Marchs end, p.1
March's End, page 1
PRAISE FOR DANIEL POLANSKY
“Daniel Polansky is one of my favorite new writers. Again and again, he manages to reinvent and invert well-worn genres.”
David S. Goyer, screenwriter and director
“Polansky is his own genre.”
Delilah S. Dawson, New York Times-bestselling author of Star Wars: Phasma
“Surges like a revelation.”
Matt Fraction, Eisner Award-winning comic book writer
“This f*cking guy. He’s too good to live…”
John Hornor Jacobs, author of Southern Gods
BY THE SAME AUTHOR
Straight Razor Cure
Tomorrow, The Killing
She Who Waits Behind
Those Above
Those Below
A City Dreaming
The Builders
The Seventh Perfection
ANGRY ROBOT
An imprint of Watkins Media Ltd
Unit 11, Shepperton House
89 Shepperton Road
London N1 3DF
UK
angryrobotbooks.com
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March 31st
An Angry Robot paperback original, 2023
Copyright © Daniel Polansky 2023
Cover by Sarah O’Flaherty
Edited by Paul Simpson and Andrew Hook
Set in Meridien
All rights reserved. Daniel Polansky asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work. A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Sales of this book without a front cover may be unauthorized. If this book is coverless, it may have been reported to the publisher as “unsold and destroyed” and neither the author nor the publisher may have received payment for it.
Angry Robot and the Angry Robot icon are registered trademarks of Watkins Media Ltd.
ISBN 978 1 91520 245 1
Ebook ISBN 978 1 91520 250 5
Printed and bound in the United Kingdom by TJ Books Ltd.
9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
d_r0
For my family, past and present.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
BOOK ONE 2000
ONE
2023
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
2001
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
2023
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
2001
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
2023
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
2001
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
BOOK TWO 2005
TWENTY-FOUR
2023
TWENTY-FIVE
TWENTY-SIX
TWENTY-SEVEN
TWENTY-EIGHT
2006
TWENTY-NINE
THIRTY
THIRTY-ONE
THIRTY-TWO
2023
THIRTY-THREE
THIRTY-FOUR
THIRTY-FIVE
THIRTY-SIX
THIRTY-SEVEN
THIRTY-EIGHT
2006
THIRTY-NINE
FORTY
FORTY-ONE
2023
FORTY-TWO
FORTY-THREE
FORTY-FOUR
FORTY-FIVE
FORTY-SIX
2006
FORTY-SEVEN
FORTY-EIGHT
FORTY-NINE
FIFTY
BOOK THREE 2023
FIFTY-ONE
FIFTY-TWO
FIFTY-THREE
FIFTY-FOUR
FIFTY-FIVE
FIFTY-SIX
FIFTY-SEVEN
FIFTY-EIGHT
FIFTY-NINE
SIXTY
SIXTY-ONE
SIXTY-TWO
SIXTY-THREE
SIXTY-FOUR
SIXTY-FIVE
SIXTY-SIX
SIXTY-SEVEN
SIXTY-EIGHT
SIXTY-NINE
2024
SEVENTY
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
BOOK ONE
2000
ONE
The children were in the attic. Mary Ann and John sat on the bed, with Constance in the big rocking chair beside them, flipping through the book. Watching through the window overlooking the old oak tree you would have thought she was reading them a story, but she was not.
“T is for the Tower,” said Mary Ann. She was eleven, with red hair and a recently fastened set of braces. “From where the March is ruled with strength and wisdom.”
“Good,” said Constance, turning the page, “keep going.”
“U is for Under the Mountain, the kingdom of the petrousian, carved from rock and stone.”
The book was bound with something like leather and lacked title, author, or colophon. The pages were ancient but neither yellowed nor brittle, shades of colored ink depicting a vast subterranean city, gravelly humanoids smelting ore and carrying iron and carving stalagmite.
“From earth and stone,” she corrected. Constance was thirteen, big for her age, frowsy haired and friendly.
“What’s the difference?”
Constance wasn’t sure, but as the eldest she couldn’t say that. “It’s in the book.”
“From earth and stone,” Mary Ann repeated unenthusiastically.
Constance turned a page to reveal a troupe of knights – fox knights and owl knights and clockwork knights and knights that looked like jellyfish but with fewer tendrils – all marching or riding or flying in spotless armor, carrying shining weapons and fluttering banners.
“V is for…” Mary Ann began but did not finish. “Oh, hell, I never remember this one. Can’t we just go to the party?”
“Don’t say hell,” said Constance, “and not until we’re done with the book.”
“Hell,” Mary Ann said again, “and who cares about the book? Why do we have to do homework on a holiday?”
“Because we’re Harrow,” said Constance, wearing what was Mary Ann’s least favorite expression. “We’re special. Go again.”
“V is for very boring,” said Mary Ann, “for vexing and for vile.”
“You should know this by now. I memorized it when I was still in third grade.”
“Of course, you did, you’re perfect.” Mary Ann crossed her arms.
“Mother says–”
“You’re not our Mother.”
“No, Mother is our mother, and she said we had to finish with the book before we went to the party. Do you think I wouldn’t prefer being downstairs, rather than babysitting the two of you?”
“I think you love it. I think it’s your absolute favorite thing.”
“V is for the Valiant, who defend the March from evil,” said John, turning from the window. John was eight; you could tell by his height and his baby face and the children’s suit he had been forced to wear – but not always by his eyes, which were bright blue and strangely serious. “W is for the widdershins, nomads and wanderers, who walk with their hands and eat with their feet. X is for the xerophiles, lords of the western wastes, monarchs of the endless sand. Y is for the yearlings, the mounts of the mighty, who will not see a second spring. Z is for the zoaea, who guard the Southern oceans in argosy and galleass.”
Constance turned to the final page of the book, which was black from margin to margin with something darker than ink. “What comes last?” she asked, with more than her usual seriousness.
Even Mary Ann knew this one. “The End,” she said, matching her sister’s tone.
Constance shut the book with a snap. “Now we can go to the party.”
Which was already in full swing below, festive music echoing up the stairwell, the landing packed with revelers. Strings of colored lights twinkled over the mantle, a fire crackled in its corner, mistletoe hung hopeful over doorways, wine mulled, dips congealed. The Harrow’s Christmas party was an institution across the neighborhood. The living room and the dining room and the fancy room in the back where no one ever went were busy with friends and acquaintances, people who worked with Father and people Mother had once gone to school with and everyone fortunate enough to live in their development; except for the Wolfes who were out of town, and Mr Crowley who never came to anything and turned his lights off on Halloween.
In the center of it, wearing a long evening dress with her hair up in a high crown, stood their mother. Sophia Harrow was a tall woman, with skin the color of fresh snow and the same blue eyes as her son. With effortless grace she greeted new arrivals, charmed strangers, filled cups, disposed of plates, always with a smile by turns welcoming and gracious, the very model of a genial host.
‘It must be a terrible thing to grow up with a mother who isn’t beautiful,’ thought Constance.
‘I’ll never be so pretty,’ thought Mary Ann.
It was hard to tell what John thought.
Sophia was busy but she broke away as soon as she saw her children, bending down to kiss them one by one, even Mary Ann who usuall y objected.
“Did you finish with your homework?”
“Yes, Mother,” said Constance.
“Yes, Mother,” said Mary Ann, an instant later.
John didn’t say anything.
“There’s food in the kitchen, and you can have some Coke if you want, but not too much or it will keep you up.” Sophia patted Constance and rubbed Mary Ann’s shoulder and fixed little John’s little tie. “What did I ever do to deserve such lovely children?” she asked, not rhetorically but as if waiting for the answer.
There were fifty people at the party but when Sophia spoke it was like she was speaking just to you, and Constance beamed and John strutted and even Mary Ann looked pleased. Then Sophia was called away to deal with some minor crisis involving a chafing dish and the children were left to the interference of their elders. They congratulated Constance on her height, made John tell them his age and complimented Mary Ann on the dress which she hated, before – in the fashion of adults – forgetting about them completely, leaving the Harrow children finally free to go their separate ways.
Constance found her father in the kitchen, standing over a sudsy sink, hands sheathed in orange rubber gloves. Constance took a towel and started to dry a serving plate.
“Wouldn’t you rather be enjoying yourself?” Michael asked. Michael had taken off his suit jacket to wash the dishes, and the muscles in his back and shoulders, and his stout gut, stood taut in his dress shirt. He shared the same genially unruly hair as his daughter. Sophia sometimes joked that it was the wildest thing about him.
“I don’t mind,” said Constance.
Her father smiled and Constance smiled back.
Mary Ann slipped out onto the porch to where Uncle Aaron leaned in the chilly shade of the December evening.
“Done with your lessons?” he asked.
Uncle Aaron was Mary Ann’s favorite person in the world. He was terribly handsome, thin and dark with bright, striking eyes. He had lived in Europe for a while. He was also the only person Mary Ann knew besides their cafeteria lunch lady who smoked cigarettes, which was why he was outside, by himself, instead of inside, at the party.
Or so Mary Ann assumed. “Finally finished,” she said. “Constance is such an apple-polisher – say ‘a’ instead of ‘the’ and you’ve practically got to start over.”
“I used to hate the book when I was your age,” said Aaron. “I could never get the V right.”
“That’s the one I missed!”
“Your mother could roll it off her tongue, of course,” said Aaron, looking through the window at where Sophie stood over a tray of appetizers, pointing out various delectables to Mr Hoban.
Mary Ann took a firmer grasp on her uncle’s arm. “I’m so glad you’re back for Christmas this year.”
“Yeah? Me too, Mule,” said Aaron.
Mule was his special name for her, from when she was six and had refused to eat her broccoli even after the rest of the family had finished dinner and dessert and gone upstairs to wash up.
“Do you think you’ll stick around after the holidays?” Mary Ann asked.
“Maybe,” said Uncle Aaron, though he was staring at Sophia and did not look down.
John took a gingerbread reindeer from off a tray and went to stand in front of the Christmas tree, an overabundant Fraser Fir capped by a star which scraped the high ceiling. The base was bare, but in a few days it would be unapproachable with gifts delivered by an ageless Teutonic deity, tasked with dispensing punishment and reward among all the world’s children. For John this remained a point of certainty; not once had he thought of poking around in upstairs cabinets for hopes of forbidden treasure. At eight, John still believed in magic.
“Finished with the book?” asked his grandmother, who sat by the fire with a quiet half smile on her face.
John took a seat on her lap. “Yeah,” he said, “but it took forever.”
“Forever?”
“Constance and Mary Ann fight all the time,” said John. John had only recently been introduced to hyperbole and was losing no opportunity for practice.
“All the time?”
“Almost,” he said, “Constance has to know better, and Mary Ann has to know best.”
“It’s part of having siblings,” John’s grandmother explained, “big table, lots of voices.”
John swallowed this with his iced gingerbread.
Back in the kitchen Michael and Constance fought a desperate rear-guard action against the dishes, an endless horde of hors d’oeuvre plates, crystal glasses, serving trays and silverware. They fell into an easy, wordless rhythm, like dancing a tango or turning a double play in baseball. Constance would have preferred the second analogy.
“My loyal little soldier,” said Michael.
Constance flushed proudly. “Somebody needs to help.”
“Someone does,” Michael agreed, “not everyone will.”
Mary Ann had come in from the porch, and she watched as Sophia charmed Ms Alexievich and the Trevors with some or other sparkling observation, Mr Trevor smirking and Mrs Trevor giggling and Ms Alexievich laughing so hard that she coughed up most of her wine. Mary Ann wondered at how her mother had learned to hold her neck in that certain way, and to talk just loud enough that everyone had to lean closer to hear, and whether these were things that Mary Ann herself might learn with time and patience or if, like her blue eyes, they were a characteristic of her mother she could never acquire.
The fire in the great stone hearth – in previous years, reliably roaring – had burned down to hot coals. John’s grandmother sighed.
“Do you miss him?” John asked.
“Of course,” said his grandmother. “Every day.”
This made John feel better. John missed his grandfather terribly – when Constance watched sports news, anytime he went swimming, sometimes for no reason that he could tell. Dead in his sleep earlier that summer, in John’s mind he would remain forever a smiling, bushy-bearded giant, associated with the smell of wood smoke and motor oil, with a faded leather comfy chair, with a certain superficial severity, with safety and with home.
“No one loved the holidays like your grandfather,” said his widow in the faded firelight. “He was like one of the kids, it was exhausting. Everything had to be exactly the same, every year – if you left out some tinsel or a plaster Santa he always noticed.” She gazed into the dining room, where Aaron had come to join his sister as she held court around their makeshift bar. “He would have been so happy to see all of us together again.”
Beginning as it did only a few years prior, John’s sense of time was somewhat unreliable. Even still, he understood Uncle Aaron had not been to the house in a long time, a very long time, so long that John could only distantly recall having met him – at an outing to a fair, or someone’s birthday. Too young likewise to be told anything, still John could piece together from the occasional strained silence and slammed door that however his dead grandfather might have felt on the matter, Aaron’s return had not proved entirely easy for anyone.
“How come Aaron lives in Denver?” John asked.
“I guess he must like it there.”
“It’s far away, though.”
Joan – this was the name of John’s grandmother, though John was only dimly aware of this, her existence in his mind so entirely constrained by their relationship – sighed again and squeezed John tight. “Very far,” she agreed.
So far that evening Mary Ann had eaten three buttered rolls and the crispy top off the creamed potatoes, and she was heading into the kitchen for another plate when she caught Uncle Aaron and her Mother engaged in the sort of conversation which children are not supposed to hear. She set herself against the wall and perked up her ears.
“I’m just suggesting you pace yourself,” said Sophia.
“Thank you, sister,” said Uncle Aaron, though not like he meant it, “but this isn’t my first experience with alcohol.”
“Yes, I think I recollect some of your earlier adventures. There was that Thanksgiving when you put most of Mother’s turkey into the rose bush.”
“Do you have these written down somewhere? Aaron’s big book of failures? You could give it to the kids to memorize. ‘C is for catatonic, a state of inebriation which Aaron reached just before we were supposed to take the family photo.’”
Against herself, Sophia broke into a slow chuckle. “You’re such an asshole, Aaron, it’s fucking unbelievable.”
From the hallway beyond, Mary Ann’s eyes went very wide.
“Don’t let the kids hear you talk like that,” Aaron warned.
