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  Praise for Lisa L. Hannett

  “Lament for the Afterlife is a war novel unlike any you have read before. Visceral, surreal and unsettlingly beautiful, it combines an unflinching portrait of the way war deranges both individuals and societies with an achingly tender portrait of the capacity of individuals to endure the unthinkable.”

  —James Bradley, author of Clade

  “Mirror shards and broken shadows make up this stunning dark mosaic of a novel. Lisa Hannett’s debut is a haunting mirage of war and love, and the cost of both. Unmissable.”

  —Lavie Tidhar, author of The Violent Century

  and The Bookman

  “Dark and mesmeric, Lisa Hannett pushes at the boundaries of fantasy writing to dizzying effect.”

  —Robert Shearman, author of

  They Do The Same Things Different There

  “A stunning page-turner of a first novel, with a bracing freshness and authority to the prose. Entertaining and startling, gritty but also darkly beautiful, Lament for the Afterlife is the real deal and marks the arrival of a major new talent.”

  —Jeff VanderMeer, author of the Southern Reach trilogy

  “Lament for the Afterlife offers a gritty commentary on the nature of language itself and its potential for violence. Here words can wound, and the damage they inflict is terrible indeed. Be warned: This book does not reveal its secrets easily. It flickers like zoetrope through images of heartbreak and loss. Like the best fantasists of our time, Hannett brings an awareness of the human cost of war that will resonate with contemporary audiences.”

  —Helen Marshall, award-winning author of

  Gifts for the One Who Comes After

  “Australian author Hannett’s first collection shows off her fondness for lush imagery, unsettling concepts, indirect prose, and multilayered plots. The stories push boundaries and experiment with style, form, and meaning, rarely straightforward and often hovering between fantasy and horror … this is a collection for fans of weirdness, wonder, and oft-disturbing twists.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “The apparent timelessness of Hannett’s stories, that eternal fantastic present, is persistently if quietly undermined, disorienting the reader time and again.”

  —Maureen Kincaid Speller, Weird Fiction Review

  “… fantasy fiction down under is in good hands.”

  —Peter Tennant, Interzone

  “Such assuredness in the storytelling is what helps makes the world of Bluegrass Symphony so palpable. Words are Hannett’s friends here, too. She knows when the story allows her to show her mettle with poetic description and when such language would be obtrusive. Restraint is not always the virtue of the debut writer, but Hannett understands its power, both in plot and prose.”

  —Jason Nahrung, Australian Speculative Fiction in Focus

  “Lisa L. Hannett’s collection plays like a country music album composed in the darker places of imagination, the little corners that you don’t want to look in as you tap-tap your foot to the catchy beat. Coolly beautiful, then coldly brutal, this is one of the most unnerving debuts in years.”

  —Robert Shearman

  “Hannett is able to turn the brutally ugly into something darkly compelling.”

  —SQ Mag

  “Hannett is one of those rare writers who can write using a variety of voices—and does so wonderfully. It’s not simply having an ear for dialog, but possessing the ability to translate what’s spoken into the written word and using it to convey to readers the mindset, upbringing, and culture of her characters.”

  —Charles Tan, Bibliophile Stalker

  Lament for the Afterlife © 2015 by Lisa L. Hannett

  Cover artwork © 2015 by Erik Mohr

  Interior design by © 2015 by Jared Shapiro

  All Rights Reserved.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Distributed in Canada by

  Publishers Group Canada

  76 Stafford Street, Unit 300

  Toronto, Ontario

  M6J 2S1 Canada

  Toll Free: 800-747-8147

  e-mail: [email protected]

  Distributed in the U.S. by

  Diamond Comic Distributors, Inc.

  10150 York Road, Suite 300

  Hunt Valley, MD 21030

  Phone: (443) 318-8500

  e-mail: [email protected]

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Hannet, Lisa L., 1977-, author

  Lament for the afterlife / Lisa L. Hannet.

  Issued in print and electronic formats.

  ISBN 978-1-77148-347-6 (pbk.).—ISBN 978-1-77148-348-3 (pdf)

  I. Title.

  PS8615.A556L34 2015 C813’.6 C2015-903027-7 C2015-902028-5

  Edited by Samantha Beiko

  Proofread & Copyedited by Michael Matheson

  CHIZINE PUBLICATIONS

  Toronto, Canada

  www.chizinepub.com

  [email protected]

  We acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts which last year invested $20.1 million in writing and publishing throughout Canada.

  Published with the generous assistance of the Ontario Arts Council.

  Helen and Laura Marshall,

  thanks for the nudge.

  They’ll eat your dog and skin your wife,

  And suck your soul from the afterlife!

  Here or there,

  There or here;

  How many fée folk will appear?

  10, 20, 30, 40, 50 …

  Abulayfee Abulafiah,

  Queen of the fée;

  Stole your eyes and turned the world grey!

  Single jump,

  Double jump,

  Balance on a rope;

  How many days ’til we give up hope?

  1, 2, 3, 4, 5 …

  Daddy’s gone a-soldiering,

  Mamma’s at the ’port;

  Baby’s found a tunnel to the faery court!

  He slid down sideways,

  Flat on his back;

  How long ’til he becomes their snack?

  (Tick tock, ask the clock!)

  1:00, 2:00, 3:00, 4:00, 5:00 …

  Big ones, little ones, duck out of sight,

  Big ones, little ones, turn and fight;

  Big ones, little ones, go underground,

  Big ones, little ones, get out of town;

  Big ones, little ones, please come back,

  Wrap a paper parcel for the Pigeon’s pack!

  Send it to the officers,

  Send it to their wives,

  Send it to the vultures and save their lives!

  Tell us, Mr. Pigeon,

  Have you seen the greys?

  And this is what he had to say:

  Yes, No, Maybe so,

  Yes, No, Maybe so …

  Children’s skipping tunes

  Bibliotheca 34°24’N, 132°30’E

  ’Wind-pressed ink, Stamp Nos. 00212—01999, c. Evac.St.2 ±80 years.

  Before leaving, Peytr is given two farewell gifts: a clutch of hollow grenades from Ma and a set of camp cutlery from Borys. He barely gets a feel for either before Jean takes them back again. With a wink, she says, “I got it, Peytie,” then begins unloading and repacking his rucksack. Tossing Borys’s gift aside, she buries the mute shells under vest and goggles, spare hood and multicams. She folds and refolds sheaves of white muslin, the ones she’d ironed crisp as envelopes the night before. He
r hands brisk, but stiff; the scars on her palms tugging fingers into claws.

  Peyt avoids looking too close. Focuses on the streaks of silver glinting in her hair instead. Eddying in the air, Jean’s wordwind colours with pride. That’s my boy, it says. My one and only … Stray ‘o’s loop Peyt’s eyes like specs. ‘M’s and ‘n’s peck his cheeks. ‘Y’s hook his collar, urging him across the house’s narrow hall, toward Daken Miller and the front door.

  “Ma,” Peyt snaps, swatting the letters away, squirming at their intimate touch. For Daken’s sake, Peytr sighs. Rolls his eyes. Puffs his chest and peppers his wordwind with curses. You’re fuckin’ killing me here, Ma… . Let’s go, let’s go, let’s fuckin’ go… . The words lilt up to the bare bulb dangling overhead, ugly petals on an unfelt breeze. They circle once or twice, then gasp and deflate, sinking within seconds. Peyt glowers. He wants the cyclone of sentences to rage round his head, to drip sweat and testosterone, to beef up with speed. He wants it to be like Daken’s; a cluster of contempt easily floating, corded with confidence and muscle. Daken’s ’wind skims his forehead and gropes the back of his thick neck like a mullet. It’s slick and dark and anxiety-free. It’s eighteen and macho.

  Peytr tries to match him. Always has. But his thoughts are weak. Florid. Frilly. They pirouette on his shoulders. They hiccup on cocksucker, intentionally misspell faggit. His air-letters shimmer, now pink, now yellow, now puce. In places, the words aren’t even legible. When Daken snorts at the sight of them, Peytr’s paragraphs crumble.

  “Stop crying, Ma,” Daken says, patting Mrs. Miller’s arm as he passes, hitting the head one last time before they go. Hitting the head… . Soiling the shitter… . Tanking a turd… . Fuckin’ a… . Fuckin’ a … Jaw clenched, Peyt smacks his pathetic alliterations as soon as the bathroom door clicks shut. Ah, fuck. He exhales and drops the act. For months he’s been trying to roughen his poetic mind; he practises swearing daily. Soon he’ll swear like a soldier. Every second word will be fuckin’ this or cunt that or whatever slang the grunts use on the field. Being a poet won’t help him kill any better. Curses are stronger weapons than rhymes.

  For now, obscenities slur down his fresh-shorn scalp, trickling behind his ears, tumbling the length of his scrawny biceps. Broken words crash in the crook of his arm, snagging in the rolls of his pushed-up sleeve. One by one, he squashes them into the mottled skin on his forearms. The words wriggle under his thumbs. Meanings lost for a few seconds until, reabsorbed, they’re remembered.

  “It’s all right, Mrs. M,” Peyt says, flinching. His voice is still too high. He clears his throat, tries again, tilting his chin down this time. “We’ll be all right.” Deeper. Better.

  Daken’s mother sniffles and fishes a hankie out of her sleeve. She scrubs her nose, tamps the wet from her eyes. Her ’wind open, raw, vulnerable. Peytr drops his gaze. Put it away, he thinks, embarrassed by her outburst. Her emotion. What’s she crying for? If any of them survive, he thinks, it’ll be Dake.

  Mrs. Miller crosses her arms and slouches against the hall closet. Her housecoat sags open above the waist-ties. Underneath she’s wearing an old cotton nightie. White with purple flowers. V-neck. Cut so low, Peyt can clearly see the ribs stretching between her small breasts. For a second, he wonders what it would sound like, running a finger over those bony ridges. Corduroy friction? A stick striking fence slats? Thumbnails zipping along a comb’s plastic teeth?

  Squinting to read, Mrs. Miller follows the trajectory of Peyt’s thoughts. “You’re not a kid anymore, Peytie.” She straightens, expression and robe pulled tight. “Grow up. And no more of this ‘Mrs. M’ shit. It’s Ann. Just, Ann.”

  “Okay, Mrs. M.”

  Huffing, Jean hefts Peytr’s bag and sits it upright in the middle of the hall. She scowls as it teeters, top-heavy. “Peytr will speak as befits his station.” She crouches, knees cracking. Unbuckles the flaps she’s just buckled. Hunkers for a third go at arranging his kit. “You’ll be polite, soldier. Respectful. ‘Mrs. Miller’ will do fine. ‘Ma’am’ if you want variety. Got it?”

  Peyt’s dad coughs. Out of habit, Borys hitches his belt while clunk-thunking closer. The harness jangles, the hold it’s got on his right leg secure. “Boy’s got to get a move on, Jean.”

  “I’m more than aware of that, Borys.”

  Dark ’winds coalesce above Jean’s spine, dagger-shaped and stabbing. Traitor… . Deserter… . Home-wrecker… . The word-blades are clichéd but acerbic. Action instead of reaction… . All’s fair… . They move with such energy, slicing back and forth so quickly, it’s hard to tell which feelings are Borys’s, which Jean’s.

  “Got it,” Peyt says, reining in his ’wind. Concentrating on keeping it beige, noncommittal. He lifts his hood and shepherds his thoughts under its quiet cover.

  While he waits, Peytr shifts from foot to foot, left, right, left, right, and listens to the final chorus of his departure. Floorboards creaking underfoot. A clock in the living room, ticking, chiming the quarter hour. Jean snapping leather straps in place, calling Euri and Zaya up from the basement. His sisters’ little boots clomping on the stairs. Mrs. Miller—Ann—blowing her nose. Daken whistling in the private john. The toilet flushing. Such familiar, mundane noises. So regular. Part of him wants to shout: that’s it? That’s all? The rest memorises every sound.

  “Don’t forget these,” Borys says and instantly his hand’s a blur. Too late, Peyt snaps to attention, fumbling the catch. He traps the cutlery with all the grace of a newborn. Wrists thwacking, fingers splayed, arms jumbled against his belly.

  “Thanks, Da.”

  They’ve got a good heft to them, a jangle like well-earned coins. Stainless steel, nicely polished. Solid knife, three-tined fork. Spoon gently pointed, a mini spade. The lot strung onto a thin metal ring from holes in their handles. Bones, Borys calls them. Rattlin’ bones.

  Peyt shakes his head and clips the set into his jacket pocket. What sorry goodbyes, he thinks. Bombs and bones. He musters something like gratitude, pins it to his face. Says he’s as glad to have one as the other. They’ll both come in handy. Really.

  Borys grunts, eloquent as ever. In that one syllable, Peyt hears a lifetime of his dad’s rants. How the gov’t hasn’t got a fuckin’ clue, boy. Grant a soldier the basic necessities, my arse. Nycene’s cabinet supplies tents for the grunts and the mess slops up three squares daily, sometimes hot. The forces’ll shower you with all the shells we can produce, the ships we can rally—and they’ll chuck in a fuckload of acronyms for free. DLBs and E&E—invented for the greys, that one—MIAs and KIAs. So many fuckin’ As, Peyt, it’s hard to keep track. AAs and AAAs, AAWs and AWOLS—then there’s shit like Comms and Landops and Sigs and Intel. Yeah, they’ll fuckin’ glut you with intel about the greys—where they’ve been, what they’ve hit, what they’ve stolen—anything except where they are, of course, or where they’re going. Finding that out’s all up to you, son.

  At the end of the day, Borys always said—Peytr hates the expression—at the end of the day, a soldier’s got to be vigilant. He’s got to watch his own back—and equip it to boot!—if he wants to fight the fuckin’ greys.

  Peyt doesn’t want to fight, but he’s going, anyway. Lugging his top-heavy pack, his parents’ hand-me-down patriotism. Borys’s posture, Jean’s pride. His new empty shells and his bones.

  Outside, the local boys are gathering. Nate and Cheff and Grig and all them, a dozen or so guys from the block, called up in the last draft. Just like Dake, who inspires a cheer when he poses in the doorway, stepping out before Peyt. Pants tucked in his tall boots, fists on hips, Dake whistles in his stained field-mask. A snug, goggle-eyed skullcap that snaps onto his jacket’s high collar at the back, it’s got two lamps inset as nostrils in a long leather beak that curves to a point below his cleft chin. Designed, apparently, to siphon wordwinds, keep them close to the face, safe from theft and contamination.

  Following Dake’s lead, Peyt slips on the vulture helmet Borys once wore. The pigskin smell
s of old polish and new glue; it’s stiff with disuse and rubs uncomfortably against his Adam’s apple. The small sockets give him tunnel vision and he has to breathe carefully to avoid choking on his ’wind. But he likes how the thing hides the white blotches on his light brown cheeks, mouth, and chin. The white lace of skin that gleams whenever Peyt blushes. The white that raggedly, doggedly, beards further and further down his neck.

  Beside him, Daken’s whistling is leather-muffled. Still the finest whistling Peyt’s ever heard. Man, the trills that guy can manage! Man, what a warble. Peyt swears it’s sweeter than birdsong. Less sombre, less harsh. Less likely to be some fuckin’ unnatural code.

  To hear better, Peytr listens to Dake’s song with his eyes closed. His goggles reflect sights he’s seen all his life—sights he doesn’t need or want to see now. A long street of identical duplexes, two-storeys turned bungalow after one blitz or another. Cream brickwork pocked and grimed with mortar. Burnt struts and roof beams exposed, jagging to the sky. The destruction left standing, reclaimed as camouflage for ceiling cannons and snipers. The whole suburb a mishmash of repairs: in time, in progress, impossible. Above and below, green brightnesses bloom in the grey. Illumination flares bursting in the smoke-heavy sky. Carrots and onions and cabbages flowering in window boxes and raised beds. Peytr can picture it all without even trying.

  He blinks and blinks and blinks, defying the heat welling under his lids.

  Dake’s final note swells into a whoop. He claps Peytr on the shoulder and gallops down the front steps. Here we go, Peyt thinks, hesitating on the porch. We’re going. Dependents of the state. No—defenders. He meant defenders. Out on our own. Pursuing invisible footsteps down well-trodden paths. A minute passes before he follows.

  Around them, unboarded windows and doors gape, most filled with wishers-well. Peyt focuses on the gutters, kicks at piles of ash and dead ’winds. He doesn’t need to look up to know that everyone’s there. Borys and Ma. Euri with little Zaya perched on her hip. Mrs. Miller. Ann. The Gorevs and Baltharssons next door. The street-broomers and cannon-men. Old ladies peering through sheer curtains, peering through time, seeing ghosts. A flock of photographers swooping, clicking.

  Fuckin’ crows, Borys calls them. Snapping at meat, living or dead.