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  I stood up and approached, shivering, because majesty and eternity rolled from the August Emperor of Jade.

  "Speak your case,’’ he said. "You and your wife have laid hell half to waste. In fact, there has not been such an uproar here since the Monkey Trickster got into hell. This disorder cannot be allowed to continue. And therefore I agreed to listen to you.’’

  Yen spoke. "Heng has been robbed of most of his life,’’ she said. "He was killed at nineteen, when the scroll of his life said he should have lived to ninety and sired many sons.’’

  "You have this scroll?’’ the Jade Emperor asked, leaning forward.

  She bowed and proffered it. He read it, then looked up. "And you, Mistress of the Salt River, how came you to be here with him? How came you to be married to him?’’

  She looked embarrassed. "My people sold my bones to his parents, that they might perform a wedding with his corpse and thus—’’

  "How came you to have people, when you’d been dead that long?’’

  "I was buried with my jade girdle,’’ she said. "And all my effects. On the bank of the river. After centuries some robbers found my bones. It was not hard to talk in their minds and strike a deal with them. In exchange for my keeping my girdle, they could have all my cups and vessels and my earthenware boat. And they could sell my bones to someone who needed a bride for their son in the afterworld.’’

  The Jade Emperor frowned. He turned to a functionary standing at his elbow and whispered something. The whisper was repeated, from one end of the salon to the other, till it came to the end of the room.

  For a moment everything was quiet. Then the golden gong sounded again and someone announced, "Qi Lin answers the Emperor’s summons.’’

  Into the room came a unicorn—a creature that I’d only seen in paintings. He had the body of a deer, the hooves of a horse, and a single, perfect, spiraling horn on his forehead. His body was a scintillating ivory.

  "Lord Qi Lin knows the truths that are hidden, and he accuses the guilty and punishes the innocent,’’ the Jade Emperor said. He proceeded to give a summary of my situation, and to ask the unicorn, "Who waylaid Heng in the dark night?’’

  The unicorn looked up and managed to look amused, though his features were not at all like a human face. "Two malefactors whose names are well and truly forgotten and so should be. They died years ago, and they are being punished in the Pool of Filth, in the Second Feng Du court, under Lord Qu Jiang Wang. They also stole the money to pay for Heng’s tomb, thereby leading to Heng’s being here, on an underworld court procedure brought by the seller of the land, who is seeking an eviction.’’

  The Jade Emperor was quiet a moment. His hand caressed his ineffably brilliant face. "But who ordered those crimes?’’ he asked. "Who suggested it?’’

  "The Goddess of the Salt River spoke in their feeble minds,’’ the unicorn said.

  "Ah!’’ the Jade Emperor said, turning to my wife. "Defend yourself if you can!’’

  "Indeed, I cannot, save to say that I was once more powerful than you,’’ she said. "I once ruled the earth and could stop the sun rising in the sky. When humans were nomadic and there was no idea of planting and no knowledge of the seasons, I ruled them and their heaven and hell. But then came the Lord of the Granary, with his fields and domesticated animals, and he tricked me into accepting his girdle, and thus he killed me.

  ’’I was a goddess, and as you see, the span of my life should have been forever. And I offered to share my domain with him, but he killed me by stealth.’’ She produced another scroll from somewhere. “As you see, my scroll did not list a death date.’’ She showed him the scroll and he took it and read it.

  His sublime fingers drummed on the arm of his venerable chair. “I see only one way to resolve this,’’ he said. “He lost the life he should have had and he must be compensated. She lost her life and she must also be compensated—but she must be punished also. We will give him immortality to compensate for his mortal life. We will give her immortality also, but to punish her she must continue to be married to this boy who was once a mortal.’’

  Thus spake the Most Venerable Jade Emperor of the Heavenly Golden Palace, the Supremely High Emperor of the Heavens, the Holder of Talismans, Container of Perfection and Embodiment of Dao, The Most Venerable and Highest Jade Emperor of All Embracing, Sublime Spontaneous Existence of the Heavenly Golden Palace.

  A thousand years later, I’m not sure Yen considers me such a punishment.

  With her knowledge and my academic talent we live very well indeed, on a palace at the edge of her river, surrounded by peacocks, attended by servants and amid gardens of surpassing delightfulness.

  Truly, though she might have stolen my other life from me, I cannot grudge it. The happiness my wife has given me far surpasses what I could have attained in a long life in my village.

  The only restriction she puts on my happiness is not permitting me to keep concubines. But when we enact the fifty known positions of pleasure and the thirty-two refinements of joy, I am sure no other women, no matter how many, could surpass the exalted acrobatics or the tender affection of my wife Yen, Goddess of the Salt River.

  THE POET GNAWREATE AND THE TAXMAN

  Dave Freer

  He was short, balding, and cadaverous. The latter was a lot more typical of my usual clientele than the short and balding part. Mind you, as I always say, it takes all sorts to make an underworld. Vampires with bad breath, werewolves with mange, overweight sylphs crying into their Bloody Marys—I get them all. For some reason they come and tell me their troubles. Being the late-day barman at the Open Crypt Bar and Grill has its downsides, but the tips are good.

  I’d never had quite such a cheery customer, nor one with a seersucker jacket in a loud check, neatly pressed trousers and argyle socks before. Nor one with two such large demons as bodyguards.

  “You look to be very good spirits today, sir,’’ I said, polishing glasses as he helped himself to peanuts from the bar.

  “Oh, I am,’’ he said, smiling jauntily, revealing a gap where he should have had a front tooth. “It’s another lovely day. Mind you, I haven’t always been happy about being undead.’’

  I nodded. “I always thought there might be some advantages to being dead. Takes a bit of getting used to, though, sir.’’

  He tasted his martini. Smiled again. The missing tooth was very distracting. “When I was alive people always told me I’d be better off dead.’’

  “In one sense they’re completely wrong,’’ I said grumpily. “Being dead has been a financial disaster zone for me, except from a taxation point of view.’’

  He sniggered, as if enjoying some private joke. “They said nothing was sure except death and taxes.’’

  “Well, looking at us, they were wrong about that, too. Another drink, sir?’’

  He looked at his pocket watch. “So hard to keep track of time these days. Yes, I’ll have another. After all, I’ve got time to kill now,’’ he said, showing that despite having lost a tooth, he still had good solid long canines. We both laughed, and I wondered if he was a vampire. Mostly they’re more aware of appearances, though.

  I poured. It was a slow morning. No one else was in the place except for an old hobo zombie quietly falling apart into his beer at the far booth. They came in to keep cold, and they could nurse a beer for a full hour. I mean, I understand. There but for the job go I. I just wish they wouldn’t shed so much. My martini-swigging customer’s two demons were drinking vodka to keep their spirits up, but they hardly counted. It was just the two of us, chatting. “One of the problems,’’ I said, “about being undead is that your sense of time goes to hell in a handbasket.’’

  He chuckled. “You’ve got to keep up with progress, barman. These days I believe it goes FedEx. Faster, cheaper and more reliable. They deliver or arrange delivery anywhere.’’

  “Ah. Well, I daresay. Hell has always been avantgarde, if you take my meaning, sir. When I joined the ranks of the
undead we only had the Pony Express.’’

  “Mine began further back still. But I try to keep up. Fascinating developments in my old field.’’

  “And what was that, sir?’’ I asked out of politeness. He was going to tell me anyway. They always did. You’d be surprised how many were in real estate.

  “I was a tax collector,’’ he said, suddenly looking like a predatory bird.

  “Oh.’’ Once I might have shied away. But the undead don’t feel quite the same way about things that trouble the living. “Don’t see a lot of your kind in here.’’

  He shook his head. “Mostly they go straight to hell. It’s being damned that often. But I got unlucky.’’

  “Unlucky?’’

  “Yes.’’ He nodded thoughtfully. “You know, certain professions should be exempt from taxation. They contribute so much to the whole of society that it is unnecessary to tax them. Or at least damned stupid to do so. Writers, dentists (when you need one, no one is more valuable), and . . . er, witches.’’

  “And bartenders. No one appreciates how much fine psychological counseling we do. Still, I’ll agree. You don’t want to interfere with witches. Or writers. I write a bit myself under a pen name, sir,’’ I said tentatively. One never knew when someone might become a new reader.

  “True. Bartenders are undervalued. When your glass is full, that is,’’ he said, meaningfully.

  I refilled his glass. “On the house, sir. I had a brush with a witch myself once.’’

  “Thank you. Yes, you’d think people would be more careful, but we never were. So what do you write?’’

  “Fantasy, sir. Bit of horror every now and then. They say that you should write what you know,’’ I said, and licked my canines.

  “For art, catharsis, or money?’’ he asked, steepling his fingers.

  “Money,’’ I admitted. “Not that there is much in the short fiction market nowadays. But it’s an unliving, when I add it to my pay here. It’s not like I have to keep body and soul together like those poor mortals trying to do it. And there’s a certain satisfaction in seeing your pseudonym in print.’’

  He nodded. “Money is at least an honest reason for trying to sell it. Your problem really lies in the marketing. You can get rich from writing, if you have some really innovative marketing.’’

  I didn’t want to talk about innovative marketing, since the boss nearly fired me for selling copies of my self-published collection to late morning drunks. It was going so well, too, until one of them was sick on my magnum opus and I got a little . . . upset with him. Do you know how hard it is to dispose of undead body parts? They keep trying to wriggle back together, fingers digging their way out of wet concrete, legs hopping out of the seething acid. “So you tried to tax a witch, did you, sir?’’

  He shook his head. “Worse. Taxing witches is just . . . well, look at me. It was something I would never have considered doing. However, I was misled. You see, Miss Maggie Inplank was not just a witch. She was a witch, a dentist, and a writer of sorts. A poet.’’

  “Very touchy, those,’’ I said sympathetically. “Like to feel their work is being taken seriously. And it just doesn’t sell.’’

  “Hers sold very well. She had her marketing perfected,’’ he said sourly.

  I had to admit I was interested. I still had 982 copies of my book cluttering up my coffin. Anything that could sell poetry . . . “And how did that work, sir?’’

  “Very well. She always sold at least one copy, and at times up to a dozen of them, to everyone she quoted her book to.’’

  Enlightenment dawned. “They paid her to stop? I’m surprised you were the only one cursed undead. Poets don’t appreciate that attitude.’’

  He shook his head. “No, she did far worse to me than being merely cursed to spend all eternity on earth. Being undead was a sort of side effect of what happened to me. They were all very polite, really. Even me . . . at the time. In a manner of speaking. I did say she had three professions, didn’t I? She used that fact. She had one of those modern dentist’s chairs. With restraints. Modern back then, I mean. Nowadays they don’t use them much, but back then it was the most essential mod-con any dental practitioner could own.’’ He took a long pull of his drink. Touched the gap in his teeth. “No one went until the pain was close to unlivable. Anesthetic was half a bottle of gin.’’

  I reflected that he was well on the way to being anesthetized now. But it was a neat trick if you could get customers with money as a captive audience, and half drunk to boot. “Well, some poetry—and I wouldn’t want to say this in public—is not too bad, you know. I’ve got some Yeats. . . .’’

  He shuddered. “Aches. I had those, too. Believe me, her epic iambic octometric dithyrambs were enough to cause them, even if the tooth hadn’t kept me awake for a week. Her sales pitch went something like this. First she tightened the straps on my wrists and ankles. Then she said 'Open wide.’ She said it with this mighty big pair of long handled pincers in her right hand, so I was fairly nervous about complying . . . and as soon as I did it, I realized the pincers were a feint. I was so busy watching them that I hadn’t been aware that in her other hand she had a handful of rags. She shoved them between my jaws so I couldn’t bite. 'And now to soothe you,’ she said, 'a quick recital of my latest ode. You’ll enjoy it. It has great literary merit, not like that tosh written merely to entertain.’ I tried to protest. 'Uunghh!! Mo oofff,’ I said. 'How kind of you!’ she said. 'It’s not everyone who is in a position to get a personal recital from me, you know.’ I certainly did know. What I didn’t know, she soon told me. 'It’s been very well received. And not just because my brother Henry is the local magistrate. Hanging Henry they call him. Mind you,’ she cackled, waving the pincers in my face, 'He’s never had to hang anyone twice for not honoring their signed contracts,’ she said, exchanging the pincers for a book order form. Then she took up a slim puce calfskin-covered volume and began to read to me.’’ The former taxman shuddered, and took a long pull at his drink.

  “Ah.’’ I said. “Puce calfskin, eh. Covers make a lot of difference.’’

  “A padlock would have been a good addition to that one. Anyway, after some twenty generations . . . well, minutes, she paused, closed the book reluctantly, and said: 'Inspiring, isn’t it? I’m glad you agree. Now, I can have this rotten tooth out fairly painlessly in a moment . . . I hope. I’m sure you’d like to order a copy of my book first, though. It always steadies my hand, knowing that I’ve made another fan. Of course, a copy for your mother . . . and they make great presents for your extended circle of friends and relations. There is a slight discount for orders of over twenty copies. Let me hold the order form for you. I’ll put the quill in your hand. How many would you like?’ she asked me.’’

  The taxman shook his head sadly. “Does 'Uonnnne! ’ sound like 'a dozen’ to you? Well, it did to her. And true enough, she had the tooth out in two shakes of an ant’s whisker. I hardly felt it happen. Just the sudden relief.’’

  “An aching wallet is a great distraction,’’ I sympathized.

  “Yes. But she really was good at it. A compensation for the poetry, I thought. I should have suspected magic. But once the pain stopped . . . I started wondering.’’

  “About poetry?’’

  “Something that is poetry to me, anyway. It seemed this was a major stream of taxable income. I was foolish enough to say so when she let me out of the chair.

  He sighed. “She screamed at me. 'What? You want me to PAY YOU!’ It was a sweet moment. And then she waved the discolored and rotten tooth in my face. 'What do you think this is?’ People often seem to take taxation so hard.”

  “Unreasonable of them,’’ I said. “They seem to want something back for it, too.’’

  “A ridiculous idea. But I must admit that as I thought her merely a writer and a dentist, and I had no need of a dentist right then . . . I was a little flippant. 'A considerable relief,’ I said to her. 'I paid you for that. You insisted on mone
y upfront . . . but it appears to me that you are, according to my records, not paying any taxes on your second stream of income. There will have to be fines and penalties levied. . . .’ ” He sighed again. “I should have noticed the danger signs. The thunder before the lightning. But I didn’t. I was thinking of those twelve copies of Selected Poems by Maggie Inplank that I had just bought.’’

  “Well, most of us have twelve relations we don’t like. . . .’’

  He wasn’t listening to me. He just continued his tale. “She was incandescent, and I must admit I was enjoying it. 'Relief!’ she said. 'Don’t you think works of literary merit are worthy of tax relief? It’s my duty to educate and uplift readers with my art. You are looking for trouble.’ With my tooth in one hand and her little puce book in the other . . . the Poet Gnawreate hung over me like a dark cloud. But in my line of work you get rather used to threats. They come just before pleading. I probably shouldn’t have made my little jest then. But people always found me so droll. They always used to laugh at my little jokes. 'Well, perhaps for something of merit. But not your potty poetry. And there is a special clause about uplifting for profit . . . a haha . . .’

  “Well! In an instant, her hair stood out straight. Her bun swirled up into a great fan, all by itself. I nearly died right there, and saved myself a great deal of trouble, because one hairpin plunged a full two inches into the oak of the chair and pinned me there by the ear. Her face went very white. She raised her arms and a dark nimbus formed around her. I stopped thinking it was a joke right then . . . and realized just how right she was about trouble . . . but it was too late to tell her. She held my tooth and her book aloft.’’

  “For bitter and for verse,

  I damn you with my curse,

  In sooth, in truth I bind you with this tooth,

  The hole, your soul my toll, until I see it whole.’’