Everville

by Clive Barker

  “Lucien.”

  He was the most battered of the three, and the most nearly naked, his thin white chest splashed with blood from a face thankfully almost hidden from her by his hair.

  The breath went out of Tesla’s body in a rush, and the strength from her limbs. She dropped the gun. Put her hands over her mouth to keep the sobs from coming.

  “You know one of them?” said Phoebe.

  “All of them,” Tesla gasped. “All of them.”

  Phoebe had hold of her, tight. “We can’t do anything for them now.”

  “He was alive . . . ” Tesla said, the thought like a skewer in her heart, “he was alive, and I didn’t look, and I could have saved him.”

  “You didn’t know it was him,” Phoebe said.

  She started to coax Tesla away from the spot, turning her as she did so. Tesla resisted however, unwilling to take her eyes off Lucien. He looked so pitifully exposed up there, unable to defend himself against the world. She needed to put him in the ground, at least. If she left him here he’d be a spectacle: pecked and buffeted and gnawed at. She couldn’t bear it. She couldn’t.

  Somewhere in the turmoil, she heard Raul say: Phoebe’s right.

  “Leave me alone.”

  You can’t help him. And Tesla: You’re not to blame. He made his way. We made ours.

  “He was alive.”

  Maybe.

  “He saw me.”

  If you want to believe that, believe it, Raul said. I’m not going to try and tell you he didn’t. But if he did, then maybe that’s why he let go.

  “What?”

  He could have called your name, but he didn’t. Maybe he just laid eyes on you and thought: It’s enough.

  Tears started to fill her eyes.

  “It’s enough?”

  Yes. It doesn’t have to be terrible always. Even this.

  She’d never believe that, not to the end of her days.

  What did he say we were? Vessels for something—

  “For the infinite. Vessels for the infinite.”

  “What did you say?” Phoebe murmured.

  “It’s what he wanted to be,” Tesla replied.

  No, said Raul. It’s what he was all along.

  Tesla nodded. “You know,” she said to Phoebe, “I have a very good soul in my head.” She sniffed hard. “The pity of it is, it isn’t mine.”

  Then she let Phoebe turn her around, and together they headed on, up towards the door.

  THREE

  I

  The tide took Joe at last, claiming him from the darkness and bearing him away, the way it had borne The Fanacapan before him. For a while he was barely aware of his passage. Indeed he was barely aware of being alive. He drifted in and out of consciousness, his eyes fluttering open long enough for him to glimpse the heavens boiling overhead, as though sky and sea had exchanged places. Once, when he awoke this way, he saw what he thought were burning birds, falling out of the seething air like winged meteors. And once, seeing something glitter from the corner of his eye, he turned his head to catch sight of a ’shu, darting through the churning waters, its gaze gleaming. Seeing it, he remembered the conversation he’d had with Noah on the shore—“Please one ’shu and you please many”—and returned to his dreaming state comforted, thinking perhaps the creature knew him and was somehow guiding him through this maelstrom.

  When he was not quite awake, which was often, he remembered Phoebe in the weeds; saw her body rising and falling in front of him, lush and pale. And tears came, even in his sleeping state, thinking she had gone from him, back into the living world, and all he would ever have of her from now on was memory.

  * * *

  Then even the dreams of Phoebe faded, and he floated on through a cloud of dirty smoke, his mind too weak to shape a thought. Ships passed him by, but he didn’t see them. If he had—if he’d seen how they rocked and creaked, filled to the gunnels with people escaping the Ephemeris—he might have tried to catch hold of a trailing rope and haul himself aboard, rather than let the current they were fighting carry him on towards the archipelago. Or at very least—seeing the terror on the faces of the passengers—he might have prepared himself for what awaited him on the shore. But seeing nothing, knowing nothing, he was carried on, and on, through the remains of splintered vessels that had foundered for want of captains, through floating mortuaries of doomed travelers, through places where the sea was thick with yellow ash, and cobs of fire glittered around him like burning fleets.

  Steadily the waters grew shallower and less tempestuous, and at last he was carried up onto the shores of an island that in its glory days had been called the island of Mem-é b’Kether Sabbat. There he lay, among the flotsam and jetsam, his balls bleeding, his mind confounded, while moment by moment the island he had been carried to was undone, and its undoer, the Iad Uroboros, came closer to the shore on which he slept.

  * * *

  II

  The distance between the shores of Mem-é b’Kether Sabbat and the mountainside where Tesla and Phoebe were climbing was not readily measured. Though generations of thinkers in both the Cosm and the Metacosm had attempted to evolve a theory of distance between the two worlds, there was little consensus on the subject. The only thing the various factions agreed upon was that this distance could not be measured with a rule and an abacus. After all, it was not simply the distance between two points: It was the distance between two states. Some said it was best viewed as an entirely symbolic space, like that between worshipper and deity, and proposed an entirely new system of measurement applicable to such cases. Others argued that a soul moving from the Helter Incendo into Quiddity underwent such a radical altering that the best way to describe and analyze the distance, if the word distance were still applicable (which they doubted), was to derive it from the vocabulary of spiritual reformation. The notion proved untenable, however, one man’s reformation being another’s heresy.

  Finally, there were those who argued that the relationships between Sapas Humana and the dream-sea were all in the mind, and any attempt to measure distance was doomed to failure. Surely, they opined, the space between one thought and another was beyond the wit of any man to measure. They were accused of defeatism by some of their enemies; of shoddy metaphysics by others. Men and women only entered the dream-sea three times, they were reminded. For the rest of their lives Quiddity was a lot further than a thought away. Not so, the leader of this faction—a mystic from Joom called Carasophia—argued. The wall between the Cosm and the Metacosm was getting steadily thinner, and would—he predicted—soon disappear altogether, at which point the minds of Sapas Humana, which seemed so pathetically literal, would be revealed to be purveyors of the miraculous, even in their present, primal state.

  Carasophia had died for his theories, assassinated in a field of sunflowers outside Eliphas, but he would have found comforting evidence for his beliefs had he wandered through the minds of the people gathered along the parade route in Everville. People were dreaming today, even though their eyes were wide open.

  Parents dreaming of being free as their children; children dreaming of having their parents’ power.

  Lovers seeing the coming night in each other’s eyes; old folks, staring at their hands, or at the sky, seeing the same.

  Dreams of sex, dreams of oblivion; dreams of circus and bacchanalia.

  And further down the parade route, sitting by the window from which he’d so recently fallen, a man dreaming of how it would be when he had the Art for himself, and time and distance disappeared forever.

  “Owen?”

  Buddenbaum had not expected to see the boy again; at least not this side of midnight. But here he was, looking as invitingly languorous as ever.

  “Well, well—”

  “How are you?” Seth said.

  “Mending.”

  “Good. I brought some cold beers.”

  “That was thoughtful.”

  “I guess it’s a peace offering.”

  “Consider it
accepted,” Buddenbaum said. “Come here and sit down.” He patted the boards beside him. “You look weary.”

  “I didn’t sleep well.”

  “Hammerings in heaven?”

  “No. I was thinking about you.”

  “Oh dear.”

  “Good thoughts,” Seth said, settling himself down beside Buddenbaum.

  “Really?”

  “Really. I want to come with you, Owen.”

  “Come with me where?”

  “Wherever you’re going after this.”

  “I’m not going anywhere,” Owen said.

  “You’re going to live in Everville?”

  “I’m not going to live anywhere.”

  “Is that just some way of saying you don’t want me around,” Seth said, “ ’cause if it is, why don’t you just come right out and say it and I’ll go?”

  “No, that’s not what I’m saying at all,” Owen replied.

  “Then I don’t understand.”

  Owen peered out of the window, chewing something over. “I know so little about you,” he said. “And yet I feel—”

  “What?”

  “I’ve never really trusted anybody,” Owen said. “That’s the truth of it. I’ve wanted to many times, but I was always afraid of being disappointed.” He looked at Seth. “I know I’ve cheated myself of a lot of feelings,” he went on, his turmoil plain, “maybe even love. But it was what I chose, and it kept me from being hurt.”

  “You’ve never loved anybody?”

  “Infatuations, yes. Daily. In Italy, hourly. All ridiculous, all of them. Humiliating and ridiculous. But love? No. I could never trust anyone enough to love them.” He sighed heavily. “And now it’s almost too late.”

  “Why?”

  “Because sentimental love is a human affliction, and I won’t be susceptible for very much longer. There. I’ve said it.”

  “You mean—you won’t be human?”

  “That’s what I mean.”

  “This is because of the avatars?”

  “In a manner of speaking.”

  “Explain it, will you?”

  “Stand up,” Owen said, coaxing Seth to his feet. “Now look out of the window.” Seth did so. Owen stood behind him and laid his hands on Seth’s shoulders. “Look down at the intersection.”

  There was no traffic below; the streets had been turned over to pedestrians until the parade was finished.

  “What am I supposed to be looking at?” Seth wanted to know.

  “You’ll see,” Owen said, his hands moving up to Seth’s neck.

  “Am I getting a massage?”

  “Hush for a moment,” Owen said. “Just—let the vision come.”

  Seth felt a tingling at the nape of his neck, which quickly spread up into the base of his skull. He let out a little sigh of pleasure. “That feels good.”

  “Keep your eyes on the road.”

  “I wish you’d just . . . ” The remark fell away. He gasped, and grabbed hold of the windowsill. “Oh. My. God.”

  The intersection was melting; the streets turning into laval rivers, decorated with flickering bands of scarlet and gold. They were moving—all four of them—towards the center of the crossroads, their brilliance increasing and their breadth diminishing, so that by the time they met they were narrowed to blazing ribbons, so bright Seth could only bear to look at the place for a heartbeat.

  “What is this?” he breathed.

  “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

  “Oh God, yes. Did you make it?”

  “A thing like this isn’t made, Seth. It doesn’t come out of the air, like a poem. All I can do is set it in motion.”

  “All right. Did you set it in motion?”

  “Yes I did. A very long time ago.”

  “You still haven’t told me what it is.”

  “It’s an invitation to a dance,” Owen said softly, his mouth close to Seth’s ear.

  “What kind of dance?”

  “The dance of being and becoming,” he said. “Look at it, and forget your angels, hammering in the sky from heaven’s side. This is where the miracles come.”

  “Where things meet.”

  “Precisely.”

  “My journey ends at the crossroads. That’s what you said.”

  “Remember that, later on,” Owen said, his voice hardening. “Remember I never lied to you. I never told you I was here forever.”

  “No you didn’t. I wish you had, but you didn’t.”

  “As long as we understand each other, we can have some fun today.”

  Seth turned his gaze from the street now. “I don’t think I can look at it any longer,” he said. “It makes me feel sick.”

  Owen ran his hand lightly over Seth’s skull. “There,” he said. “It’s gone.”

  Seth looked back at the intersection. The vision had indeed disappeared. “What’s going to happen?” he said to Owen. “You just stand in the middle of the crossroads and something comes to take you away?”

  “Nothing so simple,” Owen replied.

  “What then?”

  “I’m not even sure myself.”

  “But you know what’s going to happen to you, at the end of all this?”

  “I know I’ll be free from time. The past, the future and the dreaming moment between will be one immortal day . . . ” His voice grew softer as he quoted the words, until by the end it was barely audible.

  “What’s the dreaming moment?” Seth said.

  Owen drew the youth closer to him, and laid a kiss on his lips. “You don’t need me to work that one out,” he said.

  “But I do,” Seth said, “I don’t want you to go, Owen.”

  “I have to,” Buddenbaum said. “I’m afraid I have no choice in the matter.”

  “Yes you do. You could stay with me, for a while at least. Teach me some of what you know.” He slid his hand down over Owen’s chest. “And when you weren’t teaching me”—his hand was at Owen’s belt now, unbuckling it—“we could fuck.”

  “You have to understand how long I’ve waited,” Owen said. “How much planning and plotting and manipulation I’ve had to do to get here. It hasn’t been easy, believe me. I’ve almost given up countless times.” Seth had unbuckled Owen’s belt, and was now unbuttoning his trousers. Owen kept talking as though indifferent to the boy’s manipulations. “But I held on to the vision,” he said.

  Seth’s fingers had found Owen’s sex. Plainly his indifference had been play-acting.

  “Go on!” Seth said, clasping the thing.

  “Are you always in heat like this?” Owen said.

  “I don’t remember,” Seth said. “Everything that happened before I met you”—he shrugged—“is a blur.”

  “Don’t be silly.”

  “I’m not. It’s true. I was waiting for you to come. I knew you would. Maybe I didn’t know what you’d look like—”

  “Listen to me.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “I’m not the love of your life.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because I can’t be what you want me to be. I can’t stay and watch over you.”

  Seth kept stroking. “So?” he said.

  “So you’ll have to find somebody else to love.”

  “Not if you take me with you,” Seth said, “into the dance.” He looked out of the window, down at the hard, gray street. “I could bear the heat of it, if I was with you.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “I could! Just give me a chance.” He dropped down onto his haunches in front of Owen, and applied his tongue to the man’s half-hard prick. “Think what it’d be like,” he said, between licks and kisses, “if we were together down there.”

  “You don’t know what you’re asking.”

  “So tell me. Teach me. I can be whatever you want. Believe me.”

  Owen stroked the boy’s face. “I believe you,” he said, idly toying with his prick. “I’ve told you before, you’re remarkable.”

>   Seth smiled up at him. Then he took the tumescent prick into his mouth, and sucked. He was no great technician, but he had an appetite for the act that could turn him into one very quickly. Owen ran his hands through the boy’s hair, and let out a shuddering sigh. Usually, in the midst of being pleasured, he lost his grasp of any business but the one at hand, or mouth. Not so now. Perhaps it was the sense of finality that attended his every deed today (his last breakfast, his last noon, his last blow-job), perhaps it was simply the fact that the boy had a way with him, but the sensations running up his body from his groin made his thoughts almost crystalline.

  What was the use, he wondered, living an immortal day if it was a solitary condition? Rare and wise and lonely was no way to live out eternity. Perhaps if he’d had his druthers he might have chosen someone closer to his physical ideal with whom to share the experience, but then accommodations could probably be made in the flux of possibilities that would presently appear in the street outside. When the powers of evolution were unleashed, it would be easy to fix the boy’s profile and narrow his hips. He looked down at Seth, running his thumb over the wet rendezvous of lip and shaft.

  “You do learn fast,” he said. The boy grinned around his lollipop. “Keep going, keep going,” Owen said, pushing his full length down Seth’s throat. Seth gagged a little, but born cocksucker that he was, he didn’t retreat from the challenge. “Good Lord,” Owen said. “You’re very persuasive, you know that?” He stroked Seth’s face. The cheekbones were too low, the nose too lumpen. As for the hair, it was characterless: a mousy mop that he would need to re-create completely. Perhaps give him black ringlets to his shoulders, like something from Botticelli? Or maybe make him a sun-bleached blond, with a fringe that flopped over his eyes. He didn’t have to decide now. Later would do. Just before the abolition of nows and laters.

  He felt the familiar tingle in his groin.

  “That’s enough,” he said gently. “I don’t want to finish just yet.”

  If the boy heard him he didn’t obey. Eyes closed, he was lost in an oral reverie, his drool so copious his motion had foamed it up at the root of Owen’s cock.