The Thief of Always

by Clive Barker

“Why?”

  “Well…maybe there are some things I’d like. Only I want to tell him about them personally.”

  “He’s listening,” Rictus said, glancing back toward the House.

  Harvey scanned the windows, and the eaves, and the porch, but there was no sign of any presence. “I don’t see him,” he said.

  “Yes you do,” Rictus replied.

  “Is he in the House?” Harvey asked, staring through the open door.

  “Haven’t you guessed yet?” Rictus replied. “He is the House.”

  As he spoke a cloud moved over the sun. The roof and walls darkened, and the entire House seemed to swell like a monstrous fungus. It was alive! From the eaves to the foundations, alive!

  “Go on!” Rictus said. “Speak to him. He’s listening.”

  Harvey took a step toward the House. “Can you hear me?” he said.

  The front door swung a little wider, and a sighing breath from the top of the stairs blew a cloud of Jive’s dust out onto the porch.

  “He can hear you,” said Rictus.

  “If I stay—” Harvey began.

  “Yesss…?” said the House, making the word from creaks and rattles.

  “—you’ll give me anything I want?”

  “For a bright boy like you…” came the reply, “…anything.”

  “You promise? On your magic?”

  “I promise. I promise. Just say the word…”

  “Well, for a start—”

  “Yesss?”

  “I lost my ark.”

  “Then you must have another, my lodestar,” the Hood-House said. “Bigger. Better.” And a board of the porch folded back as an ark three times the size of the first one rose into view.

  “I don’t want lead animals,” Harvey said as he walked toward the steps.

  “What then?” said Hood. “Silver? Gold?”

  “Flesh and blood,” Harvey replied. “Perfect little animals.”

  “I like a challenge, “Hood said, and as he spoke a tinny din of bellows and roars rose from the ark, and the little windows were flung open and the doors flung wide and half a hundred animals appeared, all perfect miniatures: elephants, giraffes, hyenas, aardvarks, doves.

  “Satisfied?” said Hood.

  Harvey shrugged. “It’s okay, I suppose,” he said.

  “Okay?” said Hood. “It’s a little miracle.”

  “So make me another.”

  “Another ark?”

  “Another miracle!”

  “What would you like?”

  Harvey turned his back on the Hood-House and surveyed the lawn. The sight of Mrs. Griffin, watching with puzzlement, inspired the next request. “I want flowers,” he said. “Everywhere! And I don’t want two alike.”

  “What for?” asked the Hood-House.

  “You said I could have whatever I wanted,” Harvey replied. “You didn’t say I had to give you reasons. If I have to do that all the fun goes out of it.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t want that,” the Hood-House said. “You must have fun, at all costs.”

  “So give me the flowers,” Harvey insisted.

  The lawn began to tremble as though a minor earthquake were underway, and the next moment countless shoots pressed up between the blades of grass. Mrs. Griffin began to laugh with delight.

  “Look at them!” she said. “Just look!”

  It was quite a show; tens of thousands of flowers bursting into blossom at the same time. Harvey could have named a few of them if he’d been quizzed: tulips, daffodils, roses. But most of them were new to him: species that only bloomed at night on the High Himalayas, or on the windswept plateaus of Tierra del Fuego; flowers with blooms as big as his head, or as small as his thumbnail; blooms that stank like bad meat, or smelled like a breeze from Heaven itself.

  Even though he knew it was all an illusion, he was impressed, and said so.

  “Looks good,” he told the Hood-House.

  “Satisfied?” it wanted to know.

  Was its voice a little weaker than it had been earlier? Harvey wondered. He suspected it was. He showed no sign of that suspicion, however. He simply said: “We’re getting there…”

  “Getting where?” said the Hood-House.

  “Well,” said Harvey, “I guess we’ll know when we arrive.”

  A low growl of irritation came from the House, shaking the windows. One or two slates slid from the roof and smashed on the ground below.

  I’m going to have to be careful, Harvey thought; Hood’s getting angry. Rictus echoed that thought.

  “I hope you’re not stringing Mr. Hood along,” he warned, “because he doesn’t like that kind of game.”

  “He wants me happy, doesn’t he?” Harvey said.

  “Of course.”

  “So how about something to eat?”

  “The kitchen’s full,” said Rictus.

  “I don’t want pies and hot dogs. I want…” He paused, ransacking his memory for delicacies he’d heard about. “Roast swan and oysters and those little black eggs—”

  “Caviar?” Rictus suggested.

  “That’s it! I want caviar!”

  “Really? It’s disgusting.”

  “I still want it!” said Harvey. “And frog’s legs and horseradish and pomegranates—”

  The meals were already appearing in the hallway, plate upon steaming plate. The smells were tantalizing at first, but the more dishes Harvey added to the list the more sickly the mix became. He rapidly began to exhaust his menu of real meals, however, so instead of giving the House easy recipes like meatballs and pizzas, he started to invent dishes.

  “I want crawfish cooked in cherry soda and horse steaks with jelly-bean sauce, and Boston Cream Cheese and pastrami soup—”

  “Wait! Wait!” said Rictus. “You’re going too fast.”

  But Harvey didn’t stop.

  “—and pumpernickel stew and snail fudge with pig’s-foot clusters—”

  “Wait!” the House howled.

  This time, Harvey stopped.

  In the heat of his invention he hadn’t even looked to see if Hood was supplying him with these eatables, but now he saw all the dishes he’d demanded piled so high in the hallway that they were threatening to topple and float the ark on a noxious sea of sweetmeats and stews.

  “I know what you’re doing,” said the Hood-House.

  Uh-oh, Harvey thought; he’s onto me.

  He looked up from the feast at the door to the facade and saw that his plan to drain the House of its magic was indeed working. Many of the windows were now cracked or broken; the doors were peeling and hanging from their hinges; the porch boards were twisted and blighted.

  “You’re testing me, aren’t you?” said Hood. His voice had never been melodious, but it was now uglier than ever: like the rumble of the Devil’s belly. “Admit it, thief.” he said.

  Harvey took a deep breath, then said: “If I’m going to be your apprentice, I need to know how powerful you are.”

  “Are you satisfied?” the decaying House demanded.

  “Almost,” Harvey said.

  “What more do you want?” it roared.

  What more indeed, Harvey thought. His mind was reeling with these ridiculous lists; he had little left in the way of demands.

  “You may have one final gift.” the Hood-House said, “one final proof of my power. Then you must accept me as your Master forever and ever. Agreed?”

  Harvey felt a trickle of cold sweat run down his spine. He stared at the teetering House, his mind racing. What was left to demand?

  “Agreed?” the House boomed.

  “Agreed,” he said.

  “So tell me,” it went on. “What do you want?”

  He looked at the tiny animals around the ark, and at the flowers, and at the food spewing through the door. What should he demand? One final request, to break Hood’s back. But what? What?

  A gust of chilly wind came from the direction of the lake. Autumn could not be far off: The season of dying things.


  “I know!” he said suddenly.

  “Tell me,” the House replied, “tell me and let’s have this game over owe and fur all. I want your bright soul under my wing, little thief.”

  “And I want the seasons,” Harvey said. “All the seasons at once.”

  “At once?”

  “Yes, at once!”

  “That’s nonsensical!”

  “It’s what I want.”

  “Stupid! Imbecilic!”

  “It’s what I want! You said one more wish and that’s it!”

  “Very well,” said the House. “I will give it to you. And when you have it, little thief, your soul is mine!”

  XXIII. The War of Seasons

  Hood didn’t waste any time. He’d no sooner made his final offer to Harvey than the balmy wind grew gusty, carrying off the lamb’s wool clouds that had been drifting through the summer sky. In their place came a juggernaut: a thunderhead the size of a mountain, which loomed over the House like a shadow thrown against Heaven.

  It had more than lightning at its dark heart. It had the light rains that came at early morning to coax forth the seeds of another spring; it had the drooping fogs of autumn, and the spiraling snows that had brought so many midnight Christmases to the House. Now all three fell at once—rains, snows and fogs—as a chilly sleet that all but covered the sun. It would have killed the flowers on the slope with cold, had the wind not reached them first, tearing through the blossoms with such vehemence that every petal and leaf was snatched up into the air.

  Standing between this fragrant tide and the plummeting curtain of ice and cloud, Harvey was barely able to stay upright. But he planted his feet wide apart, and resisted every blast and buffet, determined not to take shelter. This spectacle might be the last he set eyes upon as a free spirit; indeed as a living spirit. He intended to enjoy it.

  It was a sight to behold; a battle the likes of which the planet had never seen.

  To his left, shafts of sunlight pierced the storm clouds in the name of Summer, only to be smothered by Autumn’s fogs, while to his right Spring coaxed its legions out of bough and earth, then saw its buds murdered by Winter’s frosts before they could show their colors.

  Attack after attack was mounted and repulsed, reveille and retreat sounded a hundred times, but no one season was able to carry the day. It was soon impossible to distinguish defeats from victories. The rallies and the feints, the diversions and encirclements all became one confusion. Snows melted into rains as they fell; rains were boiled into vapor; and sweated new shoots out through the rot of their brothers.

  And somewhere in the midst of this chaos, the power that had brought it about raised its voice in a rage, demanding that it cease.

  “Enough!” the Hood-House yelled. “Enough!”

  But its voice—which had once carried such terrible authority had grown weak. Its orders went unnoticed; or if noticed, then disobeyed.

  The seasons raged on, throwing themselves against each other with rare abandon, and in passing tearing at the House which stood in the midst of their battlefield.

  The walls, which had begun to teeter as Hood’s power diminished, were thrown over by the raging wind. The chimneys were wracked by thunder, and toppled; the lightning rods struck so many times they melted, and fell through the slateless roof in a burning rain, setting fire to every floorboard, banister and stick of furniture they touched. The porch, pummeled by hail, was reduced to matchwood. The staircase, rocked to its foundations by the growth in the dirt around it, collapsed like a tower of cards.

  Squinting against the face of the storm, Harvey witnessed all of this, and rejoiced. He’d come to the House hoping to steal back the years that Hood had tricked from him, but he’d never dared believe he could bring the whole edifice down. Yet here it was, falling as he watched. Loud though the dins of wind and thunder were, they couldn’t drown out the sound of the House as it perished and went to dust. Every nail and sill and brick seemed to shriek at once, a cry of pain that only oblivion could comfort.

  Harvey was denied a glimpse of Hood’s last moments. A cloud of dirt rose like a veil to cover the sight. But he knew the moment his battle with the Vampire King was over, because the warring seasons suddenly turned to peace. The thunderhead softened its furies, and dispersed; the wind dropped to an idling breeze; the fierce sun grew watery, and veiled itself in mist.

  There was debris in the air, of course: petals and leaves, dust and ash. They fell like a dream rain, though their fall marked the end of a dream.

  “Oh, child…” said Mrs. Griffin.

  Harvey turned to her. She was standing just a few yards from him, gazing up at the sky. There was a little patch of blue above their heads; the first glimpse of real sky these few acres of ground had seen since Hood had founded his empire of illusions. But it was not the patch she was watching, it was a congregation of floating lights—the same that Harvey had seen Hood feeding upon in the attic—which had been freed by the collapse of the House. They were now moving in a steady stream toward the lake.

  “The children’s souls,” she said, her voice growing thinner as she spoke the word. “Beautiful.”

  Her body was no longer solid, Harvey saw; she was fading away in front of him.

  “Oh no,” he murmured.

  She took her eyes off the sky and stared down at her arms, and the cat she was carrying in them. It too was growing insubstantial.

  “Look at us,” Mrs. Griffin said, with a smile upon her weary face. “It feels so wonderful.”

  “But you’re disappearing.”

  “I’ve lingered here far too long, sweet boy,” she said. There were tears glistening on her face, but they were tears of joy, not of sadness. “It’s time to go…” She kept stroking Stew-Cat as they both

  faded from sight. “You are the brightest soul I ever met, Harvey Swick,” she said. “Keep shining, won’t you?”

  Harvey wished he had some words to persuade her to stay a little while longer. But even if he’d had such words, he knew it would have been selfish to speak them. Mrs. Griffin had another life to go to, where every soul shone.

  “Goodbye, child,” she said. “Wherever I go, I will speak of you with love.”

  Then her ghostly form flickered out, leaving Harvey alone in the ruins.

  XXIV. A Fledgling Thief

  He was not alone for long. Mrs. Griffin and Stew-Cat had no sooner vanished from sight than Harvey heard a voice calling his name. The air was still thick with dust, and he had to look hard for the speaker. But after a little time he found her, stumbling toward him.

  “Lulu?”

  “Who else?” she said, with a little laugh.

  The lake’s dark water still soaked her from head to foot, but as it ran from her body and into the ground the last traces of her silver scales went with it. When she opened her arms to him, they were human arms.

  “You’re free!” he said, running to her and hugging her hard.” I can’t believe you’re free!”

  “We’re all free,” she said, and glanced back toward the lake.

  An extraordinary sight met his eyes: a procession of laughing children coming toward him through the mist. Those closest to him were all but returned to their human shape, those behind them still shaking off their fishiness, step by step.

  “We should all get out of here,” Harvey said, looking toward the wall. “I don’t think we’ll have any trouble getting through the mist now.”

  One of the children behind Lulu had spotted a box of clothes in the rubble of the House, and announcing his find to the rest, stumbled through the debris to find something to wear. Lulu left Harvey’s side to join the search, but not before she’d planted a kiss on his cheek.

  “Don’t expect one from me!” said a voice out of the dust, and Wendell stepped into view, beaming from ear to ear. “What did you do, Harvey?” he wanted to know as he surveyed the chaos. “Pull the place down brick by brick?”

  “Something like that,” said Harvey, unable to
conceal his pride.

  There was a roaring sound from the direction of the lake.

  “What’s that?” Harvey wanted to know.

  “The water’s disappearing,” Wendell said.

  “Where to?”

  Wendell shrugged. “Who cares?” he said. “Maybe it’s all being sucked to Hell!”

  Eager to witness this, Harvey walked toward the lake, and through the clouds of dirt in the air saw that it had indeed become a whirlpool, its once placid waters now a raging spiral.

  “What happened to Hood, by the way?” Wendell wanted to know.

  “He’s gone,” said Harvey, almost mesmerized by the sight of the vortex. “They’ve all gone.”

  Even as the words left his lips a voice said: “Not quite.”

  He turned from the waters, and there in the rubble stood Rictus. His fine jacket was torn and his face was white with dust. He looked like a clown; a laughing clown.

  “Now why would I take myself off?” he asked. “We never said goodbye.”

  Harvey stared at him with bafflement on his face. Hood was gone; so was his magic. How could Rictus have survived the disappearance of his Master?

  “I know what you’re thinking,” said Rictus, reaching into his pocket. “You’re wondering why I’m not dead and gone. Well, I’ll tell you. I did some plannin’ ahead.” He drew a glass globe, which flickered as though it held a dozen candle flames, out of his pocket. “I stole a little piece of the old man’s magic, just in case he ever got tired of me and tried to put me out of my misery.” He lifted the globe up to his leering face. “I’ve got enough power here to keep me going for years and years,” he said. “Long enough to build a new House, and take over where Hood left off. Oh, don’t look so unhappy, kid. I got a place for you, right here—” He slapped his thigh. “You can be my bird dog. I’ll send you out lookin’ for kiddie-winkies to bring home to Uncle Rictus.” He slapped his thigh a second time. “C’mon!” he said. “Don’t waste my time now. I don’t—?”

  He stopped there, his gaze dropping to the rubble at his feet.

  A terrified whisper escaped his throat. “Oh no…” he murmured. “I beg—”

  Before he could finish his plea a hand with foot-long fingers reached up from the rubble and snatched hold of his throat, dragging him down into the dirt in one swift motion.