Bloodchildren: Stories by the Octavia E. Butler Scholars

  Bloodchildren:

  Stories by the Octavia E. Butler Scholars

  Edited by Nisi Shawl

  January 22, 2013

  ISBN 978-1-61138-237-2

  Copyright © 2013 Carl Brandon Society

  Table of Contents

  Nalo Hopkinson — Introduction

  Before Conception

  Octavia E. Butler — Speech Sounds

  Vonda N. McIntyre — Octavia Estelle Butler

  2007

  Christopher Caldwell — My Love Will Never Die

  Shweta Narayan — Falling into the Earth

  2008

  Caren Gussoff — Free Bird

  Mary Elizabeth Burroughs — Impulse

  2009

  Rochita Loenen-Ruiz — Dancing in the Shadow of the Once

  2010

  Kai Ashante Wilson — “Légendaire.”

  Erik Owomoyela — Steal the Sky

  2011

  Jeremy Sim — /sit

  Dennis Y. Ginoza — Re: Christmas, Bainbridge Island

  2012

  Indrapramit Das — The Runner of n-Vamana

  Lisa Bolekaja — The Saltwater African

  Nisi Shawl — Acknowledgments

  Contributor Biographies

  Copyright & Credits

  Introduction

  Nalo Hopkinson

  The contributors to Bloodchildren each found Octavia E. Butler’s writing in their own ways, but I suspect that for many of them, as it was for me, doing so was the result of a deliberate—and deliberately contrary—voyage of discovery. The science fiction community still largely believes that identity doesn’t matter. It’s dismayingly common for readers to ridicule those among them who ask questions about the diversity of the field.

  I was probably in my early twenties when it first occurred to me to find out whether there were Anglophone black science fiction and fantasy writers other than Chip Delany, whose work I utterly adored, and still do. I was not yet a writer. I hadn’t even thought seriously about becoming one. This would have been 1981 or so, pre-Internet. In fact, it was the year that IBM launched the first personal computers. So there was no such thing as doing a Web search for the information I wanted. Luckily, I was a clerk in a public library at the time. I used the library’s very much analog resources to conduct my search. Octavia E. Butler was one of the black science fiction writers I found, along with Steven Barnes and fellow Canadians Charles Saunders and Claude-Michel Prevost (Claude-Michel, like me, is originally from the Caribbean; he from Haiti, and I from Jamaica). I was hard put to find any other black writers in the genre, and Octavia was the only woman. It was 14 years before Nisi Shawl’s short story “The Rainses” would be published in Asimov’s; 14 years before Tananarive Due’s first novel The Between; there were as yet no stories by Andrea Hairston, Alaya Dawn Johnson, Tobias Buckell, Nalo Hopkinson, and a host of others. The books of the handful of black SF/F novelists I was able to track down were scattered in libraries all across Canada and the rest of North America.

  The library’s interlibrary loan process came to the rescue. I knew that loans from outside the North York Public Library system, where I worked, had a cost attached, but hey; I was also a tax-paying library patron. I put in requests to have the books delivered to my library branch.

  Octavia’s books were among the first to show up; Patternmaster, Survivor, Mind of My Mind, and Wild Seed. Understand that in order to even do the search, I’d had to postulate that more than one black SF/F author existed. I’d had to infer the existence of the creature from the empty outline created around it in the canon. (I would after that ask myself where the other writers of color were, and go on to look for Asian, South Asian, First Nations, etc. writers.) But I was well-placed to assume the existence of something I’d never even heard tell of. After all, my birth region of the Caribbean has had a vibrant literary tradition for centuries now, despite the fact that lots of people think that the Caribbean’s charms are limited to sun, sand, rum, male prostitutes catering to the tourist trade, and really good marijuana. My own father was part of that literary tradition.

  Yet holding Octavia’s books in my hand was the equivalent of an explorer finding uncharted territory. I read them all at a gulp. They sucked me in, they held my attention, they made me think, they often made me sad. And—this is key—as Chip’s writing had done, stories by Octavia and Charles and Steven and Claude-Michel began to show me myself in the genre that I loved. Not just in terms of race; to think that is to miss the point almost entirely. But in terms of African diasporic culture; our aesthetics, our histories and lore, our speech stylings, our experiences and understandings of the world, our humor. It would be years before I perceived the playful, ironic humor in Octavia’s work. It’s there, it’s pointed, and it’s mischievous as hell. If you don’t believe me, read Fledgling, her final novel.

  It’s tough for budding writers. They are surrounded by messages that writing is a frivolous occupation that can only lead to tears and poverty. If you’re a person of color who aspires to write science fiction and fantasy, there are the added subtle and not-so-subtle “Keep Out” signs posted around the perimeters of the genre as additional discouragement. When Octavia was 13, her aunt, probably trying to spare her heartache, told her that “Negroes can’t be writers.” Luckily for us, that only made a young Octavia even more determined. And she never forgot how much it means for an aspiring writer to have a little encouragement. Lisa Bolekaja, whose fine story “The Saltwater African” is one of the treats awaiting you in this anthology, was working in a Los Angeles bookstore when she first met Octavia. In fact, it was Octavia who urged her to attend the Clarion science fiction and fantasy writing workshop.

  It was 1996 when I first saw and heard Octavia; not in person, but in John Akomfrah’s Afrofuturist documentary film “The Last Angel of History.” The film was premiering at the Toronto International Film Festival. It listed Chip and Octavia as two of the interviewees appearing in it. I had fulfilled my dream of meeting Chip at Toronto’s International Festival of Authors in 1992. And now here was a chance to see Octavia, even if through the medium of film.

  I was in the audience for the screening of “The Last Angel of History.” The film was good; intriguing and affirming in its conceit of a black cyberhistory of music. I became more and more excited as it got to the part where a couple of black science fiction authors would have their say. The interview with Chip made me very happy. When it came time for Octavia’s part, I was just about beside myself with anticipation.

  On the screen, the camera faded to black. A voice began speaking into the darkness, talking about science fiction and blackness. At first I was puzzled, because the voice was deep enough to be a man’s. Did I have the order of the authors’ appearances wrong?

  Then the film showed us the person speaking. It was Octavia. That was the first time I’d realized her stature, her gravitas. Of course her voice fit her frame!

  In years to come, I would publish my own first novel, and I was thrilled beyond measure when my editor secured a quote from Octavia for it. I would keep reading and enjoying her work. I would eventually meet her in person, while I was on tour. I would take part in readings and appearances with her. Would have rare occasions where she and I could just chat. We were never close friends, but we became colleagues. I cherished that. And she remains one of my beacons as I make my way as a writer in this genre.

  I interviewed Octavia when she came through Toronto to launch Fledgling. Her appearance alarmed me. I knew her to be a strong, active person, a hiker with an exemplary diet. But the barely half-mile stroll from the bookstore to
the lecture hall had left her gasping for air, her skin grey. Before we went on, she told me that she’d been ill, and that the medication was making it difficult for her to write. She was distressed about that, but as was Octavia’s way, she was quietly so. I must have reassured myself that it would be okay. She would find the right dosage of medication. She would get better. We went on stage, and she was her usual sharp and generous self. I watched, amused, as she gently deflected a respectfully veiled inquiry from an audience member about her sexuality. No matter what you’ll read in academic papers about her, based on unverified secondary and tertiary sources, Octavia was straight. I knew her well enough to know that she was heterosexual, and to know that she was an intensely private person who would probably have found it distasteful to have her sexuality argued in public.

  Then came that morning when I turned on my computer to find the news that she’d died. I was floored. It was as though a section of the path beneath my feet had suddenly crumbled and fallen away. In the back of my mind, I’d assumed that Octavia would always be there. She was only 58; a mere 13 years older than me. We were both puppies! The obituary for a 58 year old doesn’t say, “She led a good, long life.” Fifty eight is when you’re just settling into the traces for the long haul. She was snatched away, and sometimes that still makes me cry.

  And now we have this anthology, Bloodchildren. Its title is a play on “Bloodchild,” the title of one of Octavia’s rare short stories. The anthology is a testament, a praise song, a memorial, a healing balm. It comprises inspired, surprising and challenging fiction from writers who were recipients of the scholarship instituted in Butler’s name to support writers of color. The writers are of many races and cultures, but in this, they are bloodchildren. They are kindred.

  But that’s another story.

  Speech Sounds

  Octavia E. Butler

  There was trouble aboard the Washington Boulevard bus. Rye had expected trouble sooner or later in her journey. She had put off going until loneliness and hopelessness drove her out. She believed she might have one group of relatives left alive—a brother and his two children twenty miles away in Pasadena. That was a day’s journey one-way, if she were lucky. The unexpected arrival of the bus as she left her Virginia Road home had seemed to be a piece of luck—until the trouble began.

  Two young men were involved in a disagreement of some kind, or, more likely, a misunderstanding. They stood in the aisle, grunting and gesturing at each other, each in his own uncertain T stance as the bus lurched over the potholes. The driver seemed to be putting some effort into keeping them off balance. Still, their gestures stopped just short of contact—mock punches, hand games of intimidation to replace lost curses.

  People watched the pair, then looked at one another and made small anxious sounds. Two children whimpered.

  Rye sat a few feet behind the disputants and across from the back door. She watched the two carefully, knowing the fight would begin when someone’s nerve broke or someone’s hand slipped or someone came to the end of his limited ability to communicate. These things could happen anytime.

  One of them happened as the bus hit an especially large pothole and one man, tall, thin, and sneering, was thrown into his shorter opponent.

  Instantly, the shorter man drove his left fist into the disintegrating sneer. He hammered his larger opponent as though he neither had nor needed any weapon other than his left fist. He hit quickly enough, hard enough to batter his opponent down before the taller man could regain his balance or hit back even once.

  People screamed or squawked in fear. Those nearby scrambled to get out of the way. Three more young men roared in excitement and gestured wildly. Then, somehow, a second dispute broke out between two of these three—probably because one inadvertently touched or hit the other.

  As the second fight scattered frightened passengers, a woman shook the driver’s shoulder and grunted as she gestured toward the fighting.

  The driver grunted back through bared teeth. Frightened, the woman drew away.

  Rye, knowing the methods of bus drivers, braced herself and held on to the crossbar of the seat in front of her. When the driver hit the brakes, she was ready and the combatants were not. They fell over seats and onto screaming passengers, creating even more confusion. At least one more fight started.

  The instant the bus came to a full stop, Rye was on her feet, pushing the back door. At the second push, it opened and she jumped out, holding her pack in one arm. Several other passengers followed, but some stayed on the bus. Buses were so rare and irregular now, people rode when they could, no matter what. There might not be another bus today—or tomorrow. People started walking, and if they saw a bus they flagged it down. People making intercity trips like Rye’s from Los Angeles to Pasadena made plans to camp out, or risked seeking shelter with locals who might rob or murder them.

  The bus did not move, but Rye moved away from it. She intended to wait until the trouble was over and get on again, but if there was shooting, she wanted the protection of a tree. Thus, she was near the curb when a battered blue Ford on the other side of the street made a U-turn and pulled up in front of the bus. Cars were rare these days—as rare as a severe shortage of fuel and of relatively unimpaired mechanics could make them. Cars that still ran were as likely to be used as weapons as they were to serve as transportation. Thus, when the driver of the Ford beckoned to Rye, she moved away warily. The driver got out—a big man, young, neatly bearded with dark, thick hair. He wore a long overcoat and a look of wariness that matched Rye’s. She stood several feet from him, waiting to see what he would do. He looked at the bus, now rocking with the combat inside, then at the small cluster of passengers who had gotten off. Finally he looked at Rye again.

  She returned his gaze, very much aware of the old forty-five automatic her jacket concealed. She watched his hands.

  He pointed with his left hand toward the bus. The dark-tinted windows prevented him from seeing what was happening inside.

  His use of the left hand interested Rye more than his obvious question. Left-handed people tended to be less impaired, more reasonable and comprehending, less driven by frustration, confusion, and anger.

  She imitated his gesture, pointing toward the bus with her own left hand, then punching the air with both fists.

  The man took off his coat revealing a Los Angeles Police Department uniform complete with baton and service revolver.

  Rye took another step back from him. There was no more LAPD, no more any large organization, governmental or private. There were neighborhood patrols and armed individuals. That was all.

  The man took something from his coat pocket, then threw the coat into the car. Then he gestured Rye back, back, toward the rear of the bus. He had something made of plastic in his hand. Rye did not understand what he wanted until he went to the rear door of the bus and beckoned her to stand there. She obeyed mainly out of curiosity. Cop or not, maybe he could do something to stop the stupid fighting.

  He walked around the front of the bus, to the street side where the driver’s window was open. There, she thought she saw him throw something into the bus. She was still trying to peer through the tinted glass when people began stumbling out the rear door, choking and weeping. Gas.

  Rye caught an old woman who would have fallen, lifted two little children down when they were in danger of being knocked down and trampled. She could see the bearded man helping people at the front door. She caught a thin old man shoved out by one of the combatants. Staggered by the old man’s weight, she was barely able to get out of the way as the last of the young men pushed his way out. This one, bleeding from nose and mouth, stumbled into another, and they grappled blindly, still sobbing from the gas.

  The bearded man helped the bus driver out through the front door, though the driver did not seem to appreciate his help. For a moment, Rye thought there would be another fight. The bearded man stepped back and watched the driver gesture threateningly, watched him shout in wordless anger.
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  The bearded man stood still, made no sound, refused to respond to clearly obscene gestures. The least impaired people tended to do this—stand back unless they were physically threatened and let those with less control scream and jump around. It was as though they felt it beneath them to be as touchy as the less comprehending. This was an attitude of superiority, and that was the way people like the bus driver perceived it. Such “superiority” was frequently punished by beatings, even by death. Rye had had close calls of her own. As a result, she never went unarmed. And in this world where the only likely common language was body language, being armed was often enough. She had rarely had to draw her gun or even display it.

  The bearded man’s revolver was on constant display. Apparently that was enough for the bus driver. The driver spat in disgust, glared at the bearded man for a moment longer, then strode back to his gas-filled bus. He stared at it for a moment, clearly wanting to get in, but the gas was still too strong. Of the windows, only his tiny driver’s window actually opened. The front door was open, but the rear door would not stay open unless someone held it. Of course, the air conditioning had failed long ago. The bus would take some time to clear. It was the driver’s property, his livelihood. He had pasted old magazine pictures of items he would accept as fare on its sides. Then he would use what he collected to feed his family or to trade. If his bus did not run, he did not eat. On the other hand, if the inside of his bus was torn apart by senseless fighting, he would not eat very well either. He was apparently unable to perceive this. All he could see was that it would be some time before he could use his bus again. He shook his fist at the bearded man and shouted. There seemed to be words in his shout, but Rye could not understand them. She did not know whether this was his fault or hers. She had heard so little coherent human speech for the past three years, she was no longer certain how well she recognized it, no longer certain of the degree of her own impairment.