Moscow but Dreaming

  Moscow but Dreaming

  Ekaterina Sedia

  The first short story collection by award-winning author Ekaterina Sedia!

  One of the more resonant voices to emerge in recent years, this Russian-born author explores the edge between the mundane and fantastical in tales inspired by her homeland as well as worldwide folkloric traditions.

  With foreword by World Fantasy Award-winner Jeffrey Ford, Moscow But Dreaming showcases singular and lyrical writing that will appeal to fans of slipstream and magical realism, as well as those interested in the uncanny and Russian history.

  Ekaterina Sedia

  MOSCOW BUT DREAMING

  To everyone who was ever lost or found home.

  INTRODUCTION

  The first piece of fiction I ever read by my fellow South Jerseyan, Ekaterina Sedia, was a story she sent me on the e-mail maybe a year or so before The Secret History of Moscow came out. I don’t think it had the title it has now and I’m not sure that it hasn’t been rewritten, but you can find its finished version in these pages, going by the title, “Zombie Lenin.” I remember the ease with which I slid into this fiction—the writing was a joy, clear and flowing, and the story-line was dream-like and always potentially threatening. There’s a scene where Sedia describes her zombie Lenin, and one of the attributes she gives him is that his flesh is “yellow.” The use of that color in that instance really struck me, and I never forgot it. In fact, I “borrowed” it for a story I wrote years later. Since that first piece I read, I’ve followed her writing career, reading her fiction when I could find it and then eventually seeking it out.

  Many of you will have read or at least heard of her novels, The Secret History of Moscow (ghosts of the Soviet Union, mythologies of old Russia, in a mosaic plot that gives a nod to Dante), The Alchemy of Stone (a dark, feminist, steampunk fairy tale with a sharp edge, every bit as good as Bacigalupi’s The Windup Girl), The House of Discarded Dreams (the supernatural meets New Jersey reality in a lyrical and compelling fiction with my favorite female character of recent years—Vimbai). Each of these books is unique in style and structure, each brilliant in conception and brilliantly written. Don’t take my word for it. You can read the accolades on-line from The Guardian, Publishers Weekly, LA Times, etc. Sedia is a major voice in novellength speculative literature. It’s my conjecture, though, that her short fiction is equally as important.

  Sedia is part of a new wave of writers that have come to the fore since the onset of the 21st century. To generalize, they are incredible stylists, savvy craftsmen, and have a vision that exceeds the boundaries of the U.S. or U.K. (a side of the street worked for a long time by only Lucius Shepard and a handful of others). Along with Sedia, I’m thinking of Lavie Tidhar, Nnedi Okorafor, Hiromi Goto, Aliette de Bodard, etc. This is a welcome development for English language readers of the fantastic. In the stories in this collection, we get to experience the influence of Russia and the old Soviet Union, their realities and mythologies, their dreams and nightmares, and even in those stories that take place in the U.S., the pieces are informed by an outsider’s sensibility that uncovers truths we natives had somewhere along the line willfully chosen to ignore.

  As much as Sedia is part of this new wave, she is also part of a tradition in speculative fiction, that of remarkable female short story writers. This tradition has, in the last decade, really blossomed with the work of writers like Kelly Link, M. Rickert, Theodora Goss, Catherynne M. Valente, etc. (the list is long and growing). In trying to place Sedia in the current scene, it would be a mistake, though, to miss her idiosyncratic attributes, those things her stories do that the fiction of others does not.

  A weak term to describe Sedia’s short fiction would be “magical realism.” At times, in order to submerge us into the story, she will use realism, but the magical parts of the stories aren’t mere nods to the fantastic and the presence of the supernatural is usually not ambiguous. Her work is informed by a palpable sense of world mythology and specifically Russian folklore, often seen darkly, like nightmares in the light of day (shades of her countryman, Gogol). Sedia’s fictional worlds many times are alive, almost anthropomorphic. I get a similar feel from them as I get in reaction to the old Fleischer Brothers cartoons from the 1930’s. It’s not that her houses have faces or that the clock has actual hands with gloves as the Brothers’ did, but a sense that the world of the story has a certain sentience to it, more times malevolent than charmed. As in “The Bank of Burkina Faso,” the darkness “coagulates” or this line from later in the piece—And in his mind, another dance, entirely imaginary, unfolded slowly, like a paper fan in the hands of a young girl… Although her writing is clear and unfettered, there is a richness of metaphor and simile that engenders this effect.

  Another inimitable talent of Sedia’s is that her stories defy you to figure out where they are headed, what the outcome will eventually be. She has a deftness with plots that turn, lyrically, like dreams, on a dime and take you far from their starting points. When you reach the end, though, there’s a feeling that the journey, no matter how surreal, has made sense. There are no pat interpretations, but one is left with a field of possibility, and the contemplation of these stories, after you’ve finished reading them, will offer as much enjoyment and thought as the initial journey. I get the feeling that in the creation of her short fiction, she takes her hands off the wheel and lets her subconscious do the driving. There are no road maps. The story takes her where it needs to go and not the opposite.

  For all of the dream-like, dark fairy tale nature of her stories, Sedia is capable of dealing with important contemporary themes in her work—child abuse, feminism, the futile nature of war, etc. The lyrical aspect of the fiction never blinds one to the real world, but instead is like some magical stereopticon that allows one to see with the help of the fantastic through to the heart of these issues.

  All of this and more in a single volume that will delight readers of the fantastic and inspire story writers, who, like me, will be unable to refrain from “borrowing.”

  —Jeffrey Ford, author of The Shadow Year and World Fantasy Award winner

  A SHORT ENCYCLOPEDIA OF LUNAR SEAS

  1. The Moscow Sea (Mare Moscoviense)

  Moscow is one of the most landlocked cities on Earth, but whatever disappears from it ends up in the Moscow Sea. The local inhabitants see a certain irony in that, and celebrate every new arrival. They cheered when the churches burned by Napoleon appeared and stood over the shallow waters of the sea, reflecting there along with the sparrows and the immigrants. They greeted the dead priests with coppers on their eyes, the hockey teams, the horse-drawn buggies. They are still waiting for the jackdaws, but the jackdaws are resilient, and they stay in their city.

  Nowadays, if one looks into this shallow pool, one can still see the marching Red Armies, Belka and Strelka, and the Great October Revolution.

  2. The Sea of Rains (Mare Imbrium)

  The inhabitants of this sea are used to rain. It is a sea in name only, an empty basin long ago abandoned by water. But it rains every day. Sometimes, instead of water, flower petals fall from the sky; sometimes, it rains wooden horses and rubber duckies.

  One rain everyone still remembers occurred a few years ago, when words fell from the sky. It did not stem for weeks, and the words filled the empty basin to overflowing. The inhabitants groaned and suffocated under the weight of accumulated regrets, promises, lies, report cards, great literature, pop songs, and shopping lists. They would surely perish unless something was done soon.

  The council of the elders decided that they should drain the accumulated words, and in the course of their deliberations they realized that the words falling from the sky slowed down. So they decreed that it wa
s the civic duty of every citizen to use up as many words as possible.

  They bought telephones, and started telemarketing campaigns; they complained about their health and spun long tales for their children; they took to poetry.

  Within days, the rain stopped; in the next month, the sea ran dry. Today, the inhabitants of this sea are mute, and the basin is empty—unless it rains nightingale songs or tiny blue iridescent fish.

  3. The Sea of Clouds (Mare Nubium)

  The Sea of Clouds is entirely contained by mountains, so high above the blue moon surface that the clouds fill the basin. Mermaids from all over the world make their yearly pilgrimage to this sea— they crawl over land, their tails trailing furrows in the blue dust, their breasts and elbows scuffed on the flat lunar stones. They leave traces of pale mermaid blood, its smell tinged with copper.

  They cross the extensive ice fields, and their scales shine with the hoarfrost under the fickle lights of Aurora Borealis. Their breath clouds the air, so much so that the natives rarely travel in the thick fog of mermaid breath, lest they be lost forever.

  In the end, the mermaids come to the Sea of Clouds, so just for a day they can swim in the sky and think themselves birds.

  4. The Sea of Crises (Mare Crisium)

  This sea looks deceptively calm if viewed from the surface, but on the bottom, where only the greenest of sunrays can penetrate, there is a city. Red algae line the streets, undulating in the current, and green, yellow, and white snails stud the sidewalks.

  Every day, war rages in the streets. When the sun rises, opposing armies march along the storefronts and the boarded-up vacation houses. They meet at the corner, and the battle begins. By sunset, very few are left standing, and even they fade as the sun disappears behind the horizon. The next morning, they will start again.

  There is no Valhalla on the Moon.

  5. The Sea of Fertility (Mare Fecunditatis)

  It is widely believed that the properties of this sea were discovered by accident, when the fresh waters ran red with blood, and poor women had nowhere to do their laundry. Out of despair, they turned to the sea. The clothes washed there turned stiff from the salt, and the hands of the women turned raw from scrubbing, the salt eating away at their joints and skin. Whoever wore these clothes caked with salt and blood found themselves blessed with many children, and this is how the sea received its name. A less known part of this legend is that those who were blessed by the sea cannot love their children—the salt is too bitter, and the blood burns too deep. They don’t tell you this, because what parent would admit that their children are loathed monsters?

  6. The Sea of Tranquility (Mare Tranquillitatis)

  Those who live on the shores of the sea still remember the first moon landing. They remember two men clambering in their elaborate costumes, raising clouds of precious blue dust with every step. The natives stood dumbfounded, and then went to greet the visitors. But the Moon folk are difficult to see, even to their own kind, and the visitors ignored them, leaping with jubilation in the world where gravity was kind.

  The natives laughed then, because the Earth men did not realize that if they only shed their heavy equipment, they could leap high enough to achieve nirvana.

  7. The Sea of Moisture (Mare Humorum)

  Everything rots in this climate. Even the precious stones and metals, brought for good luck, disintegrate in the damp air, leaving nothing but handfuls of soggy rust. But the plants love it. A single seed was brought by a basket merchant Eshlev as a gift to his young wife, and she planted it in a flowerpot.

  The next morning, a green succulent stalk emerged; by the afternoon it had branched. The seedling gulped moisture from the air, and swelled with every passing minute. Its leaves unfurled like banners, and the stems pushed through every window and door and chimney. In a week’s time, the plant had engulfed the house, burying Eshlev and his dogs and baskets deep inside. His wife sat outside, looking at the green hill that used to be her home with dazed eyes, waiting for her plant to bloom.

  8. The Sea of Ingenuity (Mare Ingenii)

  There once was an old man who built robots out of driftwood, seashells, and straw. His robots were clever machines, although even their creator wouldn’t be able to tell you exactly how they worked. But worked they did, and when they were done with their chores, they went behind the old man’s house, and built inventions of their own. To the untrained eyes, their project appeared as one long wing, and people laughed at the robots, for everyone knows that the atmosphere of the Moon is not dense enough to support flight. Even birds have to walk here.

  But the robots were not deterred, and their wing grew larger by the day. They polished its surface and inlaid it with mother-ofpearl. The wing was ready, and when the robots held it up to the rising sun, the wing shuddered and took off.

  All the people watched in wonderment as the wing shone in the sun and carried off the robots, propelled by the strength of the sunrays. The robots worked in unison, tilting their sail this way and that way to navigate, but nobody knows where they went. Some say, Mars.

  9. The Sea of Serenity (Mare Serenitatis)

  Widows come to this sea to cry, and they keep it full, brimming with water that forms a noticeable convex surface in the weak gravity of the Moon. The widows come from all over, icicles in their unbraided hair, empty hands folded over their empty wombs. They sit on the shore and weep, until their eyes turn red, and their lips crack and their breasts wither.

  When they cannot cry any longer, they leave, their souls purged and as empty as their hands. Serenity is what is left when all the tears are cried out.

  10. The Sea of Vapors (Mare Vaporum)

  The steam of geysers and fonts of hot water conceals the outlines of this sea and the adjacent landmarks. No one is exactly sure what lies within the dense fog. But it is accepted as a likely speculation that the geysers are just a clever disguise, and that all the runaway children found a home there.

  There are carnivals and circuses, trained elephants and tigers that do not bite, but eagerly lick every hand that offers them marzipans. There are merry-go-rounds, seesaws, fish tanks with the biggest fattest goldfish you have ever imagined, but no clowns. The witch’s oven is far too small to fit even a scrawniest child.

  There is not a single adult on the Moon who did not contemplate running away to the Sea of Vapors, but the fog is too dense.

  11. The Sea of the Known (Mare Cognitum)

  If one were to sit on the shore of this sea and peer deep into its transparent waters, one would see that the bottom is covered with a multitude of marbles—red, yellow, green, powder-blue, and clear with a blue spiral inside, the best of all. The marbles shift constantly in the current, and arrange themselves in elaborate patterns. If one were to assign them a numerical or alphabetic value, one would soon realize that the patterns only speak of the things that are true.

  One would spend day after day, enraptured over all the facts in the universe revealed in no particular order. One would learn that the diameter of Phobos is 22.2 kilometers, that the ducks have a special gland at the base of their tails to keep their feathers waterproof, that cobalt melts at 1495°C, and that in 1495 Russia invaded Sweden.

  Then inevitably one would grow impatient and stare at the marbles, frowning. None of the facts the sea tells have anything to do with the Moon itself. One could spend eternity staring into the Sea of the Known, yet learn nothing about it.

  12. The Eastern Sea (Mare Orientale)

  The Yellow Emperor washes all of his animals in this sea.

  They stare with their liquid eyes of every shade of jade, amber, and topaz, and their crested and maned heads bob obediently as the calm, warm waters lap at their sides. The salt stings a bit, but the Emperor likes his animals clean. They squint their eyes and dream of the days when they will be able to walk into the sea all by themselves, without whips and demanding clicks of human tongues.

  13. The Southern Sea (Mare Australe)

  The Southern Sea is warm and sha
llow, and the beach is soft sand. Starfish wander through the lapping waves, and suck the mussels dry. Old people like this sea. They chase advancing and retreating waves and toss oversized striped beach balls, and then they sit on the sand and drink Pepsi from warm glass bottles. They listen to the radio and aggregate in small groups, talking and whispering, and casting sideways glances at each other. They laugh, throwing back their heads, their hands covering the grinning lips.

  It is always the summer of your thirteenth year by the Southern Sea.

  14. The Sea of Waves (Mare Undarum)

  A weighty galleon would seem a toy atop these waves. The endless moonquakes shake its bottom, and gigantic waves, unconstrained by gravity, pound the shores.

  Those who have perished in earthquakes and tsunamis make settlements here. Nobody forces them to, but many of the ghosts are unable to conceive of anything other than their own death. They stand and stare as the waves roll over the ground, swallowing their houses and oxen whole, poisoning their fields, ripping their life from them again and again.

  Some move elsewhere, but there are always the new ones arriving.

  15. The Sea of Nectar (Mare Nectaris)

  The legends of this sea had long existed among the native folks, transmitted in fleeting whispers and shy glances from under lowered eyelashes. A few men, fed up with the stories, longed for sweetness on their lips—and sweetness was the concept only, for nothing on the Moon was ever sweet. Driven by the imaginary taste they could not fathom, they crossed vast empty plains and bristling mountain ranges. Many of them wandered into deep snow, a few more were crushed by falling boulders, one was sucked in by the mud, two released their grasp on their souls, three drowned, and one contracted diphtheria. All of them died, but continued on their way, unable to let go of what they could not even dream about. They reached the sea and cried, because the dead are unable to taste it.