The Reaper's Cat

The Reaper's Cat

By Mary Soon Lee

Winding round the Reaper's feet,
her cat, paws shadow-soft,
fur the gray of rain clouds.

If there's a halt between clients,
the cat may condescend
to settle on her lap.

He wanders where he will,
grooms himself on hospice beds,
chases paper cups down alleyways.

When inclined to solitude,
he climbs up moonbeams
to drink the Milky Way.

When inclined to kindness,
a flaw in his perfection,
he brushes past the bereft.

Unseen, unguessed,
his whiskered touch gentles
a portion of their grief.

* * *

Mary Soon Lee was born and raised in London, but now lives in Pittsburgh. She writes both fiction and poetry, and has won the Rhysling Award and the Elgin Award. Her latest book is The Sign of the Dragon, an epic fantasy with Chinese elements, told in over 300 poems, now available as an ebook with an illustrated print edition forthcoming in 2021. After twenty-five years, her website has finally been updated: marysoonlee.com.

What inspires you to write and keep writing?
Ever since I can remember, I’ve derived huge pleasure from reading, but I didn’t plan to be a writer. It didn’t even occur to me as a serious possibility. Instead I studied mathematics, computer science, and aerospace. Then, after coming to America in 1990, I ended up with some spare time, and decided to write for a bit. Once I’d started, I didn’t want to stop. I would love to be able to give other people the same pleasure I’ve found in reading.

Dark Harvest

Dark Harvest

by Mary Soon Lee

High on her mountain,
the dragon woke--

A fell foulness flared
at the far periphery
of her awareness,
north and east of her,
across the Innish border.

As if the demon walked again.

No, not quite.
The corruption tainted, altered,
as if someone had harvested
the demon's strength,
claimed it for their own.

The dragon's eyes black,
the gold in them gone.
The night dark, moonless,
the stars obscured.

* * *

Mary Soon Lee was born and raised in London, but now lives in Pittsburgh. She has won the Elgin Award and the Rhysling Award for her poetry, and recently had 119 haiku in Science (one for each element of the periodic table). A dozen of her poems may be read at http://www.thesignofthedragon.com.

What advice do you have for other poets?

Firstly, write what you are most drawn to write, whether it is fantasy or mystery, poetry or novels. I spent ten years failing to do this before finding my way back to fantasy and science fiction. Secondly, work on the craft of writing. Write; revise; examine the writing of authors you admire; try to get feedback on your writing, e.g. from a writers’ workshop; write some more; revise; repeat. Thirdly, read widely.

Tirron

Tirron

By Mary Soon Lee

In the ashy ruins of Aldford,
Tirron found and held his Linny.

Her face pressed into his shoulder;
her gulping sobs shook him.

"I thought you burnt," she gulped.
"I thought you dead."

He shuddered hearing her voice--
the voice the demon had borrowed,

the voice he'd served,
the voice he'd knelt to.

(Better men than he had burnt
instead of kneeling:

collapsing skeletons of fire,
scorched screams.)

He shuddered, but didn't let go,
only clutched Linny tighter.

He'd rehearsed what to say,
but couldn't get the words out,

couldn't make promises,
or tell her what he'd done.

"It's all right, Tirron,"
she said, "It'll be all right."

Wordless, he held onto Linny
and tried to believe her.

* * *

Mary Soon Lee was born and raised in London, but now lives in Pittsburgh. She has won the Elgin Award and the Rhysling Award for her poetry. A dozen of her poems may be read at http://www.thesignofthedragon.com.

What inspires you to write and keep writing?

Ever since I can remember, I’ve derived huge pleasure from reading, but I didn’t plan to be a writer. It didn’t even occur to me as a serious possibility. Instead I studied mathematics, computer science, and aerospace. Then, after coming to America in 1990, I ended up with some spare time, and decided to write for a bit. Once I’d started, I didn’t want to stop. I would love to be able to give other people the same pleasure I’ve found in reading.

Recruits

 

Recruits

by Mary Soon Lee

On the night of the half moon,
the scarred king went
to King Donal's tent
and, waking him from sleep,
led him to the hillside
where waited the wild horses.

Hundreds of horses,
the light of the waxing moon
glinting in their sidewards glance;
the smell, heat, breath of them.
Donal a veteran of many battles,
blooded, bold, brave,
yet an emptiness to his stomach
as if he were falling.

He stood by King Xau
as a stocky, large-headed horse
came right up to them,
inhaled Xau's scent,
lowered its large head
at Xau's touch.

"Will you help us?"
Xau asked the horse.
"Will you follow King Donal?
Will you carry his soldiers?"

The horse swung its head round
to sniff Donal's breath,
nickered once.

And one after another
the horses came up
and Xau spoke to them
and laid his scarred hands on them,
and all the while Donal's heart pounded
as if he had run for miles.

When the last horse moved away,
the two men stood, side by side,
the hill below them
covered in horses.

Donal turned to Xau,
the younger king trembling now,
though he had shown no sign
of cold or strain earlier.
"Are you all right?"

A pause before Xau said, "Yes,"
and then, haltingly,
"Do not spend their lives lightly."

Donal nodded,
and in that singular night,
one more strangeness:
a sudden disconcerting impression
that Xau was receding further
and further from him--
he reached for Xau's shoulder,
reassuringly solid,
let go again.
Knelt.

And Donal the Red King
pledged then his sword,
his blood, his men
to the scarred king;
shadow and darkness behind them,
shadow and darkness ahead.

* * *

Mary Soon Lee was born and raised in London, but now lives in Pittsburgh. She has won the Elgin Award and the Rhysling Award for her poems about King Xau, which together form the epic fantasy "The Sign of the Dragon." A dozen poems from the epic may be read at http://www.thesignofthedragon.com.

What do you think is the most important aspect of a fantasy poem?

I am drawn to work that moves me emotionally, and that is what matters most to me, whether in poetry or prose, fantasy or science fiction or mainstream works. The first fantasy poem to seize my heart, back when I was about seven years old, was Tennyson’s “The Lady of Shalott.” That poem still moves me. Although a fantasy element is a prerequisite for a poem to be defined as fantasy, that aspect is less important to me than the poem’s emotion. (N.B. I have a broad definition of fantasy that encompasses works such as Ellen Kushner’s “Swordspoint,” a novel that reads and feels like fantasy, but contains no magic beyond the beauty of the writing and the invention of a secondary world setting.)

Further Extracts

Further Extracts from the Recollections of Artoch, Senior Advisor to King Xau 

by Mary Soon Lee

Correct. King Xau returned
to the horse country that summer.
If you require a target to blame,
blame me. I argued him into it
and would do so again.

Had Xau stayed in Lipoh
he could have coordinated more easily
with his generals,
but to what purpose?
He had warned Tahj of the monster,
had offered his help,
help that Tahj had declined.

Even in hindsight, I believe
it was the correct decision--
the correct military decision--
for Xau to leave Lipoh.
If you pour me a bowl of tea,
I will elaborate.

Thank you.

Xau's alliances were strong,
his main army readied.
Whereas the horse lords,
though willing,
had never fought alongside others,
and would not have heeded
advice from anyone other
than King Xau himself.

May I remind you of the magnitude
of the Khan's concessions--
Three thousand of the Khan's warriors
incorporated into Xau's cavalry.
Every other horse warrior,
every single horse lord
sworn to fight at Xau's command,
a fealty never offered before or since
in the history of the horse tribes.
A fealty due solely
to their devotion, their love,
for Xau himself.

Even so I had great difficulty
convincing the king to leave.

He never did master detachment:
knowing that the monster lived,
knowing it preyed on others' pain,
he held himself at fault,
hadn't slept through the night
in nearly two months.

Compounding that,
Heng had not returned.

Heng? A translator whom Xau
had dispatched to Sumbral
in search of information.

Whether for the particular or the general,
Xau took responsibility.
The one man he'd sent into danger,
and the monster's uncounted victims
whom he had never met,
who were not from his country.

One man.

     [Archivist's note: at this point Artoch fell
     silent. I assumed he had become confused, as
     he was prone to do, and left for the day. But
     when I returned next morning, Artoch returned
     immediately, though briefly, to Heng.]

Heng. Set this down--
Heng, a translator in King Xau's service,
never returned from Sumbral.
Although his body wasn't identified,
he was likely our first casualty
in the Imperial War.

* * *

Mary Soon Lee was born and raised in London, but now lives in Pittsburgh. She is writing an epic fantasy in verse about King Xau. The opening poem of the epic, “Interregnum,” won the 2014 Rhysling Award for best long poem, and the first book in the epic (“Crowned,” Dark Renaissance Books, 2015) has been nominated for the Elgin Award. Several poems about King Xau, including “Interregnum,” may be read at http://www.thesignofthedragon.com.

Where do you get the ideas for your stories?

From all kinds of places: from reading; from memories; from music; from things I observe when I’m at home, or outdoors, or shopping, or at a museum. It’s unpredictable and often delayed: three dragon poems that I wrote this month were influenced by reading Machiavelli’s “The Prince” two years earlier. Sometimes it’s only much later that I realize the source of a particular idea. For example, the two main countries in my epic fantasy have a Chinese flavor and a Celtic flavor. I had written quite a bit of the epic before I worked out that those countries probably surfaced in my thoughts because my father was Chinese and my mother Irish. I didn’t deliberately plan it that way. When writing a longer piece, ideas unfold as I think about the characters. Of late, I’ve been caught up in the epic fantasy and find myself thinking about it at odd moments--in the middle of the night, or when I’m vacuuming the house, or brushing my teeth.​

Dread

Dread

by Mary Soon Lee

Memnor, King of Ritany,
gray-haired and great-hearted,
surveyed the meal,
such as it was.
Dried meat and beet soup.
"My apologies."

"This is fine, this is good."
His guest, King Xau,
sitting on a rug on the floor of the tent--
not even a cushion to offer him--
took a strip of dried leathery meat.

"It's wretched," said Havnar,
commander of Memnor's army.
"There'll be a feast in your honor
once we're back at the palace."

"That is not to be needed.
This is all we want."
Xau's Ritanese awkward.

"This is what you want?"
Havnar brandished the leathery meat.

"This. The food is fine.
The food is not to be important.
This. The three of us, eating together."

Havnar dipped his head to Xau,
then looked at Memnor. "You were right,
he's not like his father."

Xau stilled,
a slight hardening
to the lines of his face
that Memnor might have missed
except that the captain of Xau's guards--
a lean, black-uniformed figure
on the far side of the tent--
alerted, the captain's attention
centering on Xau.

Memnor handed Xau a cup of water.
"I knew your father quite well.
Havnar did too."

Xau nodded. "You fought,
and then to become allies,
and then fought together."

"Fought together,
and hunted together,
and drank together,
and, at times, made fools
of ourselves together.
Hao was a charismatic man,
a strong king, a superb warrior,
yet he would not have done what you did,
would not have risked himself
on behalf of people he'd never met,
people with no influence,
not even from his own country."

Memnor stopped.
Still that hardness
to the young king's face.

Havnar shrugged, filled the silence.
"Your father would have loved
a feast given in his honor.
He liked attention,
liked his own importance,
spoke so men might hear him.
You say less, but it means more."

"And Havnar should know," said Memnor.
"That's probably the longest speech
I've ever heard from him."

Havnar shrugged.
"You speak enough for both of us."

Xau grinned.
Relaxed, he looked like any young man,
ready to get drunk or get laid.
A moment only,
then Xau was himself again,
his kingdom on his shoulders.

Memnor knew.
Memnor had been twenty-four,
Xau's age now,
when he came to the throne,
a burden eased both by his wife,
who had never once asked
for more than he could give,
and by Havnar,
who'd given more
than Memnor had asked.

"One more speech tonight,"
said Memnor. "Not the one my advisors
will draft in your praise.
Rather a speech they would
counsel against,
but it has weighed on me,
and I will say it."

Would say it not in gratitude,
though that cause enough--
Xau having pushed himself
almost to his death
saving Memnor's people--
but because a dread oppressed Memnor,
a dread that darkness stirred anew,
that Xau, who had defeated a demon,
would yet face a malevolence
greater even that that.

So Memnor stood,
took the three steps over to Xau,
knelt.

"I, Memnor, King of Ritany,
son of Mithron, son of Marnas,
do swear to you, Xau,
without impediment or restriction,
my aid whenever and however
you request it:
my sword, my strength,
my army at your command."

Memnor touched his hand to his heart,
offered it palm-up to Xau,
a gesture of allegiance older
than either of their kingdoms.

A weight in Xau's eyes
as the young king set his hand
on Memnor's forehead.
"We, Xau, to accept your oath,
knowing there may come the day
when we have need of it."

The rest of the night uneventful.
They chewed on the leathery meat,
chatted of this and that.

Later, when the time came,
Memnor kept his oath.

* * *

Mary Soon Lee was born and raised in London, but now lives in Pittsburgh. Crowned, the first book in her epic fantasy in verse, was published by Dark Renaissance Books in June 2015. "Dread" is part of the same epic, but takes place later in the story. Several poems from the tale may be read at www.thesignofthedragon.com.

What do you think is the attraction of the fantasy genre? 

As a reader, I like many different types of book, but the ones that have become part of me are mostly fantasy, from Ursula K. Le Guin's Earthsea archipelago, to J.R.R. Tolkien's Middle-Earth, to Richard Adams's Watership Down. Their worlds are as important to me as real places.

As a writer, fantasy offers the freedom to tell exactly the story that you want, without constraint. I have never been as absorbed by anything I've written as I have been these past two years, working on Xau's story.

Training: Horse

Training: Horse

by Mary Soon Lee

Tsung's duty clear,
but yet he hesitated,
watching from his hilltop vantage
as the boy--King Xau--sat ahorse,
five soldiers mounted to his left,
five to his right.

The reins trembled in the boy's grip:
only the second time Tsung had seen
Xau's nerves show.

Tsung did not wish to be the one
to disillusion him,
but unless he did so
the boy would likely lead them to disaster.

Tsung gave the signal
and the boy started forward,
accompanied by the ten soldiers,
the horses in good formation.
The boy called out, signaled left,
and all the horses swerved
in perfect unison.

Well enough,
but no test of what the boy
would face in war--
Xau insistent that he would command
his cavalry in person:
seventeen years old,
untried in battle.
The kind of courage
that led to the loss of armies.
Or kingdoms.

Tsung gave another signal.
Trumpets blared, drums boomed.
Guards ran toward the horses:
flapping long red banners,
tossing clods of dirt
at the king and his men.

Who rode as if they were alone,
as if they were eleven shadows
of a single faultless form,
the horses turning to Xau's command
almost before Tsung saw the boy
giving the hand signals.

Tsung on the hilltop, stunned,
signaled a third time.

From a stand of trees
a troop of lightly-armored cavalry
charged full at the king.

Xau turned his men to meet them,
galloped headlong at his mock-enemy,
the two lines of horses
thundering toward each other.
Two hundred yards apart,
the cavalry troop stopped, mid-charge,
one man thrown from his horse,
so sudden their halt.
(Unplanned, unbidden, unaccountable.)

For a moment,
Xau and his ten men rode on in perfect order,
toward the baffled, confounded cavalry.

And then Xau called out,
gave the signal to end the exercise.
The boy dismounted clumsily,
sprinted over to the thrown man,
took off the man's armor,
ran his hands along the man's limbs
before helping him to his feet.

Tsung on the hilltop,
clapping and crying,
looking down at his king.

* * * 

Mary Soon Lee was born and raised in London, but has lived in Pittsburgh for the past twenty years. In 2014, her poem "Interregnum" won the Rhysling Award for best long poem. "Training: Horse" is part of her poetry sequence "The Sign of the Dragon," which has a rudimentary website at www.thesignofthedragon.com.

What advice do you have for other fantasy poets?

Firstly, write what you love. I spent ten years failing to do this before finding my way back to fantasy. Secondly, work on the craft of writing. (There remains a discouraging gap between what I want to do, and what I am able to do.) Thirdly, read widely.