by Clive Barker
Quietly, he began to pray. Not just for his own salvation, and that of the child, but so that he could explain to the Lord that this was not the way he’d intended things to be. Not remotely.
“I just wanted to do your will,” he said, doing his best to ignore the sound of Seth’s moans, and of the blows that kept landing. “But everything’s got so confused. I don’t know what’s right any more, Lord . . . ”
A fresh chorus of cries rose from somewhere nearby, and drowned out his pleas. He closed his eyes, trying hard to keep his thoughts coherent. But with one of his senses sealed he became aware of information the others were receiving. There was a smell in the air; like the garbage behind the diner in a heatwave, only tinged with a sweetness that made it all the fouler. And along with the stench there was a sound, deep in his head, as though somebody was testing a tuning fork against his skull.
He couldn’t bear to stay where he was any longer. Without announcing his departure to the others he slipped from the doorstep, and down the block, turning the first corner he came to, which delivered him into Clarke Street. It was completely deserted, for which he was grateful. From here he could get back to the diner, keeping off the main streets. Once there, he’d take a quick rest, then load a few belongings into the back of the car, and get out of the city. As for the baby, he’d take her along; protect her in the Lord’s name.
He was crossing the street when a gust of cold wind found him. Instantly, the baby began to sob.
“It’s okay,” he murmured to her. “Now hush, will you?”
Another gust came, harder and colder than the first. He drew the child closer to his chest and as he did so something moved in the darkness on the opposite side of the street. Bosley froze, but he’d already been spotted. A voice came out of the shadows, as comfortless as the wind that carried it.
“You found her—” it said, and the speaker shambled out of the deepest shadow into plainer view. It was burned, profoundly burned. Black in places, and yellow-white in others. As it approached, a carpet of living dust lay down before it.
Bosley started to pray again.
“Don’t!” said the burned man. “My mother used to pray. I hate the sound of it.” He opened his arms. “Just give me my little girl.”
Bosley shook his head. This was the final test, he thought; the encounter for which the incidents with the virago and the sodomites had been preparing him. This was when he discovered what his faith was worth.
“You can’t have her,” he said determinedly. “She’s not yours.”
“Yes she is,” the burned man said. “Her name is Amy McGuire and I’m her father, Tommy-Ray.”
Bosley took a backwards step, making calculations as he went. How far was it to the corner? If he shouted now, would Glodoski hear him above Lundy’s moans?
“I don’t want to do you any harm,” Tommy-Ray McGuire said. “I don’t want any more death . . . ” He shook his head as he spoke, and flakes of matter dropped from his encrusted face. “I’ve seen too much . . . too much . . . ”
“I can’t give her to you,” Bosley said, striving to sound reasonable. “Maybe if you can find her mother.”
“Her mother’s dead,” Tommy-Ray said, his voice cracking. “Dead and gone.”
“I’m sorry.”
“The baby’s all I’ve got now. So I’m gonna find some place where me and my little girl can live in peace.”
My little girl. Lord God in Heaven, Bosley thought, take this poor man’s insanity from him. Relieve him of his suffering and let him rest.
“Give her to me,” the creature said, moving towards Bosley afresh.
“I’m afraid . . . I can’t . . . do that . . . ” Bosley said, retreating to the corner. Once there, he loosed a yell—“Glodoski! Alstead!”—and pelted back down the block, grateful to find them still tormenting Lundy.
“Where the fuck did you go?” Larry demanded.
Bosley felt a chill wind at his back, and glanced over his shoulder to see McGuire rounding the corner, with the carpet of dust rising around him.
“Christ Almighty!” Larry said.
“Keep runnin’!” Alstead hollered. “It’s closin’ on you!”
Bosley didn’t need any encouragement. He fled towards the men, the dust swirling around his legs now, as if to trip him up.
“Out of the way!” Larry yelled, racing towards him. Bosley changed direction, and Glodoski fired at McGuire, who stopped in his tracks. The dust kept coming however, flinging Glodoski against the brick wall. He started to sob for help, but he got out no more than a word or two before his pleas were choked off. In an instant the dust had enveloped him, and his body was lifted off the ground, still pinned against the wall.
Alstead, who had only reluctantly given up his assault on Seth, now let the boy slide to the ground and went to Glodoski’s aid. But the dust had done its work. In a matter of ten seconds, if that, it had dashed Larry’s brains out against the brick; now it turned on Alstead. He started to back away, raising his hands in surrender, but the dust was on him like a rabid dog and would surely have slaughtered him too had Bosley not begged Tommy-Ray to call it off.
“No more death!” he said.
“All right,” said McGuire, and called the dust back to his feet, leaving Alstead sobbing on the sidewalk a few yards from Waits, who had passed out in the gutter and remained there comatose.
“Just give me the kid,” Tommy-Ray said to Bosley. “And I’m gone.”
“You won’t hurt her?” Bosley said.
“No.”
“Don’t—” Seth murmured, hauling himself to his feet. “In God’s name, Bosley—”
“I’ve got no choice,” Bosley replied, and proffered the child.
Seth was on his feet, and with a broken cry in his throat stumbled towards Bosley. But his bruised body couldn’t carry him fast enough. Tommy-Ray claimed Amy from Bosley’s hands and gathering her to his burned body whistled for the killing cloud to follow him down the street.
Seth was abreast of Bosley now, sobbing out his frustration.
“How could . . . you . . . do . . . that?”
“I told you: I had no choice.”
“You could have run.”
“He would have found me,” Bosley replied, staring blank-eyed into the darkness that already enveloped Tommy-Ray.
Seth didn’t waste his breath arguing. He had little enough energy left in his bruised body, and it was a long trek from here back to the crossroads, where all of tonight’s journeys were bound to end.
THIRTEEN
I
At the crossroads Beddenbaum stared down into the ground, into the dark where the medallion lay, gathering power.
The end’s almost here, he thought. The end of the stories I’ve made and the stories I’ve manipulated, and those I wandered through like a bit player and those I’ve endured like a prisoner. The end of all my favorite clichés: tragic mismatches and farcical encounters; tearful reunions and deathbed curses. The end of Once upon a time and Now we shall see and Can I believe my eyes? The end of final acts; of funeral scenes and curtain speeches. The end of ends. Think of that.
He would miss the pleasure of stories—especially those in which he’d appeared in some unlikely guise or other—but he’d have no need of them very soon. They were solace for the rest of humanity, who were mired in time and desperate to glimpse something of the grand scheme. What else could they do with their lives but suffer and tell tales? He would not be of that tribe much longer.
“I have nothing but you, my sweet Serenissima,” he said, turning on his heel, surveying the streets in all directions. “You are my sense, my sanity, and my soul.”
The pain in these words had moved him in the past, many, many times. Now he only heard the word-music, which was pretty in its simplicity, but not so pretty he would miss hearing it again.
“Go from me now and I am lost in the great dark between the stars—”
As he spoke he saw Tesla Bombeck approaching down the
street. And coming after her the girl, the fool, and the cretin. He went on declaiming: “And cannot ever perish there, for I must live until you still my heart.”
He smiled at Tesla, at them all. Opened his arms wide in welcome.
“Still it now!”
She looked at him with puzzlement on her face, which he rather enjoyed.
“Still it now!” he said again. Oh, but it was fine, roaring over the din of screams and sobs, while his victims came wandering towards him.
“I beg thee, still it now, and let my suffering cease!”
Doing her best to conceal her nervousness, Tesla looked back in the direction of the Iad. She could see nothing of the invader itself, but two fires had started in the streets closest to the base of the mountain, and flames from the larger of them were leaping up over the roofs, seeding sparks. Whatever their origins—desperate defense measures or accidents that were going unchecked—the fires would surely spread. In which case the invader would be lording itself over a city of charcoal and ash by morning.
She returned her gaze to Buddenbaum, who had given up his theatrics and was now standing in the middle of the crossroads with his hands behind his back. She was still thirty yards from him, and, the only light being that of the distant conflagrations and a few uneasy stars, she could not confidently read his expression. Would he give her a signal, she wondered, when she’d brought the Jai-Wai close enough that she could retreat? A nod? A wink? She silently berated herself for not prearranging some sign. Well, it was too late now.
“Buddenbaum?” she said.
He inclined his head a little. “What are you doing here?” he said.
Not bad, she thought. He was pretty convincing.
“I came to say . . . well, I guess to say goodbye.”
“What a pity,” Buddenbaum replied. “I’d rather hoped we’d have a chance to get to know each other.”
Tesla glanced back at Rare Utu. “It’s up to you now,” she said, studying the Jai-Wai’s face in the gloom. She could see no sign of suspicion, but that didn’t mean much. The features were a mask, after all. “Maybe I should just head off and leave you to it,” she suggested.
“If that’s what you’d prefer,” Rare Utu replied, walking on past Tesla to Buddenbaum.
“I think she should stay,” Yie said. “This isn’t going to take very long.”
Tesla looked back at Buddenbaum, who seemed to be staring at his feet. His hands were at his sides now, and tightly clenched. He’s holding something down, she thought, he’s suppressing some evidence of what’s going on here.
He wouldn’t be able to do so much longer. Haheh had by now wandered on past Tesla, sloughing off his human form as he did so, and he seemed to have become aware that the street was simmering.
“Do you have some kind of surprise for us, Owen?” he asked mildly.
“I’m . . . always trying my best to . . . to keep you diverted,” Buddenbaum replied. The stress of his attempts at containment were audible in his voice. It had lost most of its music.
“You’ve done well for us over the years,” Rare Utu said. She sounded almost sorrowful.
“Thank you,” Owen replied. “I’ve always tried my best. I’m sure you know that.”
“We also know that great stories have a shape to them,” Utu went on. “They bud, they come to flower, and then . . . inevitably—”
“Get on with it, will you?” Yie said from behind Tesla. She turned her head an inch or two, just glimpsing him from the corner of her eye. He had also given up his human skin in favor of his fleshy cocoon. Even in the murk, the blebs his empathy had nurtured gleamed. “We don’t owe the man any niceties,” he continued. “Tell him the truth and let’s be done with it.”
“What have you come to tell me?” Buddenbaum asked.
“That it’s over,” Haheh replied gently. “That we have somebody new to show us the wonders of the story tree.”
Buddenbaum looked incredulous. “Just like that?” he said, his voice rising a little. “You’re replacing me without so much as a word of warning? Oh, that simply breaks my heart!”
Be careful, Tesla thought. The line about his heart breaking sounded a tad phoney.
“It was inevitable,” Rare Utu said, taking a couple of steps towards Buddenbaum. Finally she too was giving up the illusion of humanity, her childish body swelling and glistening as it retrieved its strange divinity. “There are only so many stories in one head, Owen, and we’ve exhausted your supply.”
“Oh you’d be surprised,” Buddenbaum replied. “Amazed, even, if you knew how much I haven’t shown you.”
“Well it’s too late now,” Haheh said. “Our decision’s made, and it’s final. Tesla Bombeck will be our guide as we approach the millennium.”
“Well, congratulations,” Buddenbaum said to Tesla sourly, and as he spoke took a step towards her, sliding between Haheh and Rare Utu. He was close enough now that Tesla could see his face plainly, and she read the look in his eyes. He wanted her gone, and quickly.
She retreated from him, as though his proximity distressed her. “It wasn’t planned this way,” she protested. “I didn’t seek this out.”
“Frankly,” he replied, “I don’t care one way or the other.” He reached out and casually caught hold of Rare Utu’s frail arm as he spoke. This was plainly an unusual, perhaps even unique, contact, because the Jai-Wai shuddered, staring down at his hand in some distress.
“What are you doing, Owen?” she said, the folds of her bejeweled flesh shuddering.
“Just making my farewells,” Owen replied. Haheh’s gaze was approaching the spot that Buddenbaum had vacated. The asphalt there was brightening and softening.
“What have you been up to?” he said, staring down.
Behind Tesla, Yie murmured, “Keep away . . . ” but Haheh was deaf to the warning. He took another step, while the street continued to brighten. Rare Utu was meanwhile attempting to shake off Buddenbaum’s hold, but he refused to let her go. Eyes fixed on Tesla, he smiled through clenched teeth and told her, “Goodbye.”
She started to turn but as she did so the ground on which Haheh was standing suddenly blazed, and he was enveloped. Rare Utu loosed the word Owen like a shriek, and started to pull at her captor, while Haheh’s body ran like butter in a furnace, the blebs bursting in wheels of colors and pouring off into the street.
Tesla had already seen too much. It was dangerous to stay, lethal, probably. But she’d never been good at averting her eyes, whatever the wisdom of it. She kept drinking down the scene in front of her, until Buddenbaum screamed, “Get the fuck out of here!” and as he did so pitched Rare Utu back into the light that had claimed Haheh. She went shrieking, but her cry was cut short once the light sealed itself around her. Throwing back her head, she opened her arms as though surrendering to the sensation.
“I said: Go!” Buddenbaum yelled at Tesla, and this time she tore her eyes from the spectacle and turned, only to meet a rush of sour, cold air, and Yie, coming at her.
“You tricked us!” he said, his voice like scalpels. It cut her courage to ribbons. She froze, staring into his doll-like face, while at her back Rare Utu uttered a shivering sigh and murmured, “This . . . is . . . wonderful.”
“What have you done to her?” Yie demanded. The questions was directed at Buddenbaum, but he caught hold of Tesla as he asked it, and hauled her close to his body. His limbs were far from strong; she could have broken the hold if she’d wanted to. But she didn’t. The influence of this flesh was like peyote. She felt it invade her, lifting her out of her fear.
“Set them free!” Yie said to Buddenbaum.
“I’m afraid it’s too late for that,” said Owen.
“I’ll kill your woman if you don’t,” the Jai-Wai warned.
“She’s not mine,” came the reply. “Do whatever you need to do.”
Dreamily, Tesla glanced back over her shoulder at Buddenbaum, and by the light pouring from the ground saw him plainly for the first time. He was p
itifully cold; his humanity consumed long ago in the effort that had brought him to this place. No doubt all he’d boasted in the Nook was true: The years had made him wiser than the Jaff. But his wisdom would do him no good. The Art would break him the way it had broken Randolph. Snap his reason and melt his mind.
Beyond him, in the blaze, Rare Utu had almost disappeared, but even now, with her substance pouring off into the ground where Haheh had already gone, she spoke.
“What happens next . . . ?” she said.
“Take her out of there!” Yie yelled to Buddenbaum.
“I told you: It’s too late,” he replied. “Besides, I don’t think she wants to go.”
Rare Utu was laughing now. “What’s next?” she kept saying, her laughter growing insubstantial. “What? What?”
The ground at her feet was as soft as she, ribbons of brightness running off along the streets.
“Stop this!” Yie demanded again, his din so brutal that this time Tesla’s body simply surrendered beneath its assault. Her legs failed, her bladder gave out, and she stumbled from Yie’s grip towards the blaze.
“No you don’t!” Buddenbaum snapped, retreating across the incandescent earth to protect the spot where Rare Utu had stood. “The Art’s mine!”
“The Art?” Yie said, as though it was only now he understood the purpose of this trap. “Never, Buddenbaum . . . ” his voice was rising with each syllable. “You will not have it!”
