ALSO BY CARRIE RYAN
The Forest of Hands and Teeth
The Dead-Tossed Waves
The Dark and Hollow Places
These are works of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the authors’ imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.
Compilation copyright © 2012 by Carrie Ryan
“Gentlemen Send Phantoms” copyright © 2012 by Laini Taylor. “Burned Bright” copyright © 2012 by Diana Peterfreund. “The Angriest Man” copyright © 2012 by Lisa McMann. “Out of the Blue” copyright © 2012 by Meg Cabot, LLC. “One True Love” copyright © 2012 by Malinda Lo. “This Is a Mortal Wound” copyright © 2012 by Michael Grant. “Misery” copyright © 2012 by Heather Brewer. “The Mind Is a Powerful Thing” copyright © 2012 by Matt de la Peña. “The Chosen One” copyright © 2012 by Saundra Mitchell. “Improbable Futures” copyright © 2012 by Kami Garcia, LLC. “Death for the Deathless” copyright © 2012 by Margaret Stohl, Inc. “Fate” copyright © 2012 by Simone Elkeles. “The Killing Garden” copyright © 2012 by Carrie Ryan. “Homecoming” copyright © 2012 by Richelle Mead.
All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Delacorte Press, an imprint of Random House Children’s Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.
Delacorte Press is a registered trademark and the colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Foretold : 14 stories of prophecy and prediction / edited by Carrie Ryan. — 1st ed.
v. cm.
Contents: Gentlemen send phantoms / by Laini Taylor — Burned bright / by Diana Peterfreund — The angriest man / by Lisa McMann — Out of the blue / by Meg Cabot — One true love / by Malinda Lo — This is a mortal wound / by Michael Grant — Misery / by Heather Brewer — The mind is a powerful thing / by Matt de la Peña — The chosen one / by Saundra Mitchell — Improbable futures / by Kami Garcia — Death for the deathless / by Margaret Stohl — Fate / by Simone Elkeles — The killing garden / by Carrie Ryan — Homecoming / by Richelle Mead.
eISBN: 978-0-375-98442-6
1. Fate and fatalism—Juvenile fiction. 2. Short stories, American. [1. Fate and fatalism—Fiction. 2. Short stories.] I. Ryan, Carrie.
PZ5.F757 2012 [Fic]—dc23 2012007067
v3.1
For my father, who taught me
to always dream and believe
in limitless possibilities
CONTENTS
Cover
Other Books by This Author
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Introduction
CARRIE RYAN
Gentlemen Send Phantoms
LAINI TAYLOR
Burned Bright
DIANA PETERFREUND
The Angriest Man
LISA McMANN
Out of the Blue
MEG CABOT
One True Love
MALINDA LO
This Is a Mortal Wound
MICHAEL GRANT
Misery
HEATHER BREWER
The Mind Is a Powerful Thing
MATT DE LA PEÑA
The Chosen One
SAUNDRA MITCHELL
Improbable Futures
KAMI GARCIA
Death for the Deathless
MARGARET STOHL
Fate
SIMONE ELKELES
The Killing Garden
CARRIE RYAN
Homecoming
RICHELLE MEAD
About the Authors
INTRODUCTION
One of the stories I remember most from school is the myth of Oedipus. In it, the oracle of Apollo at Delphi prophesied that any son born to King Laius would grow up to kill his father. Because of this prediction, Laius decreed that his infant son Oedipus should be put to death.
Of course, as is often the case in Greek myths, nothing went according to plan. The servant tasked with abandoning the baby on a mountainside instead chose to rescue him, leaving him in the care of a shepherd. Oedipus was raised far away in Corinth with no knowledge of his pedigree or his connection to the king of Thebes. When he was grown, Oedipus fled Corinth for home. During the journey, he was harassed by a group of travelers at a crossroads and was forced to kill the group in self-defense. Unbeknownst to Oedipus, one of the men he murdered was his father, thus the oracle’s prediction.
Ironically, by struggling so hard to circumvent the prophecy of his death at the hand of his son, Laius became instrumental in its coming to pass.
What fascinates me about this story is the conflict between Laius’s pervasive impulse to thwart the predicted tragedy at any cost and his concurrent belief in its inevitability. It made me wonder: Would it have been better for Laius to accept the prophecy? If he had, could he have escaped it? And what does that mean to those of us whose lives don’t play out like an ancient myth?
It’s easy for most of us to discount the role prophecies can play in the modern world. After all, few of us seek out the oracle of Apollo at Delphi and plan our lives accordingly. But the more I’ve thought about prophecies and predictions while editing this anthology, the more I’ve realized just how relevant they still are.
No, I’m not talking about how every few years there’s another forecast about the end of the world. (12.21.12, anyone?) I’m talking about the more nuanced predictions: the parents who determine their child will grow up to be famous, the teen who declares she’ll be a doctor one day, or the student who tells himself he’ll never be anyone special. These become our own prophecies—and they can end up laying out the paths of our lives.
It’s easy to cling to predictions because they give us a sense of direction. There’s comfort in feeling as though a decision has been preordained and is therefore out of our hands. But that doesn’t mean that giving our lives over to someone else’s prophecy won’t somehow blind us to the possibility of self-determination. Which then brings us back to Oedipus and his father, and the main underlying question of the myth: are we better served by embracing our prophecies, even the negative ones?
These thoughts prompted me to ask other authors for their own views on the topic—I was curious how each would approach the concept. I wanted to find out what might constitute a true prophecy to them, and I wondered how they would handle the question of whether it is better to accept a foretold future or fight against it. I purposely left the specifics vague, wanting to give each writer the freedom to explore his or her own interpretation of the theme.
I couldn’t be more thrilled with the results! The fourteen short stories in Foretold showcase a variety of interpretations on the idea of prophecy: fantastical quests, otherworldly encounters, the power of someone else’s perception to influence your life. In these stories there are worlds that end and others that begin, loves found and lost—and sometimes found again. Each story, in its own way, demonstrates how prophecies affect our lives by exploring characters who struggle to fulfill them, who endeavor to prevent them, or who attempt to ignore them altogether.
What I’ve discovered through these stories is that prophecies can bring us comfort or cause us fear; we can choose to embrace them as destiny and cling to them as dreams or avoid them as the worst kind of curse. Ultimately, when we face our own prognostications—whether self-generated or thrust upon us—it’s up to us to choose whether we will determine our own lives or allow
someone else to do it for us.
Gentlemen Send Phantoms
LAINI TAYLOR
1. A DREAMCAKE
Once, when the moon was younger than it is tonight and not as plump, three girls gathered by a hearth to bake a dreamcake. It was St. Faith’s Day, the sixth of October, and everybody knows that on St. Faith’s Day a girl can lure forth the phantom of the man she’ll marry, see his face and know some of what life holds in its basket for her. That’s what their mothers and nans taught them, and they’d all seen their men on St. Faith’s Day and married them in the spring.
As it happens, all three girls were hoping to glimpse the same phantom, the one belonging to Matthew Blackgrace, whom they called Matty in that singsong way that girls have. He had fierce red hair and a grin like the devil, but his hands were good hands; he could braid his baby sister’s hair and gentle a horse. And couldn’t he sing like an angel?
The girls were fast friends—they lived in the cottages scattered through the apple orchards above Mosey Landing, and had grown up together—but that didn’t mean there weren’t some sharp thoughts between them that evening, with each nursing the same hopes, and in the same small room.
Ava was oldest; near eighteen already, and, as she claimed, “ripe to be plucked.” She had yellow hair with a hint of strawberries, and such a bosom on her that the boys scarcely knew what her face looked like anymore, so fixed were their eyes elsewhere. It was a nice face, in any case, if just the littlest bit blank. Truth be told, Ava’s thoughts were like those tethered ponies at the fair: slow and placid, ever going in circles, and with children never far off.
Ava was more than ready for babies, and more than ready for the making of them. Her eyes watched the orchard tots run and tumble, and she hummed and dreamed, and at night sometimes she held her pillow between her knees and blushed in the dark, imagining love.
She wanted Matty Blackgrace for his house as much as anything. He was already building his own—a tiny pretty thing up on Century Hill, overlooking the wide green Mosey. It didn’t have a roof yet, but he’d already painted the shutters blue for luck, and planted bare-root roses that would bloom come summer. Ava wanted to get a babe on her hip as soon as may be, and start baking pies to set on those sweet blue sills. And Matty himself, well, he fit just fine in the corner of her daydream, thank you very much.
Elsie was next, and she was the colors of a fawn—golden, russet, and brown—and freckled as though the baker sneezed over his cinnamon and she got the brunt of it. “Sweet” was what she called herself, and she was—in nature and in tooth. She planted honeysuckle every year for her nan, who’d turned hummingbird on her deathbed four years past and came around all summer long for sips of nectar. And there wasn’t a market day that went by but Elsie was sneaking down to Mosey Landing to fetch herself a treat, a striped lick-stick or a cone of sugar-ice or maybe a maple toad rolled in spice.
Lucky thing, she could eat all the treats she wanted and stay slim, because she was the tallest girl around—tall enough to pick apples without a ladder—but Matty Blackgrace was taller, and so Elsie thought she ought to get him for that reason if no other.
Catherine was the last, and some would say the least. They called her Pippin for being small as an apple seed. Hazard Root the Younger, whose phantom she was desperate not to see, had threatened once to put her in his pocket like a newt, and she said if he tried it she’d sting him like a scorpion, which was no idle threat. Pippin was small, but she was no newt, and she had troubled herself to learn witching from Nasty Mary before the old lady turned owl and swooped off in the night. Or at least, Pippin said she had, and she said it in this glittering-eyed way that made even the big boys wary of her.
But not Matty, oh never. Witch she was or witch she wasn’t, he knew he’d nothing to fear from Pippin.
She didn’t have bosoms like hummocks, and she couldn’t pick apples without a ladder, but her face was the shape of a little heart and her shoulders were set and straight, and her laugh could make its way from one side of the orchard to the other, shivering leaves and spinning blossoms as it went.
Not that her life was spilling with laughter, sad to say. Her mother had died birthing her—so sudden she hadn’t even had time to turn creature, and this was a bruise on Pippin’s heart. She could almost have stood it, she’d think, tending her garden all alone, if that kestrel on the branch could have been her mam watching over her. She’d try and pretend it, just for the feel of company, but it was no good. Nasty Mary had told her in no uncertain terms that the blood had been like a river, and Pippin like a little otter slipping out on it, and just like that, her mam was gone and really truly-and-forever gone.
Her da never married again, so theirs was a quiet home, but the Blackgrace house was near, and she could always go there for a fill-up of elbows and clamor. Sometimes she even got to be part of a sticky kid-pile and fall asleep with all the others, cocoa on her breath and the fiddle floating in at her ears, her and Matty both in the tangle someplace—maybe that was his hand and maybe it wasn’t, but it was enough that it might be.
That was done with now, of course. He and she were nearly grown and no longer kids to be tangling together like kittens! And sure she knew that wasn’t the kind of arm-and-leg tangle that she was supposed to wish for now she was nearly a woman, but she missed it just the same. Woman or girl or in between, Pippin was lonesome, and when she dreamed of the end of being lonesome it was Matty’s face she saw, and that was all there was to it.
2. WISHING AND FIRELIGHT
“Remember,” cautioned Elsie, “after this, no talking.” The rules of a dreamcake were clear. It was to be baked in silence, with just firelight and wishing, wishing and firelight, and not a peep from any girl until morning—not even when their phantom came, no matter what.
“One last thing first,” said Ava, her voice breathy with excitement. “Whoever we see, we’ve got to tell each other first thing in the morning. Promise!” She spoke with the easy eagerness of a girl used to attention. She’s that sure she’ll see Matty tonight, thought Pippin, jealous of such confidence. Herself, she wasn’t sure on anyone’s behalf—not Ava’s or Elsie’s or her own. She didn’t know who Matty fancied. He was so nice to everyone there was no way to know.
“I promise,” said Elsie.
“I promise,” said Pippin.
“And if you see nobody, it means you’re to be an old maid. So don’t be slamming the door on any phantom!” Ava looked sternly at Pippin. “Even if it is Hazard. Would you really rather be a spinster than a Mrs. Root?”
“Yes by a thousand,” declared Pippin. “I’d rather be the Roots’ old mule, by the green god’s mercy, than marry Hazard.” She was thinking to herself that if she couldn’t have Matty she’d vanish in the woods and live like a fairy. Once, he’d told her she looked like one, and he might have meant it because she’d had briars in her hair, wild from tumbling through a thicket, but she’d always thought he meant something sweeter.
“Ready now?” asked Elsie. “It’s time.”
They were at Ava’s house to bake their cake. It was a queer recipe and nothing you’d want to eat; it wasn’t for eating. The flour was just plain flour, but the water stank from a bundle of cloud roses going to rot in it for more than a week. The salt had been buried in the garden and dug back up, and the goose egg was laid under a full moon and shadow-spelled for three nights running, first with an owl feather, then a rowan branch, and last of all a lock of hair from a pregnant woman—Mayfair Tanzy, who said that she’d go bald if one more girl came to her begging locks.
Pippin had earlier wrinkled her nose and declared the batter to be “all druidy-smelling,” and it only got worse as it baked. The girls were quiet and wishful as they knitted by the fire, each dreaming of Matty’s good hands unpinning her hair on their wedding night. Many a stitch was dropped and a count forgotten, and three crookeder socks you never saw than came of that night’s work.
After the cake was done, Ava took it from the oven, le
t it cool some, then cut it in three. Each girl took her portion and scratched her initials in its surface. At sunup, if all went right, there should be another set of initials scratched beside their own.
They hugged each other, shared nervous grins in silence, and parted ways.
Ava went right up the ladder to her loft bed. She pulled her braid over her shoulder and unwove it, wondering: would the phantom just be a glimpse, or would it linger with her awhile?
Suppose it talked to her. Could phantoms talk? Not that she could answer if it did!
Could they kiss? Or maybe there was nothing to kiss, just air and dreams.
Ava shivered, hugged her arms around the deliciousness, and then—after a hot-cheeked hesitation—unlaced her dress, yanked it off, and dove under the quilt in her best slip to wait.
As for Elsie, she lived right across the way, so she had only to dart out Ava’s door and into her own. Like Ava’s, her house was empty—no family crowd to put fright to skittish phantoms. There was a fair down at Mosey Landing tonight to keep folks happy, and casks of drink and a cakewalk, and for a special treat some music-makers from across the Bigwater. All strange they were, handsome and dark-eyed and clad in patterns, with scythe-billed birds perched on their heads that made their own shivery songs in tune to the drums and chimes.
Elsie’s hand shook lighting her candle, and unlacing her bodice she fumbled about as bad as if she’d got frozen fingers from making a snow troll. Finally, though, she was in her sheets, coverlet to her chin and long feet poking out the bottom. She waited, trembling and fidgeting as the flame teased shadows up and down the walls, and every single minute she thought a phantom was come, and almost died of nerves.
Now, Pippin, she was out alone in the night. She lived all the way on the far side of the orchard, no small walk, and she set off quick with her wedge of dreamcake cradled to her chest, her heart tight and sore from all her big wishing, not just tonight but all her life. Little life, big wishing. That doesn’t go easy on a heart, and she thought maybe she’d stretched hers all out, how a sweater neck gets when you’ve shown the poor judgment of dressing the goat—though that, she consoled herself, was long ago, and had been all Matty’s idea in any case.