Gardner Dozois - Horse Of Air

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GARDNER R. DOZOIS

Horse of Air

GARDNER R. Dozois was born July 23, 1947, in Salem, Massachusetts, his ancestry conveniently half

Irish and the remainder an amalgamation of French, Scottish, Dutch and American Indian. He spent

three years of army service as a military journalist in Nuremberg, Germany, and since then he has

worked as journalist, radio and TV broadcaster, busboy, IBM card filer, and editorial reader for

Dell and Award Books and UPD Magazines. Along the way he took part in amateur theatrics and

dabbled in photography, anthropology, sociology, natural history and history, exercising his body

in bicycling and swimming and his mind in worrying, and he began to write.

His first story was sold in 1966, and the total now exceeds a baker's dozen. In addition to the

science fiction magazines, he has contributed stories to several volumes of the Orbit series,

Quark 7, New Dimensions 1 and ll, and Universe l. His short story "A Dream at Noonday," was a

finalist in the 1970 Nebula Award balloting. Dozois is the editor of a collection of stories, A

Day in the Life (1972). He is a member of Science Fiction Writers of America and the SFWA

Speakers' Bureau, and he has been a guest instructor at the Clarion Writers' Workshop.

In the 1971 Nebula Award balloting his name appeared on the final

ballot twice: with his novelette "A Special Kind of Morning" and with his short story "Horse of

Air."

Sometimes when the weather is good I sit and look out over the ` city, fingers hooked through the

mesh.

-The mesh is weather-stained, beginning to rust. As his fingers scrabble at it, chips of rust

flake off, staining his hands the color of crusted blood. The heavy wire is hot and smooth under

his fingers, turning rougher and drier at a rust spot. If he presses his tongue against the wire,

it tastes slightly of lemons. He doesn't do that very often

The city is quieter now. You seldom see motion, mostly birds if you do. AS I watch, two pigeons

strut along the roof ledge of the low building several stories below my balcony, stopping every

now and then to pick at each other's feathers. They look fatter than ever. I wonder what they eat

these days. Probably it is better not to know. They have learned to keep away from me anyway,

although the mesh that encloses my small balcony floor to ceiling makes it difficult to get at

them if they do land nearby. I'm not _° really hungry, of course, but they are noisy and leave

droppings. , I don't really bear any malice toward them. It's not a personal thing; I do it for

the upkeep of the place.

(I hate birds. 1 will kill any- of them I can reach. I do it with my

belt buckle, snapping it between the hoops of wire.) -

-He hates birds because they have freedom of movement, because they can fly, because they- can

shift their viewpoint from spot to spot in linear space, while he can do so only- in time and .

memory, and that imperfectly. They can fly here and look at him .and then fly away, while he has

no volition: if he wants to look at them, he must wait until they decide to come to him. Ile

flicks a . piece of plaster at them, between the hoops

Startled by something, the pigeons explode upward with a whir of feathers. I watch them fly away:

skimming along the side of a building, dipping with an air current. They are soon lost in the maze

of low roofs that thrust up below at all angles and heights, staggering toward the Apartment

Towers in the middle distance. The Towers stand untouched by the sea of brownstones that break

around their flanks, like aloof monoliths wading in a surf of scummy brown brick. Other towers

march off in curving lines toward the horizon, becoming progressively smaller until they vanish at

the place where a misty sky merges with a line of low hills. If I press myself against the mesh at

the far right side of the balcony, I can see the nearest Tower to my own, perhaps sis hundred

yards away, all of steel and concrete with a vertical line of windows running down the middle and

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rows of identical balconies on either side.

Nearest to me on the left is a building that rises about a quarter of the way up my

Tower's flank: patterns of dark-brown and light red bricks, interlaced with fingers of mortar,

weathered gray roof shingles, a few missing here and there in a manner reminiscent of broken

teeth; a web of black chimney and sewage pipes crawling up and across the walls like metallic

creepers. All covered with the pale splotches of bird droppings. 'Chi Towers are much cleaner; not

so many horizontal surfaces. Windows are broken in the disintegrating buildings down there; the

dying sunlight glints from fangs of shattered glass. Curtains hang in limp shreds that snap and

drum when a wind comes up. If you squint, you can see that the wind has scattered broken twigs and

rubbish all over the floors inside. No, I am much happier in one of the towers.

(I hate the Towers. I would rather live anywhere than here.)

-He hates the Towers. As the sun starts to dip below the horizon, settling down into the

concrete labyrinth like a hog into a wallow, he shakes his head blindly and makes a low noise at

the back of his throat. The shadows of buildings are longer now, stretching in toward him from the

horizon like accusing fingers. A deep gray gloom is gathering in the corners and angles of walls,

shot with crimson sparks from the foundering sun, now dragged under and wrapped in chill masonry.

His hands go up and out, curling again around the hoops of the mesh. He shakes the mesh

violently, throwing his weight against it. The mesh groans in metallic agony but remains solid. A

few chips of concrete puff from the places where the ends of the mesh are anchored to the walls.

He continues to tear at the mesh until his hands bleed, half-healed scabs torn open again. Tiny

blood droplets spatter the heavy wire. The blood holds the deeper color of rust-

If you have enough maturity to keep emotionalism out of it, the view from here can even be

fascinating. The sky is clear now, an electric, saturated blue, and the air is as sharp as a

jeweler's glass Not like the old days. Without factories and cars to keep it fed, even the eternal

smog has dissipated. The sky reminds me now of an expensive aquarium filled with crystal tropical

water, me at the bottom: I almost expect to see huge eyes peering in from the horizon, maybe a

monstrous nose pressed against the glass. On a sunny day you can see for miles.

But it is even more beautiful when it rains. The rain invests the still landscape with an

element of motion: long fingers of it brushing across the rooftops or marching down in zigzag

sheets, the droplets stirring and rippling the puddles that form in depressions, drumming against

the flat concrete surfaces, running down along the edges of the shingles, foaming and sputtering

from down- . spouts- The Towers stand like lords, swirling rain mists around them as a fine

gentleman swirls his jeweled cloak. Pregnant gray clouds scurry by behind the Towers, lashed by

wind. The constant stream of horizontals past the fixed vertical fingers of the Towers creates

contrast, gives the eye something to follow, increases the relief of motion. Motion is heresy when

the world has become a still life. But it soothes, the old-time religion. There are no atheists in

foxholes, nor abstainers when the world begins to flow. But does that prove the desirability of

God or the weakness of men? I drink when the world flows, but unwillingly, because I know the

price. I have to drink, but I also have to pay. I will pay later when the motion stops and the

world returns to lethargy, the doldrums made more unbearable by the contrast known a moment

before. That is another cross that I am forced to bear.

But it is beautiful, and fresh-washed after. And sometimes there is a rainbow. Rain is the

only aesthetic pleasure I have left, and I savor it with the unhurried leisure of the aristocracy.

-When the rain comes, he flattens himself against the mesh, arms spread wide as if

crucified there, letting the rain hammer against his face. The rain rolls in runnels down his

skin, mixing with sweat, counterfeiting tears. Eyes closed, he bruises his open mouth against the

mesh, trying to drink the rain. His tongue dabs at the drops that trickle by his mouth, licks out

for the moisture oozing down along the links of wire. After the storm, he sometimes drinks the

small puddles that gather on the balcony ledge, lapping them noisily and greedily, although the

tap in the kitchen works, and he is never thirsty-

Always something to look at from here. Directly below are a number of weed-overgrown

yards, chopped up unequally by low brick walls, nestled in a hollow square formed by the

surrounding brownstones. There is even a tree in one corner, though it is dead and its limbs are

gnarled and splintered. The yards were never neatly kept by the rabble that lived there, even in

the old days: they are scattered with trash and rubbish, middens of worn-out household items and

broken plastic toys, though the weeds have covered much. There was a neat, bright flower bed in

one of the further yards, tended by a bent and leather-skinned foreign crone of impossible age,

but the weeds have overgrown that as well, drowning the rarer blossoms. This season there were

more weeds, fewer flowers-they seem to survive better, though God knows they have little else to

recommend them, being coarse and ill smelling.

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In the closest yard an old and ornate wicker-back chair is still standing upright; if I

remember correctly, a pensioner bought it at a rummage sale and used it to take the sun, being a

parasite good for nothing else. Weeds are twining up around the chair; it is half hidden already.

Beyond is a small concrete court where hordes of ragged children used to play ball. Its

geometrical white lines are nearly obliterated now by rain and wind-drifted gravel. If you look

sharp at this clearing, sometimes you can see the sudden flurry of a small darting body through

the weeds; a rat or a cat, hard to tell at this distance.

Once; months ago, I saw a man and a woman there, my first clear indication that there are

still people alive and about. They entered the court like thieves, crawling through a low window,

the man lowering the girl and then jumping down after. They were dressed in rags, and the man

carried a rifle and a bandolier

After reconnoitering, the man forced one of the rickety doors into a brownstone, disappearing

inside. After a while he came out dragging a mattress-filthy, springs jutting through fabric-and

carried it into the ball court. They had intercourse there for the better part of the afternoon,

stopping occasionally while the man: prowled about with the rifle. I remember thinking that it was

too bad the gift of motion had been wasted on such as these. They left at dusk. I had not tried to

signal them, leaving them undisturbed to their rut, although I was somewhat sickened by the coarse

brutality of the act. There is such a thing as noblesse oblige.

(I hate them. If I had a gun I would kill them. At first I watch, greedily as they make

love, excited, afraid of scaring them away if they should become aware of me watching. But as the

afternoon wears on, I grow drained, and then angry, and begin to shout at' them, telling them to

get out, get the hell out. They ignore me. Their tanned skin is vivid against asphalt as they

strain together. Sweat makes their locked limbs glisten in the thick sunlight. The rhythmic rise

and fall of their bodies describes parabolic lines through the crusted air. I scream at them and

tear at the mesh, voice thin and impotent. Later they make love again, rolling from the mattress

in their urgency, sprawling among the lush weeds, coupling like leopards. I try to throw plaster

at them, but the angle is wrong. As they leave the square, the man gives me the finger.)

Thinking of those two makes me think of the other animals that howl through the world,

masquerading as men. On the far left, hidden by the nearest brownstones but winding into sight

further on, is a highway. Once it was a major artery of the city, choked

with a chrome flood of traffic. Now it is empty. Once or twice at the beginning I would see an

ambulance or a fire engine, once a tank. A few weeks ago I saw a jeep go by, driving square in the

middle of the highway, ridden by armed men. Occasionally I have seen men and women trudge past,

dragging their possessions behind them on a sledge. Perhaps the wheel is on the way out.

Against one curb is the overturned, burned-out hulk of a bus: small animals use it for a

cave now, and weeds are beginning. to lace through it. I saw it burning, a week after the Building

Committee came. I sat on the balcony and watched its flames eat up at the sky, although it was too

dark to make out what was happening around it; the street lights had been the first things to go.

There were other blazes in the distance, glowing like campfires, like blurred stars. I remember

wondering that night what was happening, what the devil was going on. But I've figured it out now.

It was the niggers. I hate to say it. I've been a liberal man all my life. But you can't

deny the truth. They are responsible for the destruction, for the present degeneration of the

world. It makes me sad to have to say this. I had always been on their side in spirit, I was more

than willing to stretch out a helping hand to those less fortunate than myself. I always said so;

I always said that. I had high hopes for them all. But they got greedy, and brought us to this. We

should have known better, we should have listened to the so-called racists, we should have

realized that idealism is a wasting disease, a cancer. We should have remembered that blood will

tell. A hard truth: it was the niggers. I have no prejudice; I speak the cold facts. I had always

wished them well.

(I hate niggers. They are animals. Touching one would make me vomit.)

-He hates niggers. He has seen them on the street corners with their women, he has seen

them in their juke boxed caves with their feet in sawdust, he has heard them speaking in a private

language half devised of finger snaps and motions of liquid hips, he has felt the inquiry of their

eyes, he has seen them dance. He envies them for having a culture separate from the bland

familiarity of his own,

he envies their tang of the exotic. He envies their easy sexuality. He fears their potency. He

fears that in climbing up they will shake him down. He fears generations of stored-up hate. He

hates them because their very existence makes him uncomfortable. He hates them because sometimes

they have seemed to be happy on their tenement street corners, while he rides by in an air-

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