The Third Bear (29 page)

Erratum #3: "The Gate House,"Marly Youmans, forthcoming in issue four

In October, the cold and snow would begin, sealing the stream in ice, sagging the limbs outside the kitchen window. The land would look stainless and white, as if the world knew nothing of blood and dirty deeds. She would build a snow maiden in the courtyard and feed the birds who had the courage to stay and not fly south. Consolation might sift from the sky, like soft crystal. It could be a new life, now dimly seen, like the humpbacked shape of a camel in a dispersing cloud.

should read:

In October, the snow and ice would come, sealing the lake in silence, weighing down the trees outside her kitchen window. The land and lake would look seamless and white, as if it knew nothing of blood or pain. She would build a snow maiden on the edge of the lake and feed the birds that had no choice but to stay in that frozen place. And through that act, consolation might settle over her as gently as the snow. The world seemed to tell her that she could have a new life, now dimly seen, like a shadowy figure walking slowly across the ice-laden lake to the near shore.

I wonder if Gradus was stalking me long before I came to Lake Baikal. I wonder if he has been there since the Beginning. (Whichever beginning you prefer, Jeremy.)

As I may have mentioned, I have a fine view of the lake from here, given that the water comes right up to and beyond my doorstep. Sometimes, oddly enough, this lobby feels like a landing pad on the Death Star, with seals lunging in and lurching out every few minutes, their heads bobbing, their large eyes alive with hidden meaning. Mostly, they seem to be mocking me.

Because, honestly, would I be sitting here in a rotting condominium complex halfway around the world if I hadn't, at some point, hit rock bottom? Your brother may be persistent and good at persuading people to do things, but no one's that good.

I shared my story with Ed a couple of weeks ago, when he came around in his battered pickup to take me to Shaman Rock and his Book. After I had finished my account, Ed turned to me and said, "You are a fortunate man. You are still alive and you have a purpose."

Possibly. Possibly not.

The truth is, Jeremy, by April of this year, my life had begun to fall apart. The coming schism, the disintegration that I'd sensed in Blackpool, had reached fruition. Constant book tours, fan e-mails, re-imagining my lump of a body into something more approximating fitness, and my complete inability to relax into all of this new success had warped my mind. The vodka helps me see this. (Juliette reminds me of it with her innocent, nonjudgmental stare.)

I became ever more vain and superficial. I bought fifteen pairs of shoes, for fuck's sake. I got contacts. I spent more time primping than a supermodel. Worse, I took my wife Ann for granted. I took Tallahassee for granted. I had a restlessness in me that led to driving around late at night dressed to the nines with the music turned up loud, as a poor substitute for...what?

Sometimes everything seems hopeless on the macro level - global warming, war, murderously corrupt politicians, terrorism. Sometimes it is much more personal and internalized.

I began to drink too much. I began to indulge in self-pity. I began to see myself as some kind of victim in all of this, and that led to worse things still. I had an affair with a co-worker at my day job. Ann left me as a result. I turned for comfort to my new lover, only for her to reveal that she was a born-again Christian. "Accept Jesus and we can be together," she said. When I refused, she lodged a harassment complaint with Human Resources. My supervisor told me it would be best if I quit. I told her what she could do with that suggestion, and by mid-June, I had lost my marriage, my day job, and most of my self-esteem and had been reduced to living in a tiny cockroach-infested apartment with only the slim thread of intermittent royalties keeping me off the streets.

I was in shock by then, I think. I was beyond feeling guilt or anything else. I'd gotten what I wanted only to find out it wasn't what I wanted at all.

I hung out at a bar called Gill's, dulling myself into a stupor with cheap beer and whiskey by night and trying to think up ideas for blockbuster commercial novels to pitch to my agent by day. I tried to make out to all but my closest friends that everything was fine. I limped along with some freelance work for Publishers Weekly and the local newspapers, but I knew that would dry up eventually, because I was always missing deadlines.

By July, I had stopped doing even that and just drank all day and night. I even stopped bathing and shaving. Sometimes, during my erratic sleep, I'd dream of my former life and it would seem exactly that: a dream of something that had never been. When I woke, I'd call Ann, no matter what the time, even though I knew there was no hope she'd take me back, just to reassure myself that once upon a time I'd had that life.

I try to convince myself now that it would have gotten better without outside intervention, but I think I'm wrong. If James hadn't called one night while I was at Gill's, trying to convince Katie, the owner, to give me a beer on credit, I don't know what would have happened.

The phone at the bar rang and Katie answered it, then handed the receiver to me with a puzzled look on her face. "It's for you. Says he's an old friend. Keep it brief, okay?"

"Hello," I said.

"Jeff? Jeff VanderMeer?"

"Yeah. Who the fuck is this?"

A thin laugh. "James Owen. Remember me?"

For a second, I didn't. James Owen might as well have been from another planet.

"World Fantasy 2003? Argosy?"

Then I did remember, which confused me even more. "How'd you get this number?"

"It doesn't matter. Let's just say a couple of concerned friends gave it to me."

"Why would they do that?"

"Because I have an opportunity for you."

"What kind of opportunity?"

There was a pause. I think he knew this was a hard sell. "I need you to go to Lake Baikal in Siberia and write a story."

"You want me to write a story about Lake Baikal?"

"No. I need you to go to Lake Baikal and write me a story. For Argosy."

"You're full of shit."

"I don't blame you for thinking so, but I'm not. You'll be paid. Your expenses will be taken care of.... Don't you think a change of scenery might be a good idea?"

"Lake Baikal?" I was trying to get my wits about me. "That's the place with the freshwater seals?" As I would soon know all too well.

"Among other things. A property there has recently come into my possession and it would be perfect for you. You can get some peace and quiet there and write."

James chose not to reveal at that point that he thought a man would one day come walking along the lakeshore with the express purpose of killing me.

That first time James called me at Gill's, I hung up on him and went back to drinking. And the next night. And the night after that. It was not until the night after I got into a fight in the parking lot over something so stupid I can't remember what it was and had my nose broken that I realized that I needed to say "yes" or I was going to find my way to rock bottom.

"Great," James said. "I knew you'd come around."

He gave me the flight information, assured me of money coming in the mail, and told me his instructions would be waiting for me at Lake Baikal.

"That all sounds fine to me, James," I said, as if I was talking to a crazy person.

I drank my way through the countless hours of flights, the bus and train and car rides, until I finally wound up here.

Gradus remained in my thoughts. I could not get him out. He was the great Unknown in a world that had become as simple as the ice and snow, but no less mysterious.

"When can I expect this mystery man to arrive, James?"

"I don't know. It could be any time."

"Any time, huh?"

"Yes. You should carry the revolvers with you wherever you go."

"Even down to the grocery store?"

"There is no grocery story near you."

"Exactly my point! Neither I nor Juliette is thrilled about that. No movie theater, either."

"Appreciate the natural beauty."

"I'm trying. I'm also reading the guidebook for the fiftieth time. I'm on the verge of switching to the crimethink book and becoming an anarchist."

"Stay calm. It'll all be over soon."

"I just wish this `Gradus' would get here soon so I can show him these fancy revolvers and scare him on his way."

"Jeff, this kind of person doesn't get scared. You will probably have to kill him."

I didn't believe him, at the time.

A week after my arrival, I met Ed the Shaman for the first time. I hadn't been putting it off so much as acclimating to my surroundings - getting used to having conversations with Juliette; taking hikes along the lakeshore, through the stunning, bird-filled forests; familiarizing myself with the tin shack bar and its twelve different brands of vodka. James hadn't indicated any constraint for my "Literary Work of Great Import and Inestimable Redeeming Value" other than "I'll let you know when you have to start it," so I'd decided to take my time.

But, finally, I called Ed. He arranged to pick me up early on a Monday morning. I had with me an Erratum segment - or, at least, what I thought might serve as one - taken from John Grant's "The Dragons of Manhattan." It contained long tracts of rant that I thought might be James applying the nudge of his own beliefs.