I tried to remember what day of the week ‘Nut Jobs’ ran, and if they were maybe already into repeats. I was just about to check the listings when I saw it. I spotted a difference. Me. Not Suz. Not Uncle Walt. And certainly not all four syllables of Elizabeth.
“No,” I told him. “‘Nut Jobs’ isn’t on. But there’s something just as good.”
“How do you know?”
I pointed at the TV.
Five minutes into the future we were already watching it.
PALE ROSES
Michael Moorcock
Michael Moorcock is an English writer currently living in the United States. Although primarily known for his science fiction and fantasy works, he has also published literary novels. He was the editor of the British magazine New Worlds from 1964–1971 and 1976–1996, and is credited with developing the New Wave literary style in science fiction. Although his Nebula Award–winning novella “Behold the Man” is often thought to be his most famous time travel story, Moorcock does not consider the tale to include any time travel. “Pale Rose,” included herein, is one of Moorcock’s favorites of his own stories and is both ribald and complex. It was first published in New Worlds Quarterly in 1976.
Short summer-time and then, my heart’s desire,
The winter and the darkness: one by one
The roses fall, the pale roses expire
Beneath the slow decadence of the sun.
Ernest Dowson, “Transition”
I. IN WHICH WERTHER IS INCONSOLABLE
“You can still amuse people, Werther, and that’s the main thing,” said Mistress Christia, lifting her skirts to reveal her surprise.
It was rare enough for Werther de Goethe to put on an entertainment (though this one was typical – it was called “Rain”) and rare, too, for the Everlasting Concubine to think in individual terms to please her lover of the day.
“Do you like it?” she asked as he peered into her thighs.
Werther’s voice in reply was faintly, unusually animated. “Yes.” His pale fingers traced the tattoos, which were primarily on the theme of Death and the Maiden, but corpses also coupled, skeletons entwined in a variety of extravagant carnal embraces – and at the centre, in bone-white, her pubic hair had been fashioned in the outline of an elegant and somehow quintessentially feminine skull. “You alone know me, Mistress Christia.”
She had heard the phrase so often, from so many, and it always delighted her. “Cadaverous Werther!”
He bent to kiss the skull’s somewhat elongated lips.
His rain rushed through dark air, each drop a different gloomy shade of green, purple or red. And it was actually wet so that when it fell upon the small audience (the Duke of Queens, Bishop Castle, My Lady Charlotina, and one or two recently arrived, absolutely bemused, time travellers from the remote past) it soaked their clothes and made them shiver as they stood on the shelf of glassy rock overlooking Werther’s Romantic Precipice (below, a waterfall foamed through fierce, black rock).
“Nature,” exclaimed Werther. “The only verity!”
The Duke of Queens sneezed. He looked about him with a delighted smile, but nobody else had noticed. He coughed to draw their attention, tried to sneeze again, but failed. He looked up into the ghastly sky; fresh waves of black cloud boiled in: there was lightning now, and thunder. The rain became hail. My Lady Charlotina, in a globular dress of pink veined in soft blue, giggled as the little stones fell upon her gilded features with an almost inaudible ringing sound.
But Bishop Castle, in his nodding, crenellated tete (from which he derived the latter half of his name and which was twice his own height), turned away, saturnine and bored, plainly noting a comparison between all this and his own entertainment of the previous year, which had also involved rain, but with each drop turning into a perfect mannikin as it touched the ground. There was nothing in his temperament to respond to Werther’s rather innocent re-creation of a Nature long since departed from a planet which could be wholly re-modelled at the whim of any one of its inhabitants.
Mistress Christia, ever quick to notice such responses, eager for her present lover not to lose prestige, cried: “But there is more, is there not, Werther? A finale?”
“I had thought to leave it a little longer…”
“No! No! Give us your finale now, my dear!”
“Well, Mistress Christia, if it is for you.” He turned one of his power rings, disseminating the sky, the lightning, the thunder, replacing them with pearly clouds, radiated with golden light through which silvery rain still fell.
“And now,” he murmured, “I give you Tranquillity, and in Tranquillity – Hope…”
A further twist of the ring and a rainbow appeared, bridging the chasm, touching the clouds.
Bishop Castle was impressed by what was an example of elegance rather than spectacle, but he could not resist a minor criticism. “Is black exactly the shade, do you think? I should have supposed it expressed your Idea, well, perhaps not perfectly…”
“It is perfect for me,” answered Werther a little gracelessly.
“Of course,” said Bishop Castle, regretting his impulse. He drew his bushy red brows together and made a great show of studying the rainbow. “It stands out so well against the background.”
Emphatically (causing a brief, ironic glint in the eye of the Duke of Queens) Mistress Christia clapped her hands. “It is a beautiful rainbow, Werther. I am sure it is much more as they used to look.”
“It takes a particularly original kind of imagination to invent such – simplicity.” The Duke of Queens, well known for a penchant in the direction of vulgarity, fell in with her mood.
“I hope it does more than merely represent.” Satisfied both with his creation and with their responses, Werther could not resist indulging his nature, allowing a tinge of hurt resentment in his tone.
All were tolerant. All responded, even Bishop Castle. There came a chorus of consolation. Mistress Christia reached out and took his thin, white hand, inadvertently touching a power ring.
The rainbow began to topple. It leaned in the sky for a few seconds while Werther watched, his disbelief gradually turning to miserable reconciliation; then, slowly, it fell, shattering against the top of the cliff, showering them with shards of jet.
Mistress Christia’s tiny hand fled to the rosebud of her mouth; her round, blue eyes expressed horror already becoming laughter (checked when she noted the look in Werther’s dark and tragic orbs). She still gripped his hand; but he slowly withdrew it, kicking moodily at the fragments of the rainbow. The sky was suddenly a clear, soft grey, actually lit, one might have guessed, by the tired rays of the fading star about which the planet continued to circle, and the only clouds were those on Werther’s noble brow. He pulled at the peak of his bottle-green cap, he stroked at his long, auburn hair, as if to comfort himself. He sulked.
“Perfect!” praised My Lady Charlotina, refusing to see error.
“You have the knack of making the most of a single symbol, Werther.” The Duke of Queens waved a brocaded arm in the general direction of the now disseminated scene. “I envy you your talent, my friend.”
“It takes the product of panting lust, of pulsing sperm and eager ovaries, to offer us such brutal originality!” said Bishop Castle, in reference to Werther’s birth (he was the product of sexual union, born of a womb, knowing childhood – a rarity, indeed). “Bravo!”
“Ah,” sighed Werther, “how cheerfully you refer to my doom: to be such a creature, when all others came into this world as mature, uncomplicated adults!”