Weaveworld

by Clive Barker

  The suspects had escaped in a patrol car, he was informed. That was some comfort. The vehicle would be easy to trace. The problem was not finding them again, but subduing them. The woman possessed the skill to induce hallucinations; what other powers might she evidence if cornered? With this and a dozen other questions in his head, he went down in search of Laverick and Boyce.

  There were a few men lingering at the cell door, clearly unwilling to step inside. She’s slaughtered them, he thought, and could not deny a spasm of satisfaction that the stakes were suddenly so much higher. But it was not blood he smelt as he reached the door, it was excrement.

  Laverick and Boyce had stripped off their uniforms, and smeared themselves from head to foot with the product of their own bowels. Now they were crawling around like animals, grinning from ear to ear, apparently well content with themselves.

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ said Hobart.

  At the sound of his master’s voice, Laverick looked up, and tried to get his tongue around some words of explanation. But his palate wasn’t the equal of it. Instead, he crawled into a corner and hid his head.

  ‘You’d better get them hosed down,’ Hobart told one of the officers. ‘We can’t have their wives seeing them like that.’

  ‘What happened, sir?’ the man asked.

  ‘I don’t know yet.’

  Patterson had appeared from the cell where the woman had been held, tear-stains on his face. He had some words of explanation.

  ‘She’s possessed, sir,’ he said, ‘I opened the door and the furniture was half way up the wall.’

  ‘Keep your hysteria to yourself,’ Hobart told him.

  ‘I swear it, sir,’ Patterson protested, ‘I swear it. And there was this light –’

  ‘No, Patterson! You saw nothing!’ Hobart wheeled round on the rest of the spectators, if any of you breathe a word of this, there’ll be worse than shit to eat. You understand me?’

  There were mute nods from the assembly.

  ‘What about them?’ said one, glancing back into the cell.

  ‘I told you. Scrub them down and take them home.’

  ‘But they’re like children,’ someone said.

  ‘No children of mine,’ Hobart replied, and took himself off upstairs where he could sit and look at the pictures in the book in private.

  V

  THRESHOLD

  1

  hat’s the disturbance?’ van Niekerk demanded to know.

  Shadwell smiled his smile. Though he was irritated by the interruption to the Auction, it had served to lend further heat to the buyers’ eagerness.

  ‘An attempt to steal the carpet –’ he said.

  ‘By whom?’ Mrs A. asked.

  Shadwell pointed to the border of the carpet.

  There is, you’ll observe, a portion of the Weave missing,’ he admitted. ‘Small as it is, its knots concealed several inhabitants of the Fugue.’ He watched the buyers’ faces as he spoke. They were utterly mesmerized by his story, desperate for some confirmation of their dreams.

  ‘And they came here?’ said Norris.

  They did indeed.’

  ‘Let’s see them,’ the Hamburger King demanded, ‘if they’re here, let’s see them.’

  Shadwell paused before replying. ‘Maybe one,’ he said.

  He’d been fully prepared for the request, and had already planned with Immacolata which of the prisoners they’d display. He opened the door, and Nimrod, released from the Hag’s embrace, tottered onto the carpet. Whatever the buyers had expected, the sight of this naked child was not it.

  ‘What is this?’ Rahimzadeh snorted. ‘Do you think we’re fools?’

  Nimrod looked up from the Weave underfoot at the puzzled faces that surrounded him. He would have set them right on any number of matters, but that Immacolata had laid her fingers on his tongue, and he couldn’t raise a grunt from it.

  This is one of the Seerkind,’ Shadwell announced.

  ‘It’s just a child,’ said Marguerite Pierce, her voice betraying some tenderness. ‘A poor child.’

  Nimrod stared at the woman: a fine, big-breasted creature, he thought.

  ‘He’s no child,’ said Immacolata. She had slipped into the room unseen; now all eyes turned to her. All except Marguerite’s, which still rested on Nimrod. ‘Some of the Seerkind are shape-changers.’

  ‘This? said van Niekerk.

  ‘Certainly.’

  What crap are you trying to feed us, Shadwell?’ Norris said. ‘I’m not taking –’

  ‘Shut up,’ said Shadwell.

  Shock closed Norris’ mouth; a lot of beef had been minced since he’d last been talked to that way.

  ‘Immacolata can undo this rapture,’ he said, floating the word on the air like a valentine.

  Nimrod saw the Incantatrix make a configuration of thumb and third finger, through which, with a sharp intake of breath, she nonchalantly drew the shape-changing rapture. It was not an unwelcome shudder that convulsed him now; he was weary of this hairless skin. He felt his knees begin to tremble, and he fell forward onto the carpet. Around him, he could hear awed whispers, becoming louder with every step of the undeceiving, and more astonished.

  Inmacolata was not delicate in her undoing of his anatomy. He winced as his flesh was transformed. There was one delicious moment in this hasty unveiling, when he felt his balls drop once more. Then, his manhood re-established, a second sequence of growth began, his skin tingling as the hair sprouted on his belly and back. Finally his face appeared from the facade of innocence, and he was – balls and all – himself again.

  Shadwell looked down at the creature lying on the carpet, its skin faintly blue, its eyes golden; then at the buyers. This spectacle had probably doubled the price they’d bid for the carpet. Here was magic, in the panting flesh; more real and more oddly bewitching than even he’d anticipated.

  ‘You made your point,’ said Norris, his voice flat. ‘Let’s get down to numbers.’

  Shadwell concurred.

  ‘Perhaps you’d remove our guest?’ he said to Immacolata, but before she could make a move Nimrod was up and kneeling at the feet of Marguerite Pierce, covering her ankles with kisses.

  This excited but mute entreaty did not go unnoticed. The woman stretched her hand down to touch the thick hair of Nimrod’s head.

  ‘Leave him with me,’ she said to Immacolata.

  ‘Why not?’ said Shadwell. ‘Let him watch …’

  The Incantatrix made a muttered protest.

  ‘No harm in it,’ said Shadwell. ‘I can handle him.’ Immacolata withdrew. ‘Now …’ said the Salesman. ‘Shall we re-open the bidding?’

  2

  Half way between the kitchen and the bottom of the stairs Cal remembered he was unarmed. He rapidly retraced his steps and dug around in the kitchen drawers until he located a wide knife. Although he doubted if the sister’s ethereal bodies would prove susceptible to a mere blade, its weight in his hand offered some comfort.

  His heel slid in blood as he began to climb the stairs; it was a sheer fluke that his outflung hand found the bannister and kept him from falling downstairs. He silently cursed his clumsiness, and took the rest of the ascent more slowly. Though there was no sign of the sisters’ luminescence from above, he knew they were close. But frightened as he was, one conviction attended his every step: whatever horrors were ahead he would find a way to kill Shadwell. Even if he had to open the bastard’s throat with his own hands he’d do it. The Salesman had broken his father’s heart, and that was a hanging offence.

  At the top of the stairs, a sound; or rather several: human voices raised in argument. He listened more closely. It wasn’t argument at all. They were bidding, and Shadwell’s voice was clearly distinguishable, fielding the contesting bids.

  Under the cover of the racket Cal slipped across the landing to the first of several doors that presented themselves. Cautiously, he opened it, and entered. The small room was unoccupied, but the connecting door was ajar, and a light burned bey
ond. Leaving the door to the landing open, in case he needed to beat a fast retreat, he padded across to the second and peered through.

  On the floor lay Freddy and Apolline; there was no sign of Nimrod. He studied the shadows, to be certain they concealed no by-blow; then he pushed the door open.

  The bids and counter-bids were still flying, and their commotion drowned out any sound he made crossing to where the prisoners lay. They were very still, their mouths stifled with clots of ethereal matter, their eyes closed. It was clearly Freddy who’d spilled the blood on the stairs; his body was much worse for the sisters’ attentions, his face raked with their fingers. But the profoundest wound was between his ribs, where he’d been stabbed with his own scissors. They protruded from him still.

  Cal pulled away Freddy’s gag, which crawled on his hands as if maggoty, and was rewarded with a breath from the wounded man. But there was no sign of consciousness. He then performed the same service for Apolline. She showed more sign of life – moaning as if about to wake.

  The clamour of bids was heating up in the adjacent room; it was clear from the din that there were a good number of would-be purchasers involved. How could he hope to bring the process to a halt with so many in Shadwell’s faction, and he single-handed?

  At his side, Freddy moved.

  His lids flickered open, but there was little in the way of life behind them.

  ‘Cal …’ he tried to say. The word was a shape not a sound. Cal bent closer to him, putting his arms around his chilly, trembling body.

  ‘I’m here, Freddy.’ he said.

  Freddy tried to speak again.

  ‘… almost …’ he said.

  Cal tightened his embrace, as though he could keep the life from seeping out. But a hundred hands couldn’t have kept it from going; it had better places to be. Still Cal couldn’t help but say:

  ‘Don’t go.’

  The man made a tiny shake of his head.

  ‘… almost …’ he said again, ‘… almost …’

  The syllables seemed too much for him. His trembling stopped.

  ‘Freddy …’

  Cal put his fingers to the man’s lips, but there was no trace of breath. As he stared at the empty features Apolline snatched hold of his hand. She too was cold. Her eyes turned skyward, he followed her gaze.

  Immacolata was lying on the ceiling, staring down at him. She’d been hovering there all along, basking in his sorrow and helplessness.

  A shout of horror had reached his lips before he could prevent it, and in that instant she swooped, her darkness reaching for him. For once, however, his clumsiness did him a kindness, and he fell backwards before her claws could connect. The door at his back gave inwards, and he pitched himself through it, his terror of her touch lending him speed.

  ‘What is this?’

  The speaker was Shadwell. Cal had thrown himself into the midst of the Auction. The Salesman was at one end of the room, while half a dozen others, dressed as if for a night at the Ritz, were standing around the room. Immacolata would surely hesitate to murder him in such company. He had a moment’s grace, at least.

  Then he looked down, and the sight before him made him sick with joy.

  He was sprawled across the carpet: its warp and weft were tingling beneath his palms. Was that why he so suddenly and absurdly felt safe – as though all that had gone before had been a test, the prize for which this was sweet reunion?

  ‘Get him out of here,’ said one of the buyers.

  Shadwell took a step towards him.

  ‘Remove yourself, Mr Mooney,’ the Salesman said. ‘We’ve got business here.’

  So have I, thought Cal, and as Shadwell approached he drew the knife from his pocket and sprang at the man. Behind him, he heard Immacolata cry out. He had seconds only in which to act. He thrust the blade at Shadwell, but despite his bulk, the Salesman neatly side-stepped it.

  There was a commotion from the buyers, which Cal took to be an expression of horror, but no – he glanced towards them to see that they’d taken the sale into their own hands, and were shouting bids in each others’ faces.

  It was laughable to see, but Cal had little time to applaud them, for Shadwell had torn open his jacket. The lining blazed.

  ‘Anything you want?’ he said.

  As he spoke he stepped towards Cal, blinding him with the glamour of the garment, and knocked the knife from his hand. With Cal disarmed, he resorted to less subtle tactics, delivering a knee to Cal’s groin that dropped him groaning to the floor. There he lay for several seconds, unable to move until the nausea subsided. Through the daze of light and sickness he could see Immacolata, still waiting for him at the door. Behind her, the sisters. So much for his attack. He was weaponless now, and alone –

  But no; not alone. Never alone.

  He was lying on a world, wasn’t he?, on a sleeping world. Miracles beyond counting were in the Weave beneath him, if he could just liberate them.

  But how? There were raptures, no doubt, to stir the Fugue from its slumber, but he knew none of them. All he could do was lay his palms on the carpet and whisper:

  ‘Wake up …’

  Was he deluding himself, or was there already a restlessness in the knots?, as though the creatures there struggled against their condition, like sleepers desperate to wake themselves, knowing the day had broken, but powerless to stir.

  Now, from the corner of his eye, he caught sight of a naked figure crouching at the feet of a buyer. It was undoubtedly one of the Seerkind, but no-one he recognized. Or at least not the body. But the eyes –

  ‘Nimrod?’ he murmured.

  The creature had seen him, and crawled from its place of safety to the edge of the carpet. He wasn’t noticed. Shadwell was already back amongst the buyers, trying to prevent the Auction from becoming a blood-bath. He’d forgotten Cal’s existence.

  ‘Is it you?’ Cal said.

  Nimrod nodded, pointing to his throat.

  ‘You can’t speak? Shit!’

  Cal glanced towards the door. Immacolata was still in wait. She had the patience of a carrion-bird.

  ‘The carpet …’ said Cal. ‘We have to wake it.’

  Nimrod looked at him blankly.

  ‘Don’t you understand what I’m saying?’

  Before Nimrod could signal any reply, Shadwell had settled the buyers and announced:

  ‘We’ll begin again.’

  Then, to Immacolata: ‘Remove the assassin.’

  Cal had at best seconds before the Incantatrix stopped his life. He desperately scanned the room for an exit route. There were several windows, all heavily draped. Perhaps if he could reach one he might fling himself out. Even if the fall killed him it could not be worse than death at Immacolata’s touch.

  But before she reached him she halted. Her gaze, which had been fixed upon him, now drifted away. She turned to Shadwell and the word she said was:

  ‘… menstruum …’

  As she spoke the room beyond the door, where Apolline and Freddy had been left, was washed with a radiance which splashed through onto the carpet. At its touch, the colours seemed to become more vivid.

  And then a shriek of wrath – the voice of the Hag – rose from the room, followed by a further spillage of light.

  These new sights and sounds were enough to set the buyers into a fresh spin. One went to the door – either as spectator or escapee – and fell back, his hands over his eyes, yelling that he was blinded. Nobody went to his aid. The rest of the party retreated to the far end of the room, while the fury at the other escalated.

  A figure had appeared at the door, threads of brilliance describing spirals all about her. Cal knew her at once, despite her transformation.

  It was Suzanna. Fluid fireworks ran like veins over her arms, and showered from her fingertips; they danced on her belly and breasts and ran out from between her legs to ignite the air.

  Seeing her thus, it took several seconds for Cal to voice his welcome, and by that time the sisters were thro
ugh the door in pursuit of her. The battle had done grievous harm on both sides. The display of the menstruum could not hide the bleeding wounds on Suzanna’s neck and body; and, though pain was most likely beyond the experience of the wraith-sisters, they too were torn.

  Whether weakened or not, they fell back when Immacolata raised her hand, leaving Suzanna to their living sister.

  ‘You’re late,’ she said. ‘We were waiting.’

  ‘Kill her,’ said Shadwell.

  Cal studied the look on Suzanna’s face. Try as she might she could not entirely disguise her exhaustion.

  Now, perhaps feeling his eyes on her, she looked his way, her gaze locking with his, then moving to his hands, which were still palm down upon the Weave. Did she read his thoughts, he wondered. Did she comprehend that the only hope remaining to them lay asleep at her feet?

  Again, their eyes met, and in them Cal saw that she understood.

  Beneath his fingers, the Weave tingled as though a mild electric shock was passing through it. He didn’t remove his hand, but let the energy use him as it so desired. He was just part of a process now: a circle of power that ran through the carpet from Suzanna’s feet to his hands and up through his eyes and back along the line of their glance to her.

  ‘Stop them…’ said Shadwell, dimly comprehending this mischief, but as Immacolata moved towards Cal again one of the buyers said:

  ‘The knife…’

  Cal didn’t break the look he shared with Suzanna, but the knife now floated into view between them, as if raised on the heat of their thoughts.

  Suzanna had no more idea of why or how this was happening than Cal, but she too grasped, albeit vaguely, the notion of the circuit that ran through her, the menstruum, the carpet, him, the gaze, and back to her again. Whatever was occurring here it had seconds only to work its miracle, before Immacolata reached Cal and broke the circle.

  The knife had begun to spin now, catching fresh speed with each turn. Cal felt a fullness in his testicles which was almost painful; and – more alarmingly – the feeling that he was no longer quite fixed in his body, but being teased out, out through his eyes, to meet Suzanna’s gaze on the knife between them, which was moving at such a speed it resembled a silver ball.