Jane Lindskold Child of a Rainless Year

ISBN 13: 9780765309372

Child of a Rainless Year

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9780765309372: Child of a Rainless Year
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Middle-aged Mira Fenn knows she has an uncomfortably exotic past. As a small girl, she lived in a ornate old house in tiny Las Vegas, New Mexico, tended by oddly silent servant women and ruled by her coldly flamboyant mother Colette. When Mira was nine, Colette went on one of her unexplained trips, only this time she never returned.

Placed with foster parents, Mira was raised in Ohio, normal save for her passion for color. On gaining adulthood, she learned that she still owned the New Mexico house. She also learned that, as a condition of being allowed to adopt her, Mira's foster parents had agreed to change their name, move to another state, and never ask why.

Years later, going through family papers after the deaths of her elderly foster parents, Mira finds documents that pique her curiosity about her vanished mother and the reasons behind her strange childhood and adoption.

Travelling back to New Mexico, she finds the house is and isn't as she remembers it. Inside, it's much the same. Outside, it's been painted in innumerable colors. As Mira continues to investigate her mother's life, events take stranger and stranger turns. The silent women reappear. Even as Mira begins to suspect the power to which she may be heir, the house itself appears to be waking up...

Shot through with magic and the atmosphere of the Southwest, this singular fantasy novel has all the storytelling vigor of Jane Lindskold's very popular Firekeeper series.

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About the Author:

Jane Lindskold lives in Albuquerque, New Mexico. Her Wolf novels include Through Wolf’s Eyes; Wolf’s Head, Wolf’s Heart; The Dragon of Despair; and Wolf Captured. Her other novels include The Buried Pyramid, Changer, and, with the late Roger Zelazny, Lord Demon and Donnerjack.

Excerpt. Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.:

Chapter One

Just what colors our attitude toward color? Too much and we risk not being taken seriously; too little and we fear being dull.

---Patricia Lynne Duffy,
Blue Cats and Chartreuse Kittens
Coloring Inside the Lines

Color is the great magic.

I learned that one day as I watched my mother preparing for the most recent of her lovers. She, intent on the mirror over her elegant, gilded vanity, did not see me as I watched her from a mirror set in the border of a picture frame, two reverses making the image right again.

I was some years older than I had been in that rainless year when I had been born---five, maybe six years old. Mother had been very angry with me earlier that day. Then she had forgotten me, as she often did when she was so intensely displeased that even the "my" of her wrath could not ease her pain. Easier to forget.

So, forgotten, I went where I was usually forbidden to go, into Mother's private suite, sneaking in while she was in her bath, hiding in the corner near a full-length framed picture of her, painted to commemorate some past triumph. I turned my back on the room, viewing the chamber only through the mirror set into the picture's frame.

I hid well, for---although, now, from the distance of these many years, I can see that I wanted to be found, to have her make me real again even if through the fierce force of her anger---I also feared that anger. Better to be tentatively real in hope, to breathe in the mingled scents of her room, of the perfumes she wore, of the lavender in which the bed linens were packed, of the cedar that lined her closets and clothes chests.

When Mother emerged from the bath she wore a scarlet Japanese kimono trimmed in gold, embroidered with patterns of tigers and phoenixes. Her glossy hair was wrapped in a towel that was a precisely matching shade of scarlet.

Her first task upon entering the room was to bend at the waist and rub the excess water from her shining black hair. She slowly combed the tangles from her hair, never tugging lest one of the long, dark tresses break.

Combed, that dark curtain hung past her waist, and because I knew she was proud of that shining dark fall, I felt proud of it as well. I watched with my breath held as she pulled her hair back and inserted it into a silver clasp, never breaking a single strand.

Hair combed and clipped, Mother seated herself at her vanity and viewed herself in the mirror. She dropped her robe from her shoulders and sat naked to the waist, the breasts that had never nursed me almost as firm and round as those of a girl.

She leaned forward, her gaze intent on her face, on the skin still slightly dewed from her bath. Her gaze was intent, studying those high-cheekboned features critically, looking for any lines, any trace of the sagging that comes with age. There were some, for she was past the first bloom of youth and this dry climate is not kind, even to those who live sheltered from the burning sun.

Yet, although this was a critical review, I could sense Mother's pleasure in what she saw. It was her face, after all, and like so many who look at themselves too often in mirrors, she thought that this reverse image, seen rigidly straight on as we are so rarely seen by others, was her truest self.

I was the one who was shocked. This was the first time that I can remember seeing my mother with her features unadorned by cosmetics. This was a different face entirely from the one I knew. Her brows were as pale as my own, her skin---if possible---more sallow. Even her eyes, usually deep blue where mine were hazed blue-grey, were not the eyes I knew, their color pale and less vibrant.

I shrank back into my hiding place, watching in the least corner of the mirror as my mother worked the transforming magic of color upon her face; watched as tints from fat, round pots gave her sallow skin smoothness and warmth, watched as her skillful fingers defined some features, diminished others.

Eyebrows were sketched in, dark as the fall of her hair, their tilt mocking and ironic. Tiny brushes pulled from slender vials made her eyelashes longer, painted in subtle lines that made her gaze more compelling. Powders dusted color onto eyelids and along the rise of cheekbones.

I watched, mesmerized, as Mother transformed herself from a pale ghost into the beauty who still commanded legions of admirers. Fear throbbed tight and hard within my chest. No longer did I want to be discovered, for I knew I had stumbled on a mystery greater and more terrible than that of Bluebeard's murdered wives. I had seen the secret magic of color, and how color made lies truth and truth lies.

Even at that young age, I knew I could not be forgiven my discovery.

My mother said there was no rain the year she carried me, the year I was born. Of course, that is impossible. Even here where the climate is dry there is always some rain.

But perhaps what she believed is not so impossible. Overall, my mother was not a simple soul, yet in one crucial way she was. Beneath her intelligence, and an education that was far beyond what most women of her day received, Mother was a horribly egotistical woman to whom nothing was real unless it happened directly to her.

So, perhaps, in a way, my mother spoke the simple truth and there was no rain in the year I was born. Perhaps none fell near her, the scattered clouds that are what this desert land knows best, shying from the heat of her self-conceit as they shy from the thermal updrafts that well from the baked black lava outcroppings.

She was not a cold woman, my mother. Not in the least. Indeed, the welter of her egotism made her very hot. She felt any slight passionately---any slight to herself, that is. Slights to another, even to those she claimed to love, she seemed indifferent to, yet she was not, indifferent for to be indifferent you must notice.

Mother noticed only rarely, and then in such a personal fashion that the one so noticed would cringe, wishing to have that egotism turned elsewhere, anywhere else, rather than suffer the wails mourning the wrong done to "my"---"my child," "my efforts," "my pain," "my sacrifice," "my..." Truly, for her, nothing existed outside of that curtaining veil of self.

To some men, Mother was irresistible. If they thought at all why this was so, they would speak of her charm, her gaiety, her beauty, her intense pleasure in life. If they were honest, and considered beyond this easy answer, they admitted to themselves that they desired to be the one who would succeed in getting beyond that tremendous ego---but of course no man ever succeeded, not even my father, who got beneath so much else.

Other types of men---those who were themselves egotistical, those gifted with that empathy so rare in men, those who had some purpose so great that it carried them outside of themselves---all of these kept from Mother as the rain did during that year, she carried me, the year that I was born.

In time, even my father kept from her so that by the day of my birth ours was a silent household of women: silent women and a host of mirrors. Mirrors hung in picture frames and in stands. They rested within long-handled holders on the tops of polished dressers. They awaited the unwary in unlikely places: hung on the backs of doors usually kept open, beneath the accumulated heap of scarfs and hats on the coat-tree by the door, in the kitchen over the stove, even as tiny rounds set into the fabric of elaborate skirts and shawls.

I knew myself through those mirrors as most children know themselves through the stories others tell them. No one in that strange household of silent women was going to waste word or breath on me---child of a passing fancy, child of a rainless year.

I saw myself in those many mirrors: round eyes the color of a heat-hazed sky, fair skin blushed with ash, thick straight hair pale as winter sunlight. I had none of my mother's beauty, none of her vibrancy. For a long time, the only thing that connected me to her was the "my" that prefaced her every mention of me, for I had no name to Mother that did not relate to her. I was "my daughter," "my darling," "my treasure." Later, when I grew older and gave her reason to be displeased, I was "my nuisance," "my burden," "my trial."

When she was truly displeased with me, Mother denied me even that connecting "my." Then I felt stripped of identity, bereft of an increasingly tenuous hold on reality. Sometimes I found myself wondering when Mother would discard me as I had seen so many other treasures---gowns, jewels, lovers---discarded when they failed to please her.

So little respect for myself did I have that this prospect did not trouble me in the least. That I would eventually be discarded seemed right, for in that house we were all her satellites and she the center of gravity about which we revolved.

Mother insisted I be educated. She was very proud of her own education, which was as I believe I have mentioned far better than that of most women in that time and place. She intended that I be almost, if not quite, as brilliant as she was herself.

Initially, Mother set herself to be my teacher, but this proved as even I could have warned her to be a catastrophic venture. For one thing, I was intractably left-handed, and though Mother tried to break me of this "clumsiness," she failed. I was a lefty, then and forever after.

The failure to learn from Mother's teaching, was assigned to me, never to her. Even I accepted this verdict as true, never questioning that Mother's erratic methods might not be suited for a young girl hardly able to see over the edge of the polished mahogany desk where we sat facing each other for some hours each morning.

Next, Mother assigned one of the silent women to be my teacher. This attempt, too, was a failure, for Mother frequently hovered in the vicinity of our makeshift schoolroom. She stayed just out of sight around the corners of doorways, her image relayed flickering and fragmented in the mirrors, so both I a...

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9780765315137: Child of a Rainless Year

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ISBN 10:  0765315130 ISBN 13:  9780765315137
Publisher: Tor Books, 2005
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Tor Fa..., 2006
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