Winner of the Hugo and Nebula Awards for “Two Hearts”
Winner of the Washington Science Fiction Small Press Award for “El Regalo”
Nominee for the Mythopoeic Award
The beloved author of The Last Unicorn returns with the signature elegance and originality that has earned him comparisons to J. R. R. Tolkien, Fritz Leiber, and Kurt Vonnegut. Readers seeking magic, wonder, and mystery need look no further. In these resonant new stories, some appearing for the first time, you will find bold adventure, sly humor, and resounding depth.
In the thrilling and beautiful “Two Hearts,” return to the extraordinary world of The Last Unicorn . Observe the World’s Most Annoying Eight-Year-Old bend time, fate, and household chores to his sorcerous will. Learn how Soukyan met the Fox, and why a stolen dream might be more dangerous than an unstoppable assassin. Discover the price of a merman’s treasure, match wits with the man who saw right through Sherlock Holmes, and redefine feline style with Gordon, the self-made cat.
The Line Between is a captivating blend of traditional and contemporary fantasy, crafted by the field’s most remarkable imagination. It is a collection you will return to again and again and treasure forever.
|Product dimensions:||5.52(w) x 8.46(h) x 0.72(d)|
|Age Range:||14 - 18 Years|
About the Author
Peter S. Beagle is the best-selling author of The Last Unicorn , which has sold a reported five million copies since its initial publication in 1968. His other novels include A Fine & Private Place , The Innkeeper’s Song , and Tamsin . His short fiction has been collected in four volumes by Tachyon Publications, including The Rhinoceros Who Quoted Nietzsche , The Line Between , We Never Talk About My Brother , and Sleight of Hand . He has won the Hugo, Nebula, Mythopoeic, and Grand Prix de l’Imaginaire awards as well as the World Fantasy Award for Lifetime Achievement.
Read an Excerpt
The Line Between
By Peter S. Beagle
TACHYON PUBLICATIONSCopyright © 2006 Peter S. Beagle
All right reserved.
Chapter OneTwo Hearts
Winner of the 2006 Hugo and Nebula Awards for Best Novelette
Friends, family, and fans have all asked me, over the years, to write a sequel to The Last Unicorn. To each in turn I have responded with some variant of the following: "It can't be done. The Last Unicorn is a one-shot, meant from the beginning as a kind of spoof/ tribute to the classic European fairytale, an homage to such beloved influences of mine as James Stephens, Lord Dunsany, T. H. White and James Thurber. Writing it was a nightmarish, seemingly endless labor, and when it was done I vowed never to attempt such a balancing act again. So thank you for asking, but no." It wasn't a hard vow to keep: there were other books I wanted to write, and I have always had a real horror of repeating myself. Besides, like everyone else (and quite against my own personal wishes), I grew older. The Last Unicorn is a young man's work, and I am not quite him anymore in so many different ways. Yet here I am, writing an introduction for a sequel to The Last Unicorn. I blame Connor Cochran entirely for the existence of "Two Hearts." He proposed it as a bonus gift for the first 3,000 buyers of the audiobook of TheLast Unicorn, and wheedled me into going along by assuring me that I needn't bring back a single one of the original cast - only the world of the novel, nothing more. So, of course, I presented him with four of the major characters, and references to a couple of others, and had an astonishingly fine time doing it. The trouble now, of course, is that I can't abandon Sooz, my young narrator. I'm going to have to bring her back and see where she wants to go ... which will be, as I already know, into the real full-novel sequel to The Last Unicorn. Which I never wanted to write. Boge moy, as my Russian uncles used to say. Heaven help me....
My brother Wilfrid keeps saying it's not fair that it should all have happened to me. Me being a girl, and a baby, and too stupid to lace up my own sandals properly. But I think it's fair. I think everything happened exactly the way it should have done. Except for the sad parts, and maybe those too.
I'm Sooz, and I am nine years old. Ten next month, on the anniversary of the day the griffin came. Wilfrid says it was because of me, that the griffin heard that the ugliest baby in the world had just been born, and it was going to eat me, but I was too ugly, even for a griffin. So it nested in the Midwood (we call it that, but its real name is the Midnight Wood, because of the darkness under the trees), and stayed to eat our sheep and our goats. Griffins do that if they like a place.
But it didn't ever eat children, not until this year.
I only saw it once - I mean, once before - rising up above the trees one night, like a second moon. Only there wasn't a moon, then. There was nothing in the whole world but the griffin, golden feathers all blazing on its lion's body and eagle's wings, with its great front claws like teeth, and that monstrous beak that looked so huge for its head.... Wilfrid says I screamed for three days, but he's lying, and I didn't hide in the root cellar like he says either, I slept in the barn those two nights, with our dog Malka. Because I knew Malka wouldn't let anything get me.
I mean my parents wouldn't have, either, not if they could have stopped it. It's just that Malka is the biggest, fiercest dog in the whole village, and she's not afraid of anything. And after the griffin took Jehane, the blacksmith's little girl, you couldn't help seeing how frightened my father was, running back and forth with the other men, trying to organize some sort of patrol, so people could always tell when the griffin was coming. I know he was frightened for me and my mother, and doing everything he could to protect us, but it didn't make me feel any safer, and Malka did.
But nobody knew what to do, anyway. Not my father, nobody. It was bad enough when the griffin was only taking the sheep, because almost everyone here sells wool or cheese or sheepskin things to make a living. But once it took Jehane, early last spring, that changed everything. We sent messengers to the king - three of them - and each time the king sent someone back to us with them. The first time, it was one knight, all by himself. His name was Douros, and he gave me an apple. He rode away into the Midwood, singing, to look for the griffin, and we never saw him again.
The second time - after the griffin took Louli, the boy who worked for the miller - the king sent five knights together. One of them did come back, but he died before he could tell anyone what happened.
The third time an entire squadron came. That's what my father said, anyway. I don't know how many soldiers there are in a squadron, but it was a lot, and they were all over the village for two days, pitching their tents everywhere, stabling their horses in every barn, and boasting in the tavern how they'd soon take care of that griffin for us poor peasants. They had musicians playing when they marched into the Midwood - I remember that, and I remember when the music stopped, and the sounds we heard afterward.
After that, the village didn't send to the king anymore. We didn't want more of his men to die, and besides they weren't any help. So from then on all the children were hurried indoors when the sun went down, and the griffin woke from its day's rest to hunt again. We couldn't play together, or run errands or watch the flocks for our parents, or even sleep near open windows, for fear of the griffin. There was nothing for me to do but read books I already knew by heart, and complain to my mother and father, who were too tired from watching after Wilfrid and me to bother with us. They were guarding the other children too, turn and turn about with the other families - and our sheep, and our goats - so they were always tired, as well as frightened, and we were all angry with each other most of the time. It was the same for everybody.
And then the griffin took Felicitas.
Felicitas couldn't talk, but she was my best friend, always, since we were little. I always understood what she wanted to say, and she understood me, better than anyone, and we played in a special way that I won't ever play with anyone else. Her family thought she was a waste of food, because no boy would marry a dumb girl, so they let her eat with us most of the time. Wilfrid used to make fun of the whispery quack that was the one sound she could make, but I hit him with a rock, and after that he didn't do it anymore.
I didn't see it happen, but I still see it in my head. She knew not to go out, but she was always just so happy coming to us in the evening. And nobody at her house would have noticed her being gone. None of them ever noticed Felicitas.
The day I learned Felicitas was gone, that was the day I set off to see the king myself.
Well, the same night, actually - because there wasn't any chance of getting away from my house or the village in daylight. I don't know what I'd have done, really, except that my Uncle Ambrose was carting a load of sheepskins to market in Hagsgate, and you have to start long before sunup to be there by the time the market opens. Uncle Ambrose is my best uncle, but I knew I couldn't ask him to take me to the king - he'd have gone straight to my mother instead, and told her to give me sulphur and molasses and put me to bed with a mustard plaster. He gives his horse sulphur and molasses, even.
So I went to bed early that night, and I waited until everyone was asleep. I wanted to leave a note on my pillow, but I kept writing things and then tearing the notes up and throwing them in the fireplace, and I was afraid of somebody waking, or Uncle Ambrose leaving without me. Finally I just wrote, I will come home soon. I didn't take any clothes with me, or anything else, except a bit of cheese, because I thought the king must live somewhere near Hagsgate, which is the only big town I've ever seen. My mother and father were snoring in their room, but Wilfrid had fallen asleep right in front of the hearth, and they always leave him there when he does. If you rouse him to go to his own bed, he comes up fighting and crying. I don't know why.
I stood and looked down at him for the longest time. Wilfrid doesn't look nearly so mean when he's sleeping. My mother had banked the coals to make sure there'd be a fire for tomorrow's bread, and my father's moleskin trews were hanging there to dry, because he'd had to wade into the stockpond that afternoon to rescue a lamb. I moved them a little bit, so they wouldn't burn. I wound the clock - Wilfrid's supposed to do that every night, but he always forgets - and I thought how they'd all be hearing it ticking in the morning while they were looking everywhere for me, too frightened to eat any breakfast, and I turned to go back to my room.
But then I turned around again, and I climbed out of the kitchen window, because our front door squeaks so. I was afraid that Malka might wake in the barn and right away know I was up to something, because I can't ever fool Malka, only she didn't, and then I held my breath almost the whole way as I ran to Uncle Ambrose's house and scrambled right into his cart with the sheepskins. It was a cold night, but under that pile of sheepskins it was hot and nasty-smelling, and there wasn't anything to do but lie still and wait for Uncle Ambrose. So I mostly thought about Felicitas, to keep from feeling so bad about leaving home and everyone. That was bad enough - I never really lost anybody close before, not forever - but anyway it was different.
I don't know when Uncle Ambrose finally came, because I dozed off in the cart, and didn't wake until there was this jolt and a rattle and the sort of floppy grumble a horse makes when he's been waked up and doesn't like it - and we were off for Hagsgate. The half-moon was setting early, but I could see the village bumping by, not looking silvery in the light, but small and dull, no color to anything. And all the same I almost began to cry, because it already seemed so far away, though we hadn't even passed the stockpond yet, and I felt as though I'd never see it again. I would have climbed back out of the cart right then, if I hadn't known better.
Because the griffin was still up and hunting. I couldn't see it, of course, under the sheepskins (and I had my eyes shut, anyway), but its wings made a sound like a lot of knives being sharpened all together, and sometimes it gave a cry that was dreadful because it was so soft and gentle, and even a little sad and scared, as though it were imitating the sound Felicitas might have made when it took her. I burrowed deep down as I could, and tried to sleep again, but I couldn't.
Which was just as well, because I didn't want to ride all the way into Hagsgate, where Uncle Ambrose was bound to find me when he unloaded his sheepskins in the marketplace. So when I didn't hear the griffin anymore (they won't hunt far from their nests, if they don't have to), I put my head out over the tailboard of the cart and watched the stars going out, one by one, as the sky grew lighter. The dawn breeze came up as the moon went down.
When the cart stopped jouncing and shaking so much, I knew we must have turned onto the King's Highway, and when I could hear cows munching and talking softly to each other, I dropped into the road. I stood there for a little, brushing off lint and wool bits, and watching Uncle Ambrose's cart rolling on away from me. I hadn't ever been this far from home by myself. Or so lonely. The breeze brushed dry grass against my ankles, and I didn't have any idea which way to go.
I didn't even know the king's name - I'd never heard anyone call him anything but the king. I knew he didn't live in Hagsgate, but in a big castle somewhere nearby, only nearby's one thing when you're riding in a cart and different when you're walking. And I kept thinking about my family waking up and looking for me, and the cows' grazing sounds made me hungry, and I'd eaten all my cheese in the cart. I wished I had a penny with me - not to buy anything with, but only to toss up and let it tell me if I should turn left or right. I tried it with flat stones, but I never could find them after they came down. Finally I started off going left, not for any reason, but only because I have a little silver ring on my left hand that my mother gave me. There was a sort of path that way too, and I thought maybe I could walk around Hagsgate and then I'd think about what to do after that. I'm a good walker. I can walk anywhere, if you give me time.
Only it's easier on a real road. The path gave out after awhile, and I had to push my way through trees growing too close together, and then through so many brambly vines that my hair was full of stickers and my arms were all stinging and bleeding. I was tired and sweating, and almost crying - almost - and whenever I sat down to rest bugs and things kept crawling over me. Then I heard running water nearby, and that made me thirsty right away, so I tried to get down to the sound. I had to crawl most of the way, scratching my knees and elbows up something awful.
It wasn't much of a stream - in some places the water came up barely above my ankles - but I was so glad to see it I practically hugged and kissed it, flopping down with my face buried in it, the way I do with Malka's smelly old fur. And I drank until I couldn't hold any more, and then I sat on a stone and let the tiny fish tickle my nice cold feet, and felt the sun on my shoulders, and I didn't think about griffins or kings or my family or anything.
I only looked up when I heard the horses whickering a little way upstream. They were playing with the water, the way horses do, blowing bubbles like children. Plain old livery-stable horses, one brownish, one grayish. The gray's rider was out of the saddle, peering at the horse's left forefoot. I couldn't get a good look - they both had on plain cloaks, dark green, and trews so worn you couldn't make out the color - so I didn't know that one was a woman until I heard her voice. A nice voice, low, like Silky Joan, the lady my mother won't ever let me ask about, but with something rough in it too, as though she could scream like a hawk if she wanted to. She was saying, "There's no stone I can see. Maybe a thorn?"
The other rider, the one on the brown horse, answered her, "Or a bruise. Let me see."
That voice was lighter and younger-sounding than the woman's voice, but I already knew he was a man, because he was so tall. He got down off the brown horse and the woman moved aside to let him pick up her horse's foot. Before he did that, he put his hands on the horse's head, one on each side, and he said something to it that I couldn't quite hear. And the horse said something back. Not like a neigh, or a whinny, or any of the sounds horses make, but like one person talking to another. I can't say it any better than that. The tall man bent down then, and he took hold of the foot and looked at it for a long time, and the horse didn't move or switch its tail or anything.
"A stone splinter," the man said after a while. "It's very small, but it's worked itself deep into the hoof, and there's an ulcer brewing. I can't think why I didn't notice it straightaway."
"Well," the woman said. She touched his shoulder. "You can't notice everything."
The tall man seemed angry with himself, the way my father gets when he's forgotten to close the pasture gate properly, and our neighbor's black ram gets in and fights with our poor old Brimstone. He said, "I can. I'm supposed to." Then he turned his back to the horse and bent over that forefoot, the way our blacksmith does, and he went to work on it.
I couldn't see what he was doing, not exactly. He didn't have any picks or pries, like the blacksmith, and all I'm sure of is that I think he was singing to the horse. But I'm not sure it was proper singing. It sounded more like the little made-up rhymes that really small children chant to themselves when they're playing in the dirt, all alone. No tune, just up and down, dee-dah, dee-dah, dee ... boring even for a horse, I'd have thought. He kept doing it for a long time, still bending with that hoof in his hand. All at once he stopped singing and stood up, holding something that glinted in the sun the way the stream did, and he showed it to the horse, first thing. "There," he said, "there, that's what it was. It's all right now."
Excerpted from The Line Between by Peter S. Beagle Copyright © 2006 by Peter S. Beagle. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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Table of Contents
Gordon, the Self-Made Cat....................3
Four Fables: The Fable of the Moth....................49
The Fable of the Tyrannosaurus Rex....................50
The Fable of the Ostrich....................53
The Fable of the Octopus....................58
A Dance for Emilia....................193
Most Helpful Customer Reviews
Beagle is among my favorite authors, having written my favorite book, as well as one that I greatly admire. He's not infallible (see: The Folk of the Air), but he's got a real style about him, and I tend to really like his stories.Short stories aren't usually very good for me, but having read a collection of his stories before (in Giant Bones), I still thought that this had a lot of potential. And it made some of it, but not all.The advertising for this book centered mainly on the Last Unicorn sequel short story in it, and that was ultimately disappointing. I think it was probably unwise of him even to try, which he notes in the little intro to the story, but he did anyway. The style isn't all there, and I don't really feel that the new narrator did a good job with it. It's been a while since I read the main story, certainly, but it wasn't so great.The same thing applies to the Innkeeper's Song story; this one was better, but it wasn't all that good. I should go back and reread the main one, but I think he's lost his feel for the voice of Soukyan, and for one who knows that book as well as I do, it shows.But there are still some good stories in there: Salt Wine and a Dance for Emilia were both very, very good, and I liked the Sherlock Holmes pastiche one as well, Mr. Sigerson. The imagination is rich, the style is very good and varied, and the plots fit the short story size well. So the book is worth it, but there's a quality difference that's pretty large between the different stories. And I could do without child narrators so often.
It's with this book that Peter S. Beagle became my favorite author and he amazed me with his talent. The wide range of short stories just shows how well he can write and also the commentary gives a nice look into his mind.
My opinion of The Line Between can be perfectly summarized in two words: Pure Magic!
Short stories ranging from a children¿s tale about a mouse who decided to be a cat, a sequel to his novel ¿the Last Unicorn,¿ moralistic tales in the tradition of Aesop¿s fables, and lots of good fantasy. Like all good short story collections, it has something for everyone and at least one that you¿ll hate.
Of course I loved The Line Between, as I love all of Beagle's work. Some of his writings and characters and worlds touch me more than others, but they're all beautiful in their own ways. This collection includes a short story sequel to The Last Unicorn, as well as a prequel tale concerning the history of an Innkeeper's Song character. And the only work in the whole collection that I'd read previously was "A Dance for Emilia" -- but this second reading still made me cry. An especially nice thing about this book is that Beagle prefaces each story himself, so you get his thoughts on his own characters and creative process. I highly recommend this to any Beagle fans, though new converts would probably do better to start with the novels (thereby avoiding "spoilers").
This collection is sort of hit-and-miss with a bunch of so-so stories at the beginning and some really phenomenal ones at the end. "A Dance For Emilia" and "Salt Wine" are both amazing.