Samuel Delany - Dhalgren

The rocks were covered with moss and slicked with floodlight.

"Look, now I know something that's sort of funny."

"All right." Black-sweatered Bill stopped, still laughing. "What?"

Thelma stood to the side.

"You mustn't say anything nasty about him, Frank," Ernestine said. "I think they've all been perfectly charming, everything considered."

"He's a nice guy," Frank said. "He really is. But I've met him a couple of times before, that's all. And I just—"

"Well," drawled a man whose freckled skull was ringed with white hair, "I haven't yet. But his friends are the funniest children I have ever seen. Oh, they put on quite a show. Gibbons, I tell you! A real bunch of little black gibbons!"

Bill said: "Most of them aren't that little."

"I just wonder," Frank repeated, "whether he actually wrote them or not."

"Why would you think he didn't?" Bill asked, turning.

"I met him," Frank said, "once down in that place— Teddy's? A long time ago. I'd lost a notebook a few weeks back and I was telling him about it. Suddenly he got very excited— very upset, and called the bartender over to bring him this notebook that he told me he'd found in the park. He told me he'd found it, already filled up with writing, I'm very sure of that. I flipped through it, and it was all full of poems and journals and things. He wanted to know if it was mine. It wasn't, of course. But at least two of the poems in that notebook — and I remember because they struck me as rather odd — I'd swear were identical with two of the poems in Brass Orchids. That notebook had a poem on practically every other page."

"Are you serious?" Roxanne asked as though she thought the tale very funny. "Well, you mustn't ever tell Roger. He would feel quite had!"

Bill let out a loud, "Ha!" at the sky. "If it is true, that's the funniest thing I've heard all night!"

"I wouldn't make it up!"

"It's a perfectly awful thing to say," Ernestine said. "Do you really think he would do a thing like that?"

"Well, you've met him," Frank said. "He's not what I would call the literary type."

"Oh, everybody and their brother writes poems," Bill tossed away.

"You think, then—" which was Kamp's voice: It came from under the bridge where Kid could not see—"he took all the poems out of this notebook, now?"

"Oh, perhaps…" Frank began. "I'm not accusing him of anything. Maybe he only took those two. I don't know. Maybe he only took a couple of lines that I just happened to recognize—"

Thelma said: "You said they were identical," and Kid strained and failed to hear more than her words.

"I said I thought they were," Frank said, which was not, Kid remembered with obsessive lucidity, what he had said at all.

"That's interesting," Bill reflected, head down, all dark hair and black sweater. He started walking.

The others followed him under the bridge.

Frank said: "He told me that night he'd only been a poet for, I think he put it, a couple of weeks. And then, there was this notebook he'd found, all filled up with poems that — well, the two I looked at closely — are awfully similar to two in his book." The voices echoed beneath. "What would you think?"

Thelma (he could not see her face) was the last to go under.

"Well, you obviously think he took them—" The voice's identity was obscured by echo.

"1 think," someone's voice came back, "he's just a nice — I wouldn't say dumb, just non-verbal — guy that probably isn't too concerned with the significance of that sort of thing. Hell, I like him. With all those guys in the chains he's got running around for bodyguards, I sort of hope he likes us too."

"He didn't sign his name to the book," the southerner said.

"Oh, Frank, I think you're just—"

Kid had to clear his throat so missed Ernestine's last words in the rattle. (Run to the other rail, hear what they said as they emerged…) He looked along the empty path.

In an Oregon forest, back during that winter, on his day off, a log, loosed from the pile he'd been climbing, had crashed his leg, bloodying his right calf and tearing his jeans. He'd thought his shin was broken. But, finally, he had been able to hobble back to the bunkhouse, a quarter of a mile away — it took forty minutes. The whole time he kept thinking: "This hurts more than anything I've ever felt before in my life. This hurts more than anything I've ever…" He reached the empty cabin, with the thought repeating like a melody now, rather than an idea; he had sat down on the lower bunk — it belonged to a laborer named Dehlman — opened his belt, got the seat of his jeans from beneath his buttocks, and in a single motion stripped them down his—

He hadn't screamed. Instead, his lungs flattened themselves in his chest, and for the next ten minutes he could only make little panting sounds. Blood and flesh, dried to the cloth, had stripped the length of his leg, sending the pain into realms he had not known existed. When he could think again, the still running thought, connected with the memory of that so much lesser pain, seemed silly.

He dropped his hand from the rail and thought about this (and for some reason the name of the man on whose bunk he'd lain with his bleeding calf) and tried to recall his reaction to Frank's criticisms of ten minutes ago.

He could not fit both into anything like a single picture. (They took it so lightly!) He blinked at the empty path.

I wrote…?

Kid's eyes stung; he wandered from the bridge. Raising his hand to rub his face, he saw blurred brass and stopped the motion.

One foot hit something on the path and he stepped ahead unsteadily.

I remember re-writing them!

I remember changing lines, to make them more like something… mine?

Kid blinked; and his rough fingers were circled with scrolled blades. Did the first terror precede the scream?

…someone — Dollar? Dollar, beyond the hedge, screamed.

Kid flung back his hands and ran — toward the sound. Because what was behind him was too frightening.

As he sprinted into the garden, a low branch struck his face.

He grasped away leaves with his bladed hand, came up short, and heard (though he could not see) Dollar scream again, thinking: My God, the rest of them are so quiet!

Black and brown arms waved and spun (and among them was Tarzan's yellow hair and dough-colored shoulder), caught against someone buried in the brawl. Somebody grunted.

Thelma, watching, sucked in her breath, rasping the silence.

From out the fray: "Hey, watch it…! Watch it…! Watch out for the… Unh!"

Their scrabbling boots were louder than their caught breaths and voices.

Kid lunged, grabbed, pulled, and only just remembered to get his orchid up out of the way.

"Hey, what you—"

Cathedral hit him as he pulled Thruppence off.

Priest's head struck his flank hard enough to hurt.

Kid swung his hand out and around, and Spider didn't shriek but hissed: "Ehhhhhhhhhhhhh… God- damn motherfucker!" A filament of blood widened on Spider's belly.

"GET OFF HIM!" Kid pulled the Ripper back. "God-damn it, get off him!"

Raven, Tarzan, then Lady of Spain, still pummeling, got yanked back.

As they recognized him, one by one they fell away among the guests who ringed the garden. More were edging in.

Siam, in the central tussle, looked up, then ducked under Kid's arm; Kid stumbled forward, lunged between the last two (Angel and Jack the Ripper) who sprinted aside; he grabbed the back of Dollar's vest, his orchid still high.

Dollar screamed once more, and then went into foetal collapse on the flags. "Don't kill me, please don't kill me! Don't kill me, Kid, please don't kill me! I'm sorry, Kid! Don't kill me!" Dollar's right cheek was bruised and bleeding; his left eye was puffy, and his mouth looked like it had dandruff. Trying to get him up, Kid almost slipped. Swiveling his head, he saw his blades flash; leaves like green scales of the night fell from his opening fingers. He saw the ring of scorpions and guests—