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The cover story for the May Fantasy and Science Fiction is "The Master Miller's Tale" by Ian R. MacLeod, which takes place in the "Aether" universe of his novels The Light Ages and The House of Storms. For the uninitiated, the story has no direct connection to the plots of either novel beyond the general setting, so no need to fear getting lost among unfamiliar references.

Aether is an alchemical substance that co-exists with industrial technology; various guilds initiate members with the secrets of magical spells to help make a specific kind of technology work more efficiently. Thus, as a young boy, the master miller of this tale learns from his father's spell book "complex melodies that would keep back those four apocalyptic demons of the milling industry, which were: weevils, woodworm, fire, and rats" (p. 10). There are other kinds of magic, strange to even those who cast spells, such as a mysterious peddler of captured winds sold to the miller for emergency use to propel the windmill when nature isn't cooperating. Also, there's the "magic" of technological innovation, the substitution of on-demand steam power for the vagaries of wind propulsion, and the social implications of that transition.

The story covers the themes of the novels in which conflict is rooted in the inevitable cultural upheavals -- for better or worse -- wrought by scientific advancement. Here, the last of the master millers, Nathan Westover, tries to hang on to the traditional ways even while the steam-powered mill of his estranged childhood crush, Fiona Smith, is taking away his business. In an act of desperation -- or, perhaps, defiance -- Nathan joins a group of Luddites who resort to terrorism to halt progress, with disastrous consequences.

From the opening paragraph, you know this is a story of the demise of Nathan and his tradition. "There are only ruins left now on Burlish Hill, a rough circle of stones. The track that once in the valley below is little more than an indentation in the grass, and the sails of the mill that once turned there are forgotten. Time has moved on, and lives have moved with it. Only the wind remains" (p. 6).

Wind is a central metaphor, both as a source of natural, albeit transient, power as well as the notion of the "winds of change" and the difficulty -- if not ultimate futility -- in preserving whatever may be borne off whichever way the wind blows (magical inducements notwithstanding). Without giving away too much about the conclusion, suffice it to say it poignantly portrays Nathan's struggle to preserve the things he loves, only to realize that inexplicable forces ultimately determine their fate.

As an aside, while the title seemingly echoes Chaucer's "Miller's Tale," and I've seen some superficial commentary to this effect, I fail to detect any connection between Canterbury ribaldry and MacLeod's somber recounting of the inevitability of relentless progress. MacLeod's tale stands on its own as first-rate fiction without need of help of such literary comparisons, particularly ones that are inaccurately drawn.

While MacLeod postulates an alternate industrial revolution to depict the onslaught of progress, in "The Tamarisk Hunter," Paolo Bacigalupi projects the exploitation of limited resources by those with the money to acquire them into a new future of a parched American West. The titular hunter earns a bounty for every patch of water-ingesting tamarisk removed from a system depleted by a decade long drought exacerbated by California's near-monopolistic control of water rights. To keep himself in business, the tamarisk hunter also surreptitiously and illegally replants the shrub. He fears that inquiries by a National Guard that acts in the interests of California rather than what local residents remain may mean discovery of his criminal activities. However, it is something much more in keeping with the nature of government, to protect the interest of the elite at the expense of the average citizenry:

"…A trucker told me that California and the Interior Department drew up all these plans to decide which cities they'd turn off when… They worked out some kind of formula: how many cities, how many people they could evaporate at a time without making too much unrest. Got advice from the Chinese, from when they were shutting down their old Communist industries. Anyways, it looks like they're pretty much done with it. There's nothing much moving out there except highway trucks and coal trains and a couple truck stops."
pgs. 69-70

David Soyka is a former journalist and college teacher who writes the occasional short story and freelance article. He makes a living writing corporate marketing communications, which is a kind of fiction without the art.