The Essential Clive Barker

by Clive Barker

  “Show me the way,” he said.

  Carys smiled: a small but radiant smile. In the space of a wing beat winter melted away. Spring blossomed, the ground was green everywhere, especially over the burial pits.

  “Where are you going?” Marty asked her. It was clear from her delighted expression that circumstances had changed. For several minutes she had spat out clues to the life she was sharing in the European’s head. Marty had barely grasped the gist of what was going on. He hoped she would be able to furnish the details later. What country this was; what war. Suddenly, she said: “I’m finished.” Her voice was light; almost playful.

  “Carys?”

  “Who’s Carys? Never heard of him. Probably dead. They’re all dead but me.”

  “What have you finished?”

  “Learning of course. All he can teach me. And it was true. Everything he promised: all true. Old wisdom.”

  “What have you learned?”

  She raised her hand, the burned one, and spread it. “I can steal life,” she said. “Easily. Just find the place, and drink. Easy to take; easy to give.”

  “Give?”

  “For a while. As long as it suits me.” She extended a finger: God to Adam. “Let there be life.”

  He began to laugh in her again.

  “And the monk?”

  “What about him?”

  “Is he still with you?”

  The sergeant shook Carys’s head.

  “I killed him, when he’d taught me everything he could.” Her hands reached out and strangled the air. “I just throttled him one night, when he was sleeping. Of course he woke when he felt my grip around his throat. But he didn’t struggle; he didn’t make the slightest attempt to save himself.” The sergeant was leering as he described the act. “He just let me murder him. I could scarcely believe my luck; I’d been planning the thing for weeks, terrified that he’d read my thoughts. When he went so easily, I was ecstatic—” The leer suddenly vanished. “Stupid,” he murmured in her throat. “So, so stupid.”

  “Why?”

  “I didn’t see the trap he’d set. Didn’t see how he’d planned it all along, nurtured me like a son knowing that I’d be his executioner when the time came. I never realized—not once—that I was just his tool. He wanted to die. He wanted to pass his wisdom”—the word was pronounced derisively—”along to me, and then have me put an end to him.”

  “Why did he want to die?”

  “Don’t you see how terrible it is to live when everything around you perishes? And the more the years pass the more the thought of death freezes your bowels, because the longer you avoid it the worse you imagine it must be? And you start to long—oh how you long—for someone to take pity on you, someone to embrace you and share your terrors. And, at the end, someone to go into the dark with you.”

  “And you chose Whitehead,” Marty said, almost beneath his breath, “the way you were chosen; by chance.”

  “Everything is chance; and so nothing is,” the sleeping man pronounced; then laughed again, at his own expense, bitterly. “Yes, I chose him, with a game of cards. And then I made a bargain with him.”

  “But he cheated you.”

  Carys nodded her head, very slowly, her hand inscribing a circle on the air.

  “Round and round,” she said. “Round and round.”

  “What will you do now?”

  “Find the pilgrim. Wherever he is, find him! Take him with me. I swear I won’t let him escape me. I’ll take him, and show him.”

  “Show him what?”

  No answer came. In its place, she sighed, stretching a little, and moving her head from left to right and back again. With a shock of recognition Marty realized that he was still watching her repeat Mamoulian’s movements: that all the time the European had been asleep, and now, his energies repleted, he was preparing to wake. He snapped his previous question out again, determined to have an answer to his last, vital enquiry.

  “Show him what?”

  “Hell,” Mamoulian said. “He cheated me! He squandered all my teachings, all my knowledge, threw it away for greed’s sake, for power’s sake, for the life of the body. Appetite! All gone for appetite. All my precious love, wasted!” Marty could hear, in this litany, the voice of the puritan—a monk’s voice, perhaps?—the rage of a creature who wanted the world purer than it was and lived in torment because it saw only filth and flesh sweating to make more flesh, more filth. What hope of sanity in such a place? Except to find a soul to share the torment, a lover to hate the world with. Whitehead had been such a partner. And now Mamoulian was being true to his lover’s soul: wanting, at the end, to go into death with the only other creature he had ever trusted. “We’ll go to nothing …,” he breathed, and the breath was a promise. “All of us, go to nothing, Down! Down!”

  He was waking. There was no time left for further questions, however curious Marty was.

  “Carys.”

  “Down! Down!”

  “Carys! Can you hear me? Come out of him! Quickly!”

  Her head rolled on her neck.

  “Carys!”

  She grunted.

  “Quickly!”

  In Mamoulian’s head the patterns had begun again, as enchanting as ever. Spurts of light which would become pictures in a while, she knew. What would they be this time? Birds, flowers, trees in blossom. What a wonderland it was.

  “Carys.”

  The voice of someone she had once known was calling her from some very distant place. But so were the lights. They were resolving themselves even now. She waited, expectantly, but this time they weren’t memories that burst into view —

  “Carys! Quickly!”

  They were the real world, appearing as the European opened his lids. Her body tensed. Marty reached for her hand, and seized it. She exhaled, slowly, the breath coming out as a thin whine between her teeth, and suddenly she was awake to her imminent danger. She flung her thought out of the European’s head and back across the miles to Kilburn. For an agonized instant she felt her will falter, and she was falling backwards, back into his waiting head. Terrified, she gasped like a stranded fish while her mind fought for propulsion.

  Marty dragged her to a standing position, but her legs buckled. He held her up with his arms wrapped around her.

  “Don’t leave me,” he whispered into her hair. “Gentle God, don’t leave me.”

  Suddenly, her eyes flickered open.

  “Marty,” she mumbled. “Marty.”

  It was her: he knew her look too well for the European to deceive him.

  “You came back,” he said.

  They didn’t speak for several minutes, simply held on to each other. When they did talk, she had no taste for retelling what she’d experienced. Marty held his curiosity in check. It was enough to know they had no Devil on their backs.

  Just old humanity, cheated of love, and ready to pull down the world on its head.

  SIX

  BESTIARY

  Hieronymus Bosch, surely the greatest painter of invented creatures in Western art, is known best for an elaborate triptych which is now in the Prado in Madrid. On the left-hand panel Eden is depicted. On the right-hand panel is an extraordinary vision of Hell. And in the middle panel is a delirium that has tested the inventions of scholarly interpretation for centuries. The sheer profligacy of images in these pictures is breathtaking. Creatures abound, meticulously painted monsters that share the canvas with minutely observed renderings of real species.

  I’d like my books and paintings to steal a little of that profligacy for themselves: to evoke for my audience a hallucinatory excess, forms proliferating, demanding new zoologies.

  Some of these creatures can be repositories of strange wisdom. Lord Fox, for instance, from Sacrament, has a lot to say about the splendors of vulpine life; he’s wise to his own condition. At the other end of that scale is the angel Uriel from Weaveworld, which has no knowledge of itself whatsoever. Indeed, it can only be bested if it can be brought to a s
tate of self-comprehension.

  And between these two extremes comes a parade of beasts. In Cabal these creatures have a city to themselves, from which, in the body of the story, they are exiled. And from the closing section of Everville, a passage which plays out as an almost self-contained story. Harry D’Amour, my Chandleresque private detective, finally confronts the entity Lazy Susan, which murdered his good friend Father Hess many years before. The creature has a problem, however; it doesn’t really know what it is. Though it would like to think of itself as a good old-fashioned dreamer, the truth may be something stranger. Like the beasts who populate the middle panel of Bosch’s triptych, Lazy Susan doesn’t belong either in Heaven or Hell, but springs from the coils of the human imagination.

  From Sacrament

  Just about everyone got high, except for Jack, who had become self-righteously sober the year before (after two decades of chemical excess) and Casper, who was forbidden to smoke the weed because Jack couldn’t. Drew became democratically flirtatious under the influence, then, realizing where his best hopes of gratification lay, followed Will into the kitchen and offered up a graphic description of what he wanted to do when they got back to Sanchez Street.

  As it turned out, by the time the party broke up, Drew was so much the worse for weed and beer he said he needed to go home and sleep it off. Will invited him back to the house, but he declined. He didn’t want anyone, especially Will, watching him throw up in the toilet, he said: it was a private ritual. Will drove him home, made sure he got to his apartment safely, and then went home himself. Drew’s verbal foreplay had left him feeling horny, however, and he contemplated a late-night cruise down to the Penitent to find some action. But the thought of getting geared up for the hunt at such a late hour dissuaded him. He needed sleep more than a stranger’s hand. And Drew would be sober tomorrow.

  Again, he seemed to wake, disturbed by sirens on Market, or a shout from the street. Seemed to wake, and seemed to sit up and study the shadowy room, just as he had two nights before. This time, however, he was wise to the trick his sleeping mind was playing. Resisting the urge to sleepwalk to the bathroom, he stayed in bed, waiting for the illusion of wakefulness to pass.

  But after what seemed to be minutes, he grew bored. There was a ritual here, he realized, that his subconscious demanded he enact, and until he played it out he wouldn’t be allowed to dream something more restful. Resigned to the game, he got up and wandered out onto the landing. There was no shadow on the wall this time to coax him down the stairs, but he went anyway, following the same route as he had when he’d last come into the company of Lord Fox: along the hallway and into the file room. Tonight, however, there were no lights spilling from the photographs on the ground. Apparently the animal wanted to conduct the dream debate in darkness.

  “Can we get this over with as quickly as possible?” Will said, stepping into the murk. “There’s got to be a better dream than—”

  He stopped. The air around him shifted, displaced by a motion in the room. Something was moving toward him, and it was a lot larger than a fox. He started to retreat; heard a hiss; saw a vast, gray bulk rise up in front of him, the slab of its head gaping, letting on to a darkness that made the murk seem bright—

  A bear! Christ in Heaven! Nor was this just any bear. It was his wounder, coming at him with her own wounds gouting, her breath foul and hot on his face.

  Instinctively, he did as he would have done in the wild: he dropped to his knees, lowered his head, and presented as small a target as possible. The boards beneath him reverberated with the weight and fury of the animal; his scars were suddenly burning in homage to their maker. It was all he could do not to cry out, even though he knew this was just some idiot dream; all he could do not to beg it to stop and let him alone. But he kept his silence, his palms against the boards, and waited. After a time, the reverberations ceased. Still he didn’t move, but counted to ten, and only then dared to move his head an inch or two. There was no sign of the bear. But across the room, leaning against the window as nonchalantly as ever, was Lord Fox.

  “There are probably a plethora of lessons here,” the creature said, “but two in particular come to mind.” Will gingerly got to his feet while the fox shared his wisdom. “That when you’re dealing with animal spirits—and that’s what you’ve got on your hands, Willy, whether you like it or not—it’s best to remember that we’re all one big happy family, and if I’m here then I’ve probably got company. That’s the first lesson.”

  “And … what’s the second?”

  “Show me some respect!” the fox barked. Then, suddenly all reason: “You came in here saying you want to get it over with as quickly as possible. That’s insulting, Willy.”

  “Don’t call me Willy.”

  “Ask me politely.”

  “Oh for fuck’s sake. Please don’t call me Willy.”

  “Better.”

  “I need something to drink. My throat’s completely dry.”

  “Go get yourself something,” the fox said. “I’ll come with you.”

  Will went into the kitchen, and the fox padded after him, instructing him not to turn on the light. “I much prefer the murk,” the animal said. “It keeps my senses sharp.”

  Will opened the fridge and got out a carton of milk. “You want something?”

  “I’m not thirsty,” the fox said. “But thank you.”

  “Something to eat?”

  “You know what I like to eat,” the fox replied, and the image of Thomas Simeon lying dead in the grass entered Will’s head with sickening clarity.

  “Jesus,” Will said, letting the fridge door slam closed.

  “Come on,” the fox said, “where’s your sense of humor?” He stepped out of the deep shadows into a wash of gray light from the window. He looked, Will thought, more vicious than he had last time they’d met. “You know, I think you should ask yourself,” he said, “in all seriousness, if perhaps you’re not coming apart at the seams. And if you are, what the consequences are going to be for those around you. Particularly your new lover-boy. I mean, he’s not the most stable of characters, is he?”

  “Are you talking about Drew?”

  “Right. Drew. For some reason, I was thinking his name was Brad. I think in all fairness you should let him go, or you’ll end up dragging him down with you. He’ll go nuts on you, or try to slit his wrists, one of the two. And you’ll be responsible. You don’t want that on your plate. Not with the rest of the shit you’ve got to deal with.”

  “Are you going to be more specific?”

  “It’s not his war, Will. It’s yours and yours alone. You signed on for it the day you let Steep take you up the hill.”

  Will set down the carton of milk and put his head in his hands. “I wish I knew what the hell you wanted,” he said.

  “In the long view,” the fox said, “I want what every animal—except maybe for the dogs—wants in its heart, I want your species gone. To the stars, if you can get there. To rot and ruin, more likely. We don’t care. We just want you out of our fur.”

  “And then what?”

  “Then nothing,” the fox replied with a shrug. His voice went to a wistful murmur. “The planet keeps going round, and when it’s bright it’s day and when it’s not it’s night, and there’s no end to the simple bliss of things.”

  “The simple bliss of things,” Will said.

  “It’s a pretty phrase, isn’t it? I think I got it from Steep.”

  “You’d miss all of that, if we were gone—”

  “Words, you mean? I might, for a day or two. But it’d pass. In a week I’d have forgotten what good conversation was and I’d be a happy heart again. The way I was when Steep first clapped eyes on me.”

  “I know I’m just dreaming this, but while you’re here … what do you know about Steep?”

  “Nothing you don’t,” the fox said. “There’s a good part of him in you, after all. You take a long look at yourself, one of these days.” The fox approached
the table now, lowering his voice to an insinuating whisper. “Do you really think you’d have wasted most of your natural span taking pictures of tormented wildlife if he hadn’t put that knife in your hands? He shaped you, Will. He sowed the hopes and the disappointments, he sowed the guilt, and the yearning.”

  “And he sowed you at the same time?”

  “For better or worse. You see, I’m nothing important. I’m just the innocent fox who ate Thomas Simeon’s private parts. Steep saw me trotting away and he decided I was a villain. Which was very unfair of him, by the way. I was just doing what any fox with an empty belly would do, seeing a free meal. I didn’t know I was eating anybody important.”

  “Was Simeon important?”

  “Well, obviously he was to Steep. I mean Jacob really took this dickeating business to heart. He came after me, like he was going to tear off my head. So I ran, I ran so far and so fast—” This wasn’t Will’s memory of the event, as he’d witnessed it through Steep’s eyes, but Lord Fox was on a roll, and Will didn’t dare interrupt. “And he kept coming after me. There was no escaping him. I was in his memory, you see? In his mind’s eye. And let me tell you, he’d got a mind like a steel trap. Once he had me there was no tricking my way out. Even death couldn’t spring me from his head.” A raw sigh escaped the animal. “Let me tell you,” he said, “it’s not like being in your head. I mean, you’ve got a messed-up psyche, no doubt about it, but it’s nothing compared with his. Nothing.”

  Will knew bait when it was being trailed. But he couldn’t help himself; he bit. “Tell me,” he said.

  “What’s he like? Well … if my head’s a hole in the ground and yours is a shack—no offense intended—then his is a fucking cathedral. I mean, it’s all spires and choirs and flying buttresses. Incredible.”

  “So much for the simple bliss of things.”

  “You’re quick, aren’t you?” the fox said appreciatively. “Soon as you see a little weakness in a fellow’s argument, you’re in.”