Everville

by Clive Barker

  “Help,” she yelled, and reached out for Texas. But his sluggish body was too slow to catch her. The sky slipped sideways. Then she was falling, falling, the last of her tears whipped from her eyes, but her cleared sight showing her nothing except darkness and darkness and darkness, all the way down.

  TWO

  I

  As Joe and Wexel Fee emerged from the laddered tunnels of b’Kether Sabbat’s belly into the incandescent streets of that city, Joe asked Fee, “What does b’Kether Sabbat mean?”

  The man shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine,” he replied.

  The fact of Fee’s ignorance was curiously comforting. Plainly they would both be exploring the city new to its mysteries. And perhaps it was better that way. Better to wander here without hope of comprehending what lay before them, and instead simply enjoy it for the miracle it was. The basic elements of construction were not so different from those of an American city. There was brick and wood, there were windows and doors, there were streets and sidewalks and gutters and lamps. But the architects and the masons and the carpenters and the road-layers had brought to every slab and cornice and threshold a desire to be particular: to find some quality that made that slab, that cornice, that threshold unlike any other. Some of the buildings were of course stupendous, like the towers Joe had first seen from the trees beside the shore, but even when they were of more modest scale, as most were, they’d plainly been built with a kind of tenderness which made each of them a presence unto itself. Though the streets were virtually empty of citizens (and the winged Ketherians had almost all cleared from the skies) there was a strange sense, more comforting than eerie, that the creatures who had raised this miraculous place were still present, and would live on while their masterworks still stood.

  “If I’d built even a little piece of this city,” Joe said, “I couldn’t leave it for anything.”

  “Not even for that?” Wexel said, glancing up at the churning wall of the Iad.

  “Especially for that,” Joe said. He stopped walking, to study the wall.

  “It’s going to destroy the city, Afrique. And us along with it.”

  “It doesn’t seem to be in any hurry,” Joe said.

  “True enough.”

  “I wonder why?”

  “Don’t bother,” Fee said. “We’ll never know what’s going on inside it, Afrique. It’s too different from us.”

  “I’ve heard that said about me more than once,” Joe replied. “They didn’t call me Afrique, but that’s what they were thinking.”

  “Did I offend you? If I did—”

  “No, you didn’t offend me. I’m just saying, maybe it’s not as different as we think it is.”

  “We’ll never know which of us is right,” Wexel replied. “Because we’re never going to see inside its heart.”

  With that, they moved on, wandering where their noses led, astonished at every corner they turned. In one square they found an immense carousel, turning in the wind without making so much as a creak. In place of carved and painted horses, however, there was a succession of figures that seemed to represent humanity’s ascent from apehood and its subsequent return as the carousel spun; a loop of evolution and devolution passed before them. In another spot was a stand of several hundred columns, on the tops of which large geometrical forms that gleamed like polished copper hovered, trembling slightly. Though Joe had made a pact with himself not to ask what couldn’t be answered, he here voiced his puzzlement nevertheless, and was surprised to find that Wexel was able to solve the mystery.

  “They are the shapes behind our eyelids,” he said. “I’ve heard the Ketherians deem them holy, because they are at the very heart of what we see when the world is shut out.”

  “Why would anybody want to shut out this place?” Joe remarked.

  “Because if you wanted to build something of your own,” Fee said, “you’d need to dream it first.”

  “I’m already dreaming just by being here,” Joe said. “Aren’t I?”

  The complexities of this—being awake in a place his species only visited when sleeping—had baffled him from the outset, and continued to do so. This whole adventure was more than a dream, he knew that; but when he slept here, and dreamed, was he entering yet another reality, beyond this one, where he might also sleep and dream? Or was the Metacosm the other half of the world he’d left; the half people yearned after, prayed for, dreamed of, but only in moments of epiphany dared believe real?

  “It’s not wise to dwell on these mysteries,” Wexel said, a little superstitiously. “Great souls have doomed themselves thinking of such things.”

  The exchange ended there, and on they went, altogether less voluble now. Indeed they didn’t say more than a word or two until their wandering brought them to a bridge that looked to be made of porcelain, which arched over a pool so tranquil it formed an almost perfect mirror.

  They gazed down into it awhile, Joe almost mesmerized by the sight of his own face laid against the billows of the Iad. “It looks kinda comfortable,” he said to Wexel.

  “You would lie on it, huh?”

  “Lie on it. Make love on it.”

  “It would swallow you up,” Fee said.

  “Maybe that wouldn’t be so bad,” Joe said. “Maybe there’s something wonderful inside.”

  “Like what?”

  Joe thought of their exchange among the columns. “Another dream, maybe,” he said.

  Wexel didn’t reply. Joe looked round at him to see that he was walking back the way they’d come. “Listen to that,” he said. There was a murmur of shouts, and what seemed to be the clash of arms. “Hear it?”

  “I hear it. You want to stay here or see what’s happening?” Wexel asked him. Plainly he was going to do the latter; he was already off the bridge.

  “I’ll come,” Joe told him, and took his reflection from the pool.

  The elaborate construction of the streets made the sounds difficult to follow. Joe and Wexel were several times tricked by echoes and counter-echoes before they found the battle they’d heard from the bridge. When they finally turned a corner and came in sight of it they discovered their search had brought them by some obscure route back to the plaza of columns, which had become a battlefield in the little time since they’d walked there. The ground between the columns was littered with bodies, through which the survivors of this fracas fought, most of them armed with short stabbing blades. They were by no means all male. A goodly portion of them were women, fighting with the same mixture of finesse and brutality as their brothers. Overhead, swooping down between the columns to pick off their opponents, were perhaps a dozen winged Ketherians, the first Joe had been close to. They were frail creatures, their bodies the size of a human child of six or so, their bare limbs thin and scaly. Their wings were brilliantly colored, as were their voices, which rose in whoops and squeals and hollers sufficient for half a hundred species.

  Like so much else Joe had witnessed on this journey, the scene won a confusion of feelings from him. He’d grown out of his appetite for fighting a long time ago; the sight of wounding and death was simply revolting. But the furious passion of these people could not help but excite him a little; that and the spectacle of the winged Ketherians rising up with their pavonine wings spread against the dark wall of the Iad.

  “What are they fighting about?” Joe yelled to Fee over the din of battle.

  “The dynasty of Summa Summamentis and that of Ezso Aetherium have fought forever,” he said. “The reason is deeply obscure.”

  “Somebody must know.”

  “None of these,” Fee said, “that’s certain.”

  “Then why do they continue to fight?” Joe said.

  Wexel shrugged. “For the pleasure of it?” he ventured. “There are as many dreams of war as of peace, are there not? It expresses something in the nature of your species that must be necessary.”

  “Necessary . . . ” Joe said, looking at the bloodshed in front of him. If it was indeed an expression
of human necessity then perhaps his species had lost its way.

  “I don’t want to watch this any longer,” Joe said. “I’m going back to the pool.”

  “Yeah—?”

  “You stay, if it turns you on . . . I just don’t want to spend my last minutes watching people killing each other.”

  “I will stay,” Wexel said, a little awkwardly.

  “Then I’ll say goodbye,” Joe said.

  The sometime slave extended his hand. “Goodbye,” he said.

  They shook, and Joe headed back towards the bridge, but he’d gone less than ten yards when he heard a cry behind him, and turned to see Wexel stumbling towards him, clutching his belly. There was blood spurting between his fingers, splashing down his legs.

  “Afrique!” he sobbed. “Afrique! He’s here—”

  Joe started back towards him, but the man shouted for him to keep his distance.

  “He’s crazy, Afrique! He’s—”

  At that moment, Noah appeared round the corner behind Fee. In his hands, a stabbing sword, soiled with blood. In his eyes, the pleasure of harm. His time in b’Kether Sabbat had brought him to full flower: his body had thickened, his limbs swelled.

  “Joe . . . ” he said lightly, as though the dying man did not stand between them. “I thought it must be you.” He caught hold of Wexel by the back of his neck. “What were you doing with this?” he said. “He’s probably got more fleas and sicknesses—”

  “Leave him alone,” Joe said.

  “Run, Afrique—”

  “I think he’s afraid I’m going to do you some harm,” Noah said.

  “And are you?”

  “He calls you Afrique, Joe. Is that some term of endearment?”

  “No, it’s—”

  “An insult, then?” He pulled Wexel’s head back. “I thought so.” In an instant he had the blade to Fee’s neck. Joe started towards them, an appeal on his lips, but before he could finish Noah slid the sword across Wexel’s neck. Blood came. Noah smiled, and let the dying man drop. “There,” he said. “He won’t insult you any longer.”

  “He wasn’t insulting me!” Joe yelled.

  “Oh. Well. No matter. Should I be calling you Afrique?”

  “Don’t call me anything! Just get the fuck out of my sight.”

  Noah stepped over Wexel’s body and strode towards Joe. “But I want us to go on together,” he said.

  “Go on where?”

  “To get what’s owed to you,” Noah said. “When I saw you across the plaza, I knew that was why you’d come. We have unfinished business, you and me. I promised you power, and then I lost you—I thought you were dead, Afrique—and now here you are again, in the flesh. I must assume our destinies are interwoven.”

  “I don’t.”

  Noah strode towards him, until the blade was inches from Joe’s belly. “Allow me to prove it to you,” he said.

  “Isn’t it a little late for this?” Joe said.

  “Late?”

  “The Iad’s going to come down on this city any moment.”

  “I think something’s holding it back,” Noah said.

  “Do you know what?”

  “I have a suspicion,” he said. “But I’ll need you to help me confirm it.” He studied Joe a moment. “Well?” he said. “Do we go as friends, or do I threaten you with this?” He jabbed the sword at Joe.

  “We’re never going to be friends,” Joe said. “But I don’t need that either.” Noah lowered his sword. “I’ll come with you, if you’ll tell me something.”

  “Anything.”

  “You’re promising me?”

  “Yes. I’m promising you. What do you need to know that’s so important?”

  There was a twinge of anxiety in Noah’s voice, which Joe took pleasure in hearing. “I’ll tell you when I choose,” he said. “Now, where are we going?”

  * * *

  II

  On the far side of the plaza of columns stood a building that was in some ways the paradigm of Ketherian aesthetics. It was at first sight a simple two-story structure, but as Noah and Joe approached it, skirting the now-dwindling battle, it became clear that every stone of its unadorned walls had been chiseled to illuminate some particular felicity, so that each was in its simple way a different form of perfection. The sum was breathtaking: like a page of poetry, laid line on line.

  But Noah had not time for the study of stone. He led them round to a simple door, and there, taking Joe by the arm, he said, “I promised you power. It’s in there.”

  “What is this place?”

  “A temple.”

  “To whom?”

  “I think you know.”

  “The Zehrapushu?” Joe said.

  “Of course. They like you, Afrique. If anybody is allowed access to this place, it’ll be you.”

  “And what’s inside?”

  “I told you. Power.”

  “Then why don’t you go in?”

  “Because I’m not pure enough,” Noah said.

  Joe found it in him to laugh, even under these grim circumstances. “And I am?” he said.

  “You’re Sapas Humana, Afrique. Pure Sapas Humana.”

  “And the ’shu like that?”

  “I believe they will.”

  “And if they don’t?” Joe said, coming close to Noah now. “What happens?”

  “Death happens,” he said.

  “Simple as that?”

  “Simple as that.”

  Joe looked at the door. Like the wall into which it was set it possessed a physical beauty that took his breath away. What it lacked was a handle or a keyhole.

  “If I open the door and don’t get killed, you follow. Is that the idea?”

  “Always so swift, my friend,” Noah said. “Yes, that’s the idea.”

  Joe glanced back at the door, and a wave of curiosity rose up in him to know what lay on the other side. He had looked into the eyes of the ’shu twice now, once on the shore and once in the weed-bed, and each time had felt touched by a mystery that he desperately wanted to solve. Perhaps he could do it here. Concealing his eagerness, he turned back to Noah.

  “Before we go in,” he said, “answer my question.”

  “Ask it.”

  “I want to know what it is the families have been arguing about all these years. I want to know what’s made them kill each other.” Noah said nothing. “You promised me,” Joe prompted him.

  “Yes,” he said at last. “I did.”

  “So tell me.”

  Noah shrugged. “What does it matter now?” he said to himself. “I’ll tell you . . . ” He looked back towards the battlefield once, then, his voice lowered to a whisper he said: “The dynasty of Ezso Aetherium believe that the Iad exists because Sapas Humana dreamed them into being. That the Iad are the darkness in the collective soul of your species.”

  “And your family?”

  “We believe the other way about,” Noah said.

  It took Joe a little time to realize what he was being told. “You think we’re something the Iad Uroboros dreamed up.”

  “Yes, Afrique. That’s what we believe.”

  “Who invented this crap?”

  Noah shrugged. “Who knows where wisdom comes from?”

  “That’s not wisdom,” Joe said. “It’s fucking stupidity.”

  “Why do you say so?”

  “Because I’m not a dream.”

  “If you were, why do you suppose you’d know it?” Noah said.

  Joe didn’t try to get his head around that notion. He simply threw up his hands and said, “Let’s just get the hell on with this,” and turning his back on Noah he pressed against the door. It didn’t swing open, but nor did he remain on the outside of it. Instead he felt a sudden ache through his body, almost like an electric shock, and the next moment he was standing in a buzzing darkness on the inside of the temple. He waited for the ache to subside, and then looked round for Noah. There was a motion in the murk behind him, but he was by no means sure it
was his fellow trespasser, and before he could look again he heard somebody call his name.

  He looked ahead of him, and saw that the dark ground at the center of the chamber was glittering, the light coming down upon it from a round hole in the roof. Joe crossed the floor to study the phenomenon better, and as he did so realized that he was looking at a pool, perhaps twelve feet across.

  It was filled with Quiddity’s waters, he had no doubt of that. He could smell the piquancy of the dream-sea, and his skin tingled with the subtle energies it gave off. But as he came to the edge of the pool he had further proof that this was indeed an annex of Quiddity. There, a little way beneath the surface, lurked a ’shu so large it could barely be contained in the pool, but was wrapped around itself in a tangle of encrusted tentacles, from the nest of which one of its eyes—which was from rim to rim a yard across, or more—stared up and out, gleaming gold. Its gaze was not upon Joe, at least not directly. The creature was looking up through the roof of the temple, into the roiling wall of the invader.

  “It’s holding the Iad . . . ” Joe breathed. “My God. My God. It’s holding the Iad.”

  He had no sooner spoken than he heard Noah from somewhere in the dark. “Do you feel it?” he said. “Do you feel the power in this place?”

  “Oh yeah,” Joe said softly. It was so palpable it almost felt like an act of aggression. His flesh ran with sweat, and every bruise and wound his body had sustained—back to the beating he’d taken from Morton Cobb—ached with fresh vigor, as though it had just been sustained. But still he wanted to get closer to the pool; to see what the Iad was seeing, when it gazed into the ’shu’s majestic eye. He took another step towards the water, his body wracked with shudders.

  “Speak to it,” Noah said. “Tell it what you want.”

  “It doesn’t matter what we want,” Joe said. “We’re nothing here. Do you understand? We’re nothing at all.”

  “Damn you, Afrique,” Noah said, his voice closer to Joe now. “I’ve done all the suffering I intend to do. I want to live in glory when the Iad’s passed by.” He drew closer still. “Now put your hand in the water—”