Welcome to Bordertown (2 page)

B
ack in the “leather and lace” eighties, I was the fantasy editor for a publishing company in New York City. It was a great time to be young and footloose on the streets of Manhattan—punk rock and folk music were everywhere; Blondie, the Eurythmics, Cyndi Lauper, and Prince were all strutting their stuff on the newly created MTV; and the eighties’ sense of style meant I could wear my scruffy black leather into the office without turning too many heads. The fantasy field was growing by leaps and bounds, and I was right in middle of it, working with authors I’d worshiped as a teen, and finding new ones to encourage and publish.

Back then, “fantasy,” to most people, meant J. R. R. Tolkien’s
The Lord of the Rings
and its imitators and successors, sprawling novels set in magical worlds rich with dragons and wizards, where heroes quested through pastoral landscapes reminiscent of medieval Europe. But some of the younger authors and editors were feeling their way toward a different kind of fantasy, something more contemporary and more homegrown, bringing myth and magic into the world we knew: the city streets of North America.

In the 1980s, four books in particular pioneered a new kind of
magical fiction, which reviewers started calling urban fantasy:
Moonheart
by Charles de Lint (1984, the precursor to his long-running Newford series),
Wizard of the Pigeons
by Megan Lindholm (1986),
War for the Oaks
by Emma Bull (1987), and
Weetzie Bat
by Francesca Lia Block (1989). These innovative novels laid the foundation that urban fantasy writers have been building on ever since, including authors like Neil Gaiman, Laurell K. Hamilton, and Mercedes Lackey in the 1990s, and Jim Butcher and Patricia Briggs today.

As an editor in the eighties, I had the pleasure of working with many of the early urban fantasists. We were young, idealistic, and opinionated back then, united by a passion for myth and folklore, a taste for contemporary music and pop culture, and a desire to push the boundaries of the fantasy field just as far as we possibly could. Meeting at writers’ conferences and conventions, in bars and cafés and each other’s living rooms, we talked endlessly about the rich mythic heritage of North America (with its melting pot of folklore from so many different immigrant and native nations), and about how these myths could be used to tell tales relevant to readers today—especially younger readers.

This was the pre–Harry Potter era, when young adult fantasy was still thin on the ground, and we felt there was a crying need for mythic rites-of-passage tales for modern teens. We weren’t so far past the teenage years ourselves, and we remembered all too vividly just how damn difficult those years could be. As an editor, as a writer, and particularly as a reader, I wanted to see fantasy books for younger readers that were full of magic and adventure, yes, but that also addressed some of the sheer
anguish
of that hard passage from adolescence to adulthood—and spoke about the real-world magics that can save us when the world goes dark: like friendship and community, like making art and telling our stories.

In 1985, the good folks at a publishing company called New American Library asked if I was interested in creating a shared-world series for teen readers. I’d just established a young adult fantasy line (called MagicQuest) for Ace/Tempo Books, and word had gotten around that fantasy for teens was a subject I was passionate about. A shared-world series, for those unfamiliar with the concept, is a little like a television series: the editor/creator comes up with the setting, premise, and initial characters, and then invites selected authors to write stories set in this “shared” milieu. Robert Lynn Asprin pretty much invented shared-world anthologies with his long-running Thieves’ World series (begun in 1978), set in an imaginary town called Sanctuary in the distant past. New American Library wanted “a Thieves’ World for teens”—and I jumped at the chance to create it.

I discussed a number of different ideas with my then–editorial partner, Mark Arnold, finally settling on the notion of a city on the border between Faerie and the human world. I was influenced not only by my background as a student of folklore (in which Faerie lore had been my specialty), but also by my recent rereading of
The King of Elfland’s Daughter
, a fantasy classic by Lord Dunsany (which also later inspired
Stardust
, the wonderful border-of-Elfland saga by Neil Gaiman and Charles Vess). Unlike Robert Lynn Asprin’s Sanctuary or the border village in Lord Dunsany’s tale, however, I envisioned a modern, big-city setting, with something of the spirit, the style, the buzz, the flash of eighties music and street culture.

As the idea took shape, a single neighborhood emerged as the central setting for the Bordertown stories: an old, abandoned part of the city that had been reclaimed by young people and had become a legendary mecca for runaway kids, both elfin and human. Outcasts, homeless kids, and other teens making their
own way in the world would be the focus of our tales. The orphaned or homeless hero, after all, is an archetypal character in mythic rites-of-passage tales. And, I admit, the subject was a deeply personal one for me, for I’d once been a runaway teen myself. Bordertown would be the perfect background for the kind of tales I most wanted, and most needed, to read and to tell.

To bring the streets (and the music!) of Bordertown to life, I asked the help of young writers who were already creating fantasy that broke the Tolkien mold: Charles de Lint and Midori Snyder (two writer/musicians whose teen years had been as unusual as mine, and thus full of good story material), Emma Bull and her husband, Will Shetterly (then very much a part of the Minneapolis music scene), Ellen Kushner (another writer/musician, whose groundbreaking novel
Swordspoint
was still out making the rounds of publishers), and Steven Boyett (whose debut novel, a postapocalyptic fantasy, had just been published). I also wrote some early Borderland stories myself, under the shared pseudonym Bellamy Bach. (Back then, I was still a little shy about being a writer as well as an editor.)

Other writers joined the project as the series continued, each one of them writing tales set in their personal versions of Bordertown, influenced by the cities they lived in, were raised in, or loved the best. Although
my
Bordertown will always be rooted in the gritty, punky, vibrant, violent, flamboyant New York City of the eighties, bits and pieces of L.A., Milwaukee, Minneapolis, Seattle, Tucson, Ottawa, London, Dublin, Sydney, and half a dozen other cities have also been woven into the tapestry of Bordertown by various writers and artists over the years. It is all of those cities. It is none of those cities. Bordertown, as any of its citizens will tell you, is whatever you want, and dream, and fear, and most desire it to be.

When I wrote the opening words of the very first Bordertown
story almost twenty-five years ago (“She wakes in an alley and can’t remember how she got there. There is blood under her fingernails …”), I never imagined that our quirky urban fantasy series would carry on into multiple volumes, or that it would still have so many loyal readers, both young and old, all these years later. I was intrigued (and deeply honored) when Ellen Kushner and Holly Black approached me with the idea of creating a new volume of tales for a new generation of readers. I loved their concept of mixing stories by original Borderland writers with those of younger authors who had grown up with the series, and I quickly gave the project my blessing. It’s been an entirely magical experience to work with Ellen and Holly on this book; and with our Random House editor, Mallory Loehr, and her staff; and with all the wonderful writers, friends both old and new, who are gathered in these pages.

Many thanks to all the writers, editors, and artists who have journeyed to the Border over the years and returned to report on what they’ve found. Many thanks to all the readers who have carried the flame and kept the series alive. I only laid the cobbles for the streets of Bordertown; it took all of us, an entire community, to bring the city to life. And that’s as it should be. Community, friendship, art: stirred together, they make a powerful magic. Used wisely, it can save your life. I know that it saved mine.

Due to a sudden influx of newcomers to Our Fair City, we have prepared this leaflet to help to acquaint newbies—aka “noobs”—with life in Bordertown. Who are we? Well, we’re
not
the Bordertown Chamber of Commerce, and this is
not
a tourist guide. We are the Bordertown branch of the Diggers
¹
, and our mission is to help the runaway kids from both sides of the Border who turn up on the streets here. If that’s you, read on. You’re going to need the information below.

LIFE ON THE BORDER

Misinformation about Bordertown is rife in both the World and the Realm, so here’s a quick history lesson from
The Tough Guide to Bordertown
(with commentary by us):

The city takes its name from the Border itself, a magical wall that divides the human World from the enchanted lands beyond: a place that humans call Elfland, populated by a tall, silver-haired, long-lived race of people that humans call elves. They, on the other hand, refer to themselves as Truebloods, and to their homeland simply as the Realm.
(Humans, take note: You can refer to the Realm as “Faerie” without causing offense, but do not make the mistake of referring to its citizens as “fairies”—unless you want to be punched.)

Elfhaeme Gate is the only point of passage across the Border, controlled by officers of the Realm. Passage is for those of elfin blood only; no human is
ever
allowed to cross the Border. Humans have no idea what really lies on the other side, and the elves themselves aren’t telling. In fact, they
can’t
tell: there are powerful magics that prevent them from talking about the Realm except in ways designed to obscure the truth.
(So don’t ask them, unless you want to embarrass yourself and them, no matter how much you long to know.)

Bordertown is located in the Borderlands (aka the Nevernever) between Elfland and the World, where it grew out of the ruins of a human city abandoned when Elfland first appeared. Populated by both elves and humans, Bordertown is a famously uncomfortable place to live. Elfin magic is wildly unpredictable here, as are human science and technology, and the city runs on
a volatile combination of the two.
(If you want to power your electric amp or your iPhone, you’re going to need to find a spellbox. And even then, you might get strange results.)

With an economy based on elfin–human trade, much of the city is now reasonably stable—except for the Soho district (south of Ho Street, enclosed within the Old City Wall), which has become a well-known mecca for runaway kids, both human and elfin. This derelict neighborhood remained abandoned for many years until young people began to claim it for their own, squatting in the ruined, graffiti-covered buildings and bringing them back to life.
(Yes, kiddies, it’s true. Soho belongs to us.)

Okay, so you’ve found your way to Bordertown. That was probably hard, so hooray for you. But please, dear noobs, don’t be naive: life here isn’t easy, and you must keep your wits about you. Gangs control many parts of the Old City; the Border drug trade is run from here; and there are even worse things to contend with when Border magic blows in the wrong direction. If you’re human, don’t drink the red Mad River water—it’s addictive and will turn your brain to mush. If you’re Trueblood, it’s catnip you must avoid. (We’re not kidding.) Be smart, be careful, be safe.

ARRIVING IN BORDERTOWN

The Diggers operate three safe houses (for short-term stays) on Water, Plum, and Carmine Streets. No cash
required, but you’ll be expected to follow the Digger House Rules, strictly enforced: no weapons, no drugs, no gangs, and everyone helps to clean and cook.

Once you’ve decided whether or not it was a huge mistake to come here after all, look for a longer-term squat or rental on the message board at the Poop (in front of Café Cubana). The bulletin board in the back hall of The Dancing Ferret (the famous music club on Carnival Street) is another good source of housing information, as well as up-to-the-minute info on Soho nightlife and the Border Arts scene. While you’re at The Ferret, be sure to tell the owner, Farrel Din, that you’re new in town. The first beer is, by tradition, on the house.

THE WEEKLY ADVISORY

As you know if you got here recently, the Way between the World and Bordertown was impossible to find for a while and only recently reopened. From the World’s point of view, the Borderlands vanished entirely for thirteen years—but here on the Border, those thirteen years have been only thirteen
days.
A support group has been formed for people whose lives have been affected by the thirteen-year Gap (details available at Elsewhere Books).

All the usual gang treaties are in force this week. Ho, Carnival, and Carmine Streets are Neutral Territory, strictly enforced. All gang areas are restricted to their traditional boundaries (get a map at the Poop if you don’t know what these are), except for the alleys
running from Chrystoble Street to the Carnival Place mews, currently under dispute by the Rune Lords and the Pack. Avoid them.

Lankin activity has been reported on the east end of Birch Street, pickpockets at Tumbledown Park, and the Rowan Gentleman was (supposedly) spotted in Riverside and Whisthound Square. There have been four monster sightings this week (three unconfirmed, one confirmed but harmless), and the gargoyle at the top of the Mock Avenue Bell Tower has mysteriously vanished.

Ho Street will be closed to traffic on Saturday for the annual Jou’vert parade; Green Lady Lane will be closed on Sunday for the Dogtown Benefit Blues Bash (cash donations or dog chow required for entry); and Onion Street has been closed for the last three weeks for no apparent reason. The Mock Avenue street association would like to apologize to everyone for fixing the church tower clock last week, which caused widespread confusion. It has now been restored to its usual wrong time.