Night Fall

by Simon R. Green

  “Where are we going?” he said, after Razor Eddie had passed a whole bunch of deserted churches and temples without even glancing at them.

  “All the way down to the lowest end of the Street,” said Razor Eddie. “To see Dagon. An old-time god who fell from grace after his worshippers deserted him. He only recently returned to the Street of the Gods, to work his way back up again. He’s all right for a god.”

  John didn’t know what to say in response to that, so he didn’t say anything. The ways of gods are not the ways of men.

  They passed the dilapidated churches of such has-been gods as The Speaking Stone, Soror Marium, and the latest incarnation of The Carrion In Tears. All of which were clearly deserted. Until finally, right at the farthest end of the Street, there was Dagon’s church. A pleasant little residence, its white stone walls scrubbed spotlessly clean. Lengths of bottle-green seaweed hung from the windows. Razor Eddie stopped before the perfectly ordinary door. It was closed, with a sign carved into the stone above that John didn’t even recognise. He looked to Razor Eddie, who smiled faintly.

  “It dates back to the Pharisees, who were the first to worship Dagon. Not many of them around these days, which may be why Dagon is currently just a man.”

  “Does he have any godly attributes?” said John.

  “I’m told he can hold his breath underwater for a really long time,” Razor Eddie said solemnly. “For anything else, ask him.”

  He pushed the door open and strode into the church. John hurried in after him. Razor Eddie called out to Dagon, his ghostly voice echoing across a much bigger open space than the small church could possibly have contained, but such small miracles came as standard on the Street of the Gods. It was the only way to fit everything in. The walls had been painted a deep, dark green, and the air was heavy with the smells of the sea. Strange creatures from the deepest part of the ocean swam freely in the green, in such detail they seemed almost to move on the edges of John’s vision. He licked his lips and tasted salt. He looked at Razor Eddie and gestured expansively with both arms.

  “Why?”

  “It makes Dagon feel at home.”

  There was no sign of the god, or any of his current worshippers. Rows of crude wooden pews stood empty, with not even a hymn-book on show. The simple stone altar at the far end of the room held nothing but a single candle, unlit. Razor Eddie stopped in the middle of the aisle, and John stopped with him.

  “Dagon!” said Razor Eddie, and his voice seemed to echo on and on, gathering strength and power on the quiet. “You know I’m here. This is John Taylor, the new Walker. Come out and talk to us, or I’ll tie knots in your seaweed.”

  “Don’t do that,” said a calm voice. “How will I tell what the weather’s going to be?”

  A slim figure emerged from the shadows by the altar. A quite ordinary-looking man in dark priest’s robes, with a bulging back-pack slung casually over one shoulder. He came forward to join Razor Eddie and John Taylor, and smiled pleasantly on both of them. He had the kind of face John knew he would have trouble remembering later, but there was an undeniable presence to the man. Razor Eddie looked at the back-pack and raised an eyebrow.

  “Travel light, travel fast,” said Dagon. His voice seemed to reverberate across the whole room, a god in his church.

  “Knock that off,” said Razor Eddie. “We’re not tourists.”

  Dagon smiled, and when he spoke again, it was a perfectly ordinary voice. John thought the first voice had probably been more honest.

  “Possessions only slow you down,” said Dagon. “Never own anything you can’t bear to leave behind. I’m always ready to get the hell out of Dodge, before the raging mob turns up. You learn things like that in the god business when you’ve been around as long as I have. First rule of religion: Nothing lasts.”

  “I thought you were in the eternity business,” said Razor Eddie.

  “Eternity isn’t what it used to be,” said Dagon.

  “Is that why all the other gods have left the Street?” said John.

  “There’s something in the air,” said Dagon. “Gods can smell trouble like a horse scenting a coming storm. Something bad is coming.”

  “Why didn’t you leave with them?” said Razor Eddie.

  “You know me,” said Dagon. “Always the last to hear anything. And I stayed because I knew you were coming.”

  Dagon and Razor Eddie exchanged a quick smile: two men who were more than men, easy in each other’s company. John felt a little left out.

  “Do you know what’s going on?” John asked, just a little brusquely.

  “It’s not only the gods who’ve disappeared,” said Dagon. “All the Transient Beings, all the confidence tricksters with their big names and bigger promises, all the elementals and spirits and avatars, all the unnatural flotsam and jetsam thrown up by popular culture . . . Gone, all gone. And they shut the Street down when they left because they didn’t expect to be coming back.”

  “So who opened it up again?” said John.

  “The Street,” said Dagon. “I think it felt lonely. Fill a Street with enough weird stuff, and you’re going to end up with a pretty weird Street.”

  “I can never tell when you’re joking,” said Razor Eddie.

  “To be fair,” said John, “you have a hard time telling when anyone is joking.”

  “True,” said Razor Eddie. “Now guess whether I give a damn.”

  John gave Dagon his full attention. “Where have the gods gone?”

  “Some went back to where they came from,” said the priest who used to be a god. “Some have gone to sleep, in the deep-down places under the Nightside. And some have taken refuge in higher and lower dimensions, to wait out the storm.”

  “What storm?” John asked, allowing his voice to rise just a little because he felt he’d been polite long enough. Razor Eddie stirred at his side, but Dagon seemed untroubled.

  “The storm that’s coming,” he said steadily. “Powerful enough to uproot everything we know and sweep it all away. I haven’t heard a name yet, or at least, not one I trust.”

  “Where have most of the gods gone?” said John.

  “To the Sundered Lands,” said Dagon. “The world King Arthur found in another dimension, to be a new home for the exiled elves. Or to Shadows Fall, and the Unseeli Court of King Oberon and Queen Titania.”

  “Of course,” said John. “The only places gods could feel at home because elves have always behaved like little gods anyway.”

  “How did the gods know this storm is coming?” asked Razor Eddie.

  “Gods exist outside of Time,” said Dagon. “They see the Past, the Present, and the Future equally clearly. They saw something bad coming to the Nightside and decided not to be here when it arrived.”

  “I haven’t seen anything,” said Razor Eddie.

  “Neither have I,” said Dagon, smiling kindly. “We’re too human.”

  “Given some of the crises the Nightside has already weathered,” John said slowly, “from the angel war over the Unholy Grail . . . to the return of Lilith, the long night’s original creator . . . What could be so bad that the gods themselves are frightened of it?”

  “I don’t know,” said Dagon. “But I’m not sticking around to find out.”

  “You didn’t tell me you were leaving,” said Razor Eddie, and John thought he heard something in the ghostly voice that might have been reproach.

  “I knew you were coming,” said Dagon. “So I could tell you now.”

  “Are you going to the Sundered Lands?” said John.

  “No,” said Dagon. “I’m too human to fit in there. I think it’s time for me to go to Shadows Fall.”

  “The elephants’ graveyard of the supernatural?” said John. “Where legends go to die, when the world stops believing in them? Are things really that bad?”

  “I should
have taken the hint when my divinity was taken from me,” said Dagon. “It was the last sign that I’d outstayed my welcome.”

  “Don’t go,” said Razor Eddie.

  Dagon smiled warmly. “Don’t look so sad. You could always come and visit.”

  “I don’t think I’d be welcome there,” said Razor Eddie.

  “They take everyone,” said Dagon. “That’s the point.”

  “I can’t go,” said Razor Eddie. “I have too much work here, cleaning up the Nightside.”

  Dagon looked to John. “I thought that was your job?”

  “I do what I can,” said John. “And Razor Eddie does everything I can’t.”

  Dagon nodded understandingly. He looked around his church one last time and settled his back-pack more comfortably on his shoulder.

  “Time to go.”

  He led the way out of his church. John kept an eye on Razor Eddie. He was scowling, which was never a good sign. The Punk God of the Straight Razor was prone to taking out his frustrations on those who deserved it or those who just happened to be around at the time. They stepped out of Dagon’s church and onto the Street of the Gods. Dagon didn’t look back, even to shut the door, and when John looked, neither the door nor the church were there any more. Dagon sighed wistfully.

  “I was just starting to be worshipped again . . .”

  All three of them looked around sharply as they heard shouts and screams from farther up the Street of the Gods. John headed quickly in their direction, taking on his mantle as Walker, the man whose job it was to do something when he heard screams. Razor Eddie and Dagon shared a look and went after him. Soon enough they were having to force their way through packed crowds, gathered together before a particularly gaudy establishment. John noticed immediately that most of these people looked upset rather than frightened. They fell silent and quickly gave room as they recognised Walker. And then fell back even more when they realised who was with him. John studied the church before him, a garish sight, with flashing neon, psychedelic murals, and two frankly obscene statues standing on either side of the door. It was standing open, and from deep inside the church came a terrible, broken-hearted weeping.

  “Oh, this is bad,” said Dagon.

  “I don’t know,” said Razor Eddie. “I’ve seen worse. Though this is pretty tacky.”

  “I meant the crying,” said Dagon.

  “I don’t know this church,” said John. “But then, they come and go so quickly . . .”

  “It’s home to the most recent incarnation of a rock god,” said Dagon. “The Thin White Prince. An avatar of an attitude, the rock and the roll made manifest. For fans who don’t just love the music; they worship it.”

  John strained his eyes against the gloom beyond the open door but couldn’t make out anything.

  “I’m getting a really bad feeling about this,” he said quietly.

  “Are we still going in?” said Razor Eddie.

  “Of course,” said John. “It’s the job.”

  “I’ll stay here,” said Dagon. “And watch the door.”

  John led the way in. A sudden light flared up as he crossed the threshold, glorious and dazzling. The vast hall ahead was lined with two long rows of classic juke-boxes, all gleaming metal trim and snazzy colours, all of them silent as the grave. The towering walls were paved with golden discs, with no names or details. Psychedelic murals splashed across the walls and up onto the ceiling, as wild and extravagant as those outside; but here the colours were fading, dimming, like the last of the light before a bulb burns out.

  John pressed on, his footsteps echoing loudly. Razor Eddie stuck close by his side, making hardly any sound at all. They followed the sound of the weeping until finally they came to a crowd of worshippers, the fans and the faithful on their knees before an altar piled high with slowly melting vinyl discs. Most of the fans had stopped crying because they’d exhausted their tears if not their grief, and now they just clung to each other for what little comfort they could find. They all had the same devastated look. For the lost music they knew they would never hear again.

  John knelt beside a teenage girl in New Romantic silks. He spoke to her kindly, and she turned to look at him. The heavy make-up on her face had deteriorated under the strength of her emotions into long, smudged streaks. And slowly, she told him what had happened.

  The worshippers of the Thin White Prince had returned to the Street of the Gods to find that the door to their god’s church was locked. Not left open, like the others, which suggested he might not have deserted them after all. They milled around outside for a while, beating on the locked door and calling out. When they got no answer, they broke down the door and went inside to search for their god. The girl broke off, because she couldn’t say any more, and gestured with a trembling hand at a nearby alcove. John looked at Razor Eddie, and the two of them moved over to where a single spangly curtain covered the entrance to the alcove. Razor Eddie wrinkled his nose.

  “Something smells bad.”

  “You should know,” said John.

  “I mean, it smells of death in there.”

  “You’d definitely know.”

  John took a firm hold on the curtain and jerked it aside. And there was the Thin White Prince, hanging from a noose. The chair he’d kicked away still lay on its side on the floor. The rock god’s handsome androgynous face was perfectly composed, even in death. The eyes stared sightlessly, but the mouth was clamped shut, as if to make it clear all his songs were at an end.

  “He killed himself?” said John. “I didn’t think gods did that. I didn’t think they could die. In fact, I always thought that was rather the point.”

  “He was never a god, as such,” said Razor Eddie, calmly studying the dead body. “Just a manifestation of the music. Though I doubt you could get his fans to believe that.”

  “Don’t think I’ll try,” said John. “Should we cut him down?”

  “No need,” said Razor Eddie. “It’s only the last vestiges of the fans’ faith that’s holding the body together. Once they finally accept he’s dead, and leave, the body will just disappear. It was never real in the first place.”

  “Even so,” said John. “He was real enough to be really scared. What kind of danger could drive a god to do something like this? Have you ever seen anything like this before?”

  “No,” said Razor Eddie. “Not even when Lilith came here, to strike down all the gods who wouldn’t worship her.”

  “What could be on its way that’s scarier than my mother?” said John.

  “I’ve been wondering that,” said Razor Eddie. He smiled faintly. “I do love a challenge . . .”

  “You’re getting as bad as Dead Boy,” said John.

  “Now you’re just being nasty,” said Razor Eddie. “Let’s get out of here. Unless you feel like a game of divine piñata?”

  “Go,” John said firmly.

  As they made their way past the grieving worshippers, one young man reached out to tug tentatively at John’s sleeve.

  “You’re Walker. Can’t you do something?”

  “I’m sure he’ll be back,” John said kindly. “Rock gods always make come-backs.”

  * * *

  • • •

  When John and Razor Eddie emerged from the front door, there was no sign of Dagon anywhere. Just a large crowd who were clearly waiting just for them. Forty or fifty very upset men and women, wearing all kinds of military uniforms from all kinds of armies and periods. Complete with a great many medal ribbons they almost certainly weren’t entitled to. All of them had guns in their hands, though they weren’t actually pointing them at anyone, just yet.

  “Followers of Mithras, the soldier’s god,” Razor Eddie said quietly. He didn’t seem in any way impressed, by the crowd or their guns. “The god of the week-end warrior.”

  “You ever met him?” said John. />
  “I’ve kicked his arse a few times, just on general principles.”

  “Probably not the best time to mention that,” said John.

  One of the soldiers stepped forward to confront John and Razor Eddie. A middle-aged man with a shaved head and a deep scowl, he was trying hard to look impressive and not quite managing. His military uniform had been carefully tailored to conceal his paunch and was doing the best it could. He pointed his machine-pistol at John, ignoring Razor Eddie.

  “Walker! I am the Major. I command these noble warriors of Mithras. You must know what’s going on here. Hell, you’re probably responsible for it. We demand you give us back our god! Or else!”

  “Or else what?” asked John politely.

  There was a loud clatter as all the soldiers locked and loaded and took aim at John and Razor Eddie.

  “You had to ask, didn’t you?” said Razor Eddie.

  “You’re not worried, are you?” said John.

  “Only for you.”

  “You’re too kind.”

  “No,” said Razor Eddie. “I’m really not.”

  Some of the week-end warriors were starting to look distinctly unhappy. No one had mentioned they might have to go up against the infamous John Taylor and the notorious Razor Eddie. And they really didn’t like the way Walker and the Punk God of the Straight Razor were looking at them. Some had already quietly lowered their weapons and were trying to edge back into the crowd, but the soldiers behind them were having none of it. The front row did not feel like the safest place to be. The Major realised something was going on behind him, glanced back, and all but stamped his foot in frustration.

  “Stand your ground! You are soldiers of Mithras! Be worthy of him!”

  More worshippers were streaming in from the rest of the Street, to watch the show from a safe distance. Anticipating imminent gun-fire and free entertainment. Voices were already encouraging both sides to stop messing about and get stuck in. Because there’s nothing a crowd likes more than: Let’s you and him fight. Bets were already being laid, mostly on which direction the soldiers would fall once Walker and Razor Eddie got sufficiently annoyed. All of which was doing nothing for the soldiers’ morale. John could sense fingers tightening on triggers. And, of course, no one would intervene to help John or Razor Eddie because this was the Nightside, after all. John felt a responsibility to defuse the situation, before any innocents got hurt. Assuming any of those rare creatures had wandered onto the Street of the Gods when he wasn’t looking.