on.
* * *
He found them at last, although until he
spotted them from his windward perch, he had not known he was
searching. They walked the road like any pilgrims, and only his
eyes knew them for what they were: Immortal, unchanging, the
creatures of magic’s first birth. There, with white silk mane and
horn more precious to man than gold, pranced the unicorn. Fools
talked of horses with horns, and still others, deer or
goats—goats!—but they were pathetic in their lack of vision. This
creature was too graceful to be compared to any mortal thing; too
graceful and too dangerously beautiful.
Ahead of the peerless one, cloaked and robed
in a darkness that covered her head, the dragon thought he
recognized
stories because she handed me the whole thing at once, whereas with
novels it was one chapter at a time—and she likes to end her
chapters in a way that will “keep people reading”, but I digress—I
had actually read the story in question. It was, of course,
excellent, and had all of the earmarks of a Tanya Huff story: It
was funny, it made me sniffle in places, and it was completely
rooted in contemporary culture from beginning to end. So when I
realized that this fledgling story would be in the same book as her
story, I knew damn well that I wasn’t going to write a contemporary
piece. She laughed when I told her this. She laughs when I remind
her of it. But really, it was true, and it still is; I love her
writing, and it is just so different from mine that I always feel
nervous after finishing something she’s written because I know my
work won’t evoke the same response.
I was living in my first house, and the room
that I worked in—which was my office until my oldest son was born
-- was painted bright pink (a leftover gift from the previous owner
of said house—we had always intended to repaint that room, but we
had never gotten around to it, and in the end, my mother painted
that room pale blue while I was in the hospital delivering my first
child because she wasn’t going to condemn a child to that despised
and loathsome pink), and the story was written on a Mac SE30, and
it was many, many months before Christmas, but all of that story
came to me in a sitting, in a mad rush of messy words and the
emotions that come out of that particular time of year.
I tweaked it afterwards, of course, poking
and prodding it, and stripping out words so that I would actually
come in at the right length, but I was happy with the story as it
came out, and it was this story that I chose to read at
Harbourfront, when I was—as usual—petrified about having to do
anything in a public venue.
I really hope you like it.
Toronto, 2003
Birthnight
On the open road, surrounded by gentle hills
and grass strong enough to withstand the predation of sheep, the
black dragon cast a shadow long and wide. His scales, glittering in
sun-light, reflected the passage of clouds above; his wings, spread
to full, were a delicate stretch of leathered hide, impervious to
mere mortal weapon. His jaws opened; he roared and a flare of red
fire tickled his throat and lips.
Below, watching sheep graze and keeping an
eye on the nearby river where one of his charges had managed to
bramble itself and drown just three days past, the shepherd looked
up. He felt the passing gust of wind warm the air; saw the shadow
splayed out in all its splendor against the hillocks, and covered
his eyes, to squint skyward.
“Clouds,” he muttered, as he shook his head.
For a moment, he thought he had seen ... children’s dreams. He
smiled, remembering the stories his grandmother had often told him,
and went back to his keeping. The sheep were skittish today;
perhaps that made him nervous enough to remember a child’s
fancy.
The great black dragon circled the shepherd
three times; on each passage, he let loose the fiery death of his
voice—but the shepherd had ceased even to look, and in time, the
dragon flew on.
* * *
He found them at last, although until he
spotted them from his windward perch, he had not known he was
searching. They walked the road like any pilgrims, and only his
eyes knew them for what they were: Immortal, unchanging, the
creatures of magic’s first birth. There, with white silk mane and
horn more precious to man than gold, pranced the unicorn. Fools
talked of horses with horns, and still others, deer or
goats—goats!—but they were pathetic in their lack of vision. This
creature was too graceful to be compared to any mortal thing; too
graceful and too dangerously beautiful.
Ahead of the peerless one, cloaked and robed
in a darkness that covered her head, the dragon thought he
recognized
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