SUSAN
by HARLAN ELLISON
"Susan" copyright 1993 by the KilimanjaroCorporation.

Susan

As she had done every night since they met, she went in bare feet and a cantaloupe-meat-colored nightshift to the shore of the sea of mist, theverge of the ocean of smothering vapor, the edge of the bewilderinghaze he called the Brim of Obscurity. Though they spend all their daytime together, at night he chose to sleepalone in a lumpy, Volkswagen-shaped bed at the southernmost boundary ofthe absolutely lovely forest in which their home had been constructed.There are the border between the verdant woods and the Brim of Obscurity that stretched on forever, a sea of fog that roiled andswirled itself into small, murmuring vortexes from which depths onecould occasionally hear something like a human voice pleading forabsolution (or at least a backscratcher to relieve this awful itch!),he had made his bed and there, with the night-light from his oldnursery, and his old vacuum-tube radio that played nothing but big-banddance music from the 1920s, and a few favorite books, and a littlefresh fruit he had picked on his way from the house to his resting-place,he slept peacefully every night. Except for the nightmares, of course. And as she had done every night for the eight years since they had met,she went barefooted and charmed, down to the edge of the sea of fogto kiss him goodnight. That was their rite. Before he had even proposed marriage, he explained to her the natureof the problem. Well, the curse, really. Not so much a problem;because a problem was easy to reconcile; just trim a little nub off here;just smooth that plane over there; just let this big dangle here and itwill all meet in the center; no, it wasn't barely remotely something thatcould be called "problem." It was a curse, and he was open about itfrom the first. "My nightmares come to life," he had said. Which remark thereupon initiated quite a long and detailed conversationbetween them. It went through all the usual stages of good-naturedchiding, disbelief, ridicule, short-lived anger at the possibility hewas making fun of her, toying with her, on into another kind ofdisbelief, argument with recourse to logic and Occam's Razor, grudging acceptance, a brief lapse into incredulity, a return to thebarest belief, and finally, with trust, acceptance that he was telling hernothing less than the truth. Remarkably (to say the least) his nightmaresassumed corporeal shape and stalked the night as he slept,dreaming them up. It wouldn't have been so bad except: "My nightmares killed and ate my first four wives," he had said. He'dsaved that part for last. But she married him, nonetheless. And they were extremely happy.It was a terrific liaison for both of them. But just to be on the safeside, because he loved her very much, he took to sleeping in the lumpyVolkswagen bed at the edge of the forest. And every morning--because he was compelled to rise when the sunlightstruck his face, out there in the open--he would trek back to theirfine home in the middle of the forest, and he would make her morning tea,and heat and butter a muffin, or possibly pour her a bowl of banana nutcrunch cereal (or sometimes a nice bowl of oatmeal with cinnamon or brownsugar sprinkled across the surface), and carry it in to her as she sat upin bed reading or watching the Home Shopping Channel. And for eight years she had been absolutely safe from the nightmares thatripped and rent and savaged everything in sight. He slept at the Brim of Obscurity, and he was a danger to no one buthimself. And whatever means he used to protect himself fromthose darktime sojourners, well, it was an armory kept most secret. That was how they lived, for eight years. And every night she would gobarefoot, in her shift, and she would follow the twenty-seven plugged-together extension cords--each one thirty feet long--that led from he house to his night-light; and she would come to him andkiss him goodnight. And they would tell each other how happy they weretogether, how much every moment together meant to them, andthey would kiss goodnight once more, and she would go back to thehouse. He would lie reading for a time, then go to sleep. And in thenight, there at the short of fog, at the edge of the awful sea of mist, thenightmares would come and scream and tear at themselves. But they never got anywhere near Susan, who was safely in her home. So as she had done every night since they had met, she followed the extension cords down through the sweet-smelling wind-cooled hedgesand among the whispering, mighty trees to his bed. The light was on,an apple ready to be nibbled sat atop a stack of books awaiting hisattention; the intaglio of a tesseract (or possibly a dove on the wing)lay in the center of a perfectly circular depression in his pillow wherehe had rested his head. But the bed was empty. She went looking for him, and after a time she found him sitting onthe shore of fog, looking out over the Brim of Obscurity. But she heardhim crying long before she saw him. The sound of his deep, heartfeltsobbing led her to him. And she knelt beside him, and he puts his arms around her, and shesaid "I see now that I've made you unhappy. I don't know how, but Ican see that I've come into your life and made it unpleasant. I'm sorry,I'm truly sorry." But he shook his head, and continued to shake it, to say no...no, thatisn't it...you don't understand. "I'm so sorry..." she kept saying, because she didn't understand whatit meant, his shaking his head like that. Until, finally, he was able to stop crying long enough to say, "No, thatisn't it. You don't understand." "Then what are you crying about?" He wasn't able to tell her for a while, because just trying to get thewords out started him up all over again. But after a while, still holdingher, there at the Brim of Obscurity (which, in an earlier time, had beenknown as the Rim of Oblivion), he said softly, "I'm crying for the lossof all the years I spent without you, the years before I met you, all thelost years of my life; and I'm crying that there are less years in front ofme than all those lost years behind me." And out in the roiling ocean of misty darkness, they could both hearthe sound of roving, demented nightmares whose voices were now, they understood, less filled with rage than with despair.
  Brought to you by

www.harlanellison.com
SUSAN
by HARLAN ELLISON
"Susan" copyright 1993 by the KilimanjaroCorporation.

Susan

As she had done every night since they met, she went in bare feet and a cantaloupe-meat-colored nightshift to the shore of the sea of mist, theverge of the ocean of smothering vapor, the edge of the bewilderinghaze he called the Brim of Obscurity. Though they spend all their daytime together, at night he chose to sleepalone in a lumpy, Volkswagen-shaped bed at the southernmost boundary ofthe absolutely lovely forest in which their home had been constructed.There are the border between the verdant woods and the Brim of Obscurity that stretched on forever, a sea of fog that roiled andswirled itself into small, murmuring vortexes from which depths onecould occasionally hear something like a human voice pleading forabsolution (or at least a backscratcher to relieve this awful itch!),he had made his bed and there, with the night-light from his oldnursery, and his old vacuum-tube radio that played nothing but big-banddance music from the 1920s, and a few favorite books, and a littlefresh fruit he had picked on his way from the house to his resting-place,he slept peacefully every night. Except for the nightmares, of course. And as she had done every night for the eight years since they had met,she went barefooted and charmed, down to the edge of the sea of fogto kiss him goodnight. That was their rite. Before he had even proposed marriage, he explained to her the natureof the problem. Well, the curse, really. Not so much a problem;because a problem was easy to reconcile; just trim a little nub off here;just smooth that plane over there; just let this big dangle here and itwill all meet in the center; no, it wasn't barely remotely something thatcould be called "problem." It was a curse, and he was open about itfrom the first. "My nightmares come to life," he had said. Which remark thereupon initiated quite a long and detailed conversationbetween them. It went through all the usual stages of good-naturedchiding, disbelief, ridicule, short-lived anger at the possibility hewas making fun of her, toying with her, on into another kind ofdisbelief, argument with recourse to logic and Occam's Razor, grudging acceptance, a brief lapse into incredulity, a return to thebarest belief, and finally, with trust, acceptance that he was telling hernothing less than the truth. Remarkably (to say the least) his nightmaresassumed corporeal shape and stalked the night as he slept,dreaming them up. It wouldn't have been so bad except: "My nightmares killed and ate my first four wives," he had said. He'dsaved that part for last. But she married him, nonetheless. And they were extremely happy.It was a terrific liaison for both of them. But just to be on the safeside, because he loved her very much, he took to sleeping in the lumpyVolkswagen bed at the edge of the forest. And every morning--because he was compelled to rise when the sunlightstruck his face, out there in the open--he would trek back to theirfine home in the middle of the forest, and he would make her morning tea,and heat and butter a muffin, or possibly pour her a bowl of banana nutcrunch cereal (or sometimes a nice bowl of oatmeal with cinnamon or brownsugar sprinkled across the surface), and carry it in to her as she sat upin bed reading or watching the Home Shopping Channel. And for eight years she had been absolutely safe from the nightmares thatripped and rent and savaged everything in sight. He slept at the Brim of Obscurity, and he was a danger to no one buthimself. And whatever means he used to protect himself fromthose darktime sojourners, well, it was an armory kept most secret. That was how they lived, for eight years. And every night she would gobarefoot, in her shift, and she would follow the twenty-seven plugged-together extension cords--each one thirty feet long--that led from he house to his night-light; and she would come to him andkiss him goodnight. And they would tell each other how happy they weretogether, how much every moment together meant to them, andthey would kiss goodnight once more, and she would go back to thehouse. He would lie reading for a time, then go to sleep. And in thenight, there at the short of fog, at the edge of the awful sea of mist, thenightmares would come and scream and tear at themselves. But they never got anywhere near Susan, who was safely in her home. So as she had done every night since they had met, she followed the extension cords down through the sweet-smelling wind-cooled hedgesand among the whispering, mighty trees to his bed. The light was on,an apple ready to be nibbled sat atop a stack of books awaiting hisattention; the intaglio of a tesseract (or possibly a dove on the wing)lay in the center of a perfectly circular depression in his pillow wherehe had rested his head. But the bed was empty. She went looking for him, and after a time she found him sitting onthe shore of fog, looking out over the Brim of Obscurity. But she heardhim crying long before she saw him. The sound of his deep, heartfeltsobbing led her to him. And she knelt beside him, and he puts his arms around her, and shesaid "I see now that I've made you unhappy. I don't know how, but Ican see that I've come into your life and made it unpleasant. I'm sorry,I'm truly sorry." But he shook his head, and continued to shake it, to say no...no, thatisn't it...you don't understand. "I'm so sorry..." she kept saying, because she didn't understand whatit meant, his shaking his head like that. Until, finally, he was able to stop crying long enough to say, "No, thatisn't it. You don't understand." "Then what are you crying about?" He wasn't able to tell her for a while, because just trying to get thewords out started him up all over again. But after a while, still holdingher, there at the Brim of Obscurity (which, in an earlier time, had beenknown as the Rim of Oblivion), he said softly, "I'm crying for the lossof all the years I spent without you, the years before I met you, all thelost years of my life; and I'm crying that there are less years in front ofme than all those lost years behind me." And out in the roiling ocean of misty darkness, they could both hearthe sound of roving, demented nightmares whose voices were now, they understood, less filled with rage than with despair.
  Brought to you by
www.harlanellison.com