Weaveworld

by Clive Barker

  At the back of his head, the poet said:

  ‘Go on, boy. Tell them what you know. Don’t try and remember. Just speak.’

  He began again, not falteringly this time, but strongly, as though he knew these lines perfectly well. And damn it, he did. They flowed from him easily, and he heard himself speaking them in a voice he’d never have thought himself capable of. A bard’s voice, declaiming.

  ‘One part of love is innocence,

  One part of love is guilt,

  One part the milk, that in a sense

  Is soured as soon as spilt,

  One part of love is sentiment,

  One part of love is lust,

  One part is the presentiment

  Of our return to dust.’

  Eight lines, and it was all over; over, and he was standing, the lines buzzing in his head, both pleased that he’d got through the verse without fumbling, and wishing it could have gone on a while longer. He looked at the audience. They were not smiling any longer, but staring at him with an odd puzzlement in their eyes. For an instant he thought maybe he’d offended them. Then came the applause, hands raised above their heads. There were shouts and whistles.

  ‘It’s a fine poem!’ Lo said, applauding heartily as he spoke. ‘And finely delivered!’

  So saying, he stepped out of the audience again and embraced Cal with fervour.

  ‘Do you hear?’ Cal said to the poet in his skull. ‘They like you.’

  And back came another fragment, as if fresh from Mad Mooney’s lips. He didn’t speak it this time: but he heard it clearly.

  Forgive my Art. On bended knees,

  I do confess: I seek to please.

  And it was a fine thing, this pleasing business. He returned Lemuel’s hug.

  ‘Help yourself, Mr Mooney,’ the orchard-keeper said, ‘to all the fruit you can eat.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Cal.

  ‘Did you ever know the poet?’ he asked.

  ‘No,’ said Cal. ‘He was dead before I was born.’

  ‘Who can call a man dead whose words still hush us and whose sentiments move?’ Mr Lo replied.

  ‘That’s true,’ said Cal.

  ‘Of course it’s true. Would I tell a lie on a night like this?’

  Having spoken, Lemuel called somebody else out of the crowd: another performer brought to the rug. Cal felt a pang of envy as he stepped over the footlights. He wanted that breathless moment again: wanted to feel the audience held by his words, moved and marked by them. He made a mental note to learn some more of Mad Mooney’s verses if and when he saw his father’s house again, so that next time he was here he had new lines to enchant with.

  His hand was shaken and his face kissed half a dozen times as he made his way back through the crowd. When he turned round to face the rug once more, he was surprised to find that the next performers were Boaz and Ganza. Doubly surprised: they were both naked. There was nothing overtly sexual in their nakedness: indeed it was as formal in its way as the clothes they’d shrugged off. Nor was there any trace of discomfort amongst the audience: they watched the pair with the same grave and expectant looks as they’d watched him.

  Boaz and Ganza had gone to opposite sides of the carpet, halted there a beat, then turned and begun to walk towards each other. They advanced slowly, until they were nose to nose, lip to lip. It crossed Cal’s mind that maybe some erotic display was in the offing, and in a way that confounded his every definition of erotic, that was true, for they continued to walk towards each other, or so his eyes testified, pressing into each other, their faces disappearing, their torsos congealing, their limbs too, until they were one body, the head an almost featureless ball.

  The illusion was absolute. But there was more to come; for the partners were still moving forward, their faces appearing now to press through the back of each other’s craniums, as though the bone was soft as marshmallow. And still they advanced, until they were like Siamese twins born back to back, their single skull now teased out, and boasting two faces.

  As if this weren’t enough, there was a further twist to the trick, for somehow in the flux they’d exchanged genders, to stand finally – quite separate once more – in their partner’s place.

  Love’s like that, the monkey had said. Here was the point proved, in flesh and blood.

  As the performers bowed, and fresh applause broke out, Cal detached himself from the crowd and began to wander back through the trees. Several vague thoughts were in his head. One, that he couldn’t linger here all night, and should soon go in search of Suzanna. Another that it might be wise to seek a guide. The monkey, perhaps?

  But first, the laden branches drew his eye again. He reached, took another handful of fruit, and began to peel. Lo’s ad hoc vaudeville was still going on behind him. He heard laughter, then more applause, and the music began again.

  He felt his limbs growing heavier; his fingers were barely the equal of the peeling; his eye-lids drooped. Deciding he’d better sit down before he fell down, he settled beneath one of the trees.

  Drowsiness was claiming him, and he had no power to resist it. There was no harm in dozing for a while. He was safe here, in the wash of starlight and applause. His eyes flickered closed. It seemed he could see his dreams approaching – their light growing brighter, their voices louder. He smiled to greet them.

  It was his old life he dreamt.

  He stood in the shuttered room that lay between his ears and let the lost days appear on the wall like a lantern show; moments retrieved from some stock-pile he hadn’t even known he’d owned. But the scenes that were paraded before him now – these passages from the unfinished book of his life – no longer seemed quite real. It was fiction, that book; or at best momentarily real, when some part of him had leapt from that stale story, and glimpsed the Fugue in waiting.

  The sound of applause called him to the surface of sleep, and his eyes flickered open. The stars were still set amongst the branches of the Giddy trees; there was still laughter and flame-light near at hand; all was well with his new-found land.

  I wasn’t born ‘til now, he thought, as the lantern show returned. I wasn’t even born.

  Content with that thought, his mind’s eye peeled another of Lo’s sweet fruits, and put it to his lips.

  Somewhere, somebody was applauding him. Hearing it, he took a bow. But this time he did not wake.

  VI

  CAPRA’S HOUSE

  1

  n its way, Capra’s House was as great a surprise as anything Suzanna had seen in the Fugue. It was a low building, in a state of considerable disrepair, the off-white plaster that clad its walls falling away to reveal large hand-made red bricks beneath. The tiles of the porch were much weather-beaten; the door itself barely hanging on its hinges. Myrtle trees grew all around it, and in their branches the myriad bells they’d heard were hanging, responsive to the merest breath of wind. Their sound, however, was all but cancelled by the raised voices from within. It sounded more like a riot than civilized debate.

  There was a guard at the threshold, squatting on his haunches, making a ziggurat of rocks in front of him. At their approach he stood up. He was fully seven feet tall.

  ‘What business have you got here?’ he demanded of Jerichau.

  ‘We have to see the Council –’

  From within, Suzanna could hear a woman’s voice, raised dear and strong.

  ‘I will not lie down and sleep!’ she said. The remark was followed by a roar of approval from her supporters.

  ‘It’s vital we talk to the Council,’ said Jerichau.

  ‘Impossible,’ the guard pronounced.

  ‘This is Suzanna Parrish,’ said Jerichau. ‘She –’

  He had no need to go on.

  ‘I know who she is,’ the guard said.

  ‘If you know who I am then you know I woke the Weave,’ said Suzanna. ‘And I’ve opinions the Council should hear.’

  ‘Yes,’ said the guard, ‘I can see that.’

  He glanced
behind him. The din had, if anything, worsened.

  ‘It’s bedlam in there,’ he warned. ‘You’ll be lucky if you’re heard.’

  ‘I can shout with the best,’ said Suzanna.

  The guard nodded. ‘No doubt,’ he said, it’s straight ahead.’ He stood aside, pointing down a short hallway to a half-closed door.

  Suzanna took a deep breath, looking round at Jerichau to see that he was still in tow, then she walked down the passage and pushed the door.

  The room was large, but filled with people; some sitting, some on their feet, some even standing on chairs to get a better view of the debate’s chief protagonists. There were five individuals in the heat of it. One, a woman with wild hair and an even wilder look – whom Jerichau identified as Yolande Dor. Her faction were in a knot around her, egging her on. She was facing two men, one long-nosed individual whose face was beetroot with yelling, and his older companion, who had a restraining hand upon the first man’s arm. They were clearly the opposition. In between was a negress, who was haranguing both parties, and an oriental, immaculately dressed, who looked to be the moderator. If so, he was failing in this function. It could only be moments before the fists replaced opinions.

  The presence of the interlopers had been noted by a few of the assembly, but the lead players raged on, deaf to each other’s arguments.

  ‘What’s the name of the man in the middle?’ Suzanna asked Jerichau.

  ‘That’s Tung,’ said Jerichau.

  ‘Thank you.’

  Without another word Suzanna stepped towards the debators.

  ‘Mr Tung,’ she said.

  The man looked towards her, and the fretfulness on his face turned to panic.

  ‘Who are you?’ he demanded to know.

  ‘Suzanna Parrish.’

  The name was enough to hush the argument instantly. Those faces which were not already turned in Suzanna’s direction were now.

  ‘A Cuckoo!’ the old man said. ‘In Capra’s House!’

  ‘Shut up,’ said Tung.

  ‘You’re the one,’ said the negress. ‘You!’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Do you know what you’ve done?’

  The remark ignited a fresh outburst, but this time it wasn’t confined to those at the centre of the room. Everybody was yelling.

  Tung, whose calls for control went unheard, pulled a chair up, stood on it, and yelled:

  ‘Silence!’

  The ploy worked; the din died down. Tung was touchingly pleased with himself.

  ‘Ha,’ he said, with a little pout of self-satisfaction. ‘I think that’s a little better. Now …’ he turned to the old man. ‘You have an objection, Messimeris?’

  ‘Indeed I do,’ came the reply. He jabbed an arthritic finger in Suzanna’s direction: ‘She’s trespassing. I demand she be removed from this chamber.’

  Tung was about to reply, but Yolande was there before him.

  ‘This is no time for constitutional niceties,’ she said. ‘Whether we like it or not, we’re awake.’

  She looked at Suzanna.

  ‘And she’s responsible.’

  ‘Well I’m not staying in the same room as a Cuckoo,’ said Messimeris, contempt for Suzanna oozing from his every word. ‘Not after all they’ve done to us.’ He looked at his red-faced companion. ‘Are you coming, Dolphi?’

  ‘I am indeed,’ he replied.

  ‘Wait,’ said Suzanna. ‘I don’t want to break any rules –’

  ‘You already have,’ said Yolande, ‘and the walls are still standing.’

  ‘For how long?’ said the negress.

  ‘Capra’s House is a sacred place,’ Messimeris murmured. It was clear that this was no sham: he was genuinely offended by Suzanna’s presence.

  ‘I understand that,’ said Suzanna. ‘And I respect it. But I feel responsible–’

  ‘And so you are,’ said Dolphi, working himself up into a fresh lather. ‘But that’s little comfort now, is it? We’re awake, damn you. And we’re lost.’

  ‘I know,’ said Suzanna. ‘What you say’s right.’

  This rather deflated him: he’d been expecting argument.

  ‘You agree?’ he said.

  ‘Of course I agree. We’re all vulnerable at the moment.’

  ‘At least we can fend for ourselves now we’re awake,’ Yolande argued, instead of just lying there.’

  ‘We had the Custodians,’ said Dolphi. ‘What happened to them?’

  ‘They’re dead,’ Suzanna replied.

  ‘All of them?’

  ‘What does she know?’ Messimeris commented. ‘Don’t listen to her.’

  ‘My grandmother was Mimi Laschenski,’ said Suzanna.

  For the first time since she’d entered the fray Messimeris looked her straight in the eye. He was no stranger to unhappiness, she thought; it was there in abundance now.

  ‘So?’ he said.

  ‘And she was murdered,’ Suzanna went on, returning his stare, ‘by one of your people.’

  ‘Never!’ said Messimeris, without a trace of doubt.

  ‘Who?’ said Yolande.

  ‘Immacolata.’

  ‘Not ours!’ Messimeris protested. ‘Not one of ours.’

  ‘Well she’s certainly no Cuckoo!’ Suzanna retorted, her patience beginning to wear thin. She took a step towards Messimeris, who took a firmer grip of Dolphi’s arm, as if he might use his colleague as a shield should push come to shove.

  ‘Every one of us is in danger,’ she said, ‘and if you don’t see that then all your sacred places – not just Capra’s House, all of them – they’ll be wiped away. All right, you’ve got reason not to trust me. But at least give me a hearing.’

  The room had fallen pin-drop quiet.

  ‘Tell us what you know,’ said Tung.

  ‘Not all that much,’ Suzanna admitted. ‘But I know you’ve got enemies here in the Fugue, and God knows how many more outside.’

  ‘What do you suggest we do about it?’ said a new voice, from somewhere in Dolphi’s faction.

  ‘We fight,’ said Yolande.

  ‘You’ll lose,’ Suzanna replied.

  The other woman’s fine features grew tight. ‘Defeatism from you too?’ she said.

  ‘It’s the truth. You’ve got no defences against the Kingdom.’

  ‘We have the raptures,’ said Yolande.

  ‘Do you want to make weapons of your magic?’ Suzanna replied. ‘Like Immacolata? If you do that, you may as well call yourself Cuckoos.’

  This argument won some murmurs of assent from the assembly; and sour stares from Yolande.

  ‘So we have to re-weave,’ said Messimeris, with some satisfaction. ‘Which is what I’ve been saying from the outset.’

  ‘I agree,’ said Suzanna.

  At this, the room erupted afresh, Yolande’s voice rising above the din: ‘No more sleep!’ she said. ‘I will not sleep!’’

  ‘Then you’ll all be wiped out,’ Suzanna yelled back.

  The din subsided a little.

  ‘This is a cruel century,’ said Suzanna.

  ‘So was the last,’ somebody commented. ‘And the one before that!’

  ‘We can’t hide forever,’ said Yolande, appealing to the room. Her call received considerable support, despite Suzanna’s intervention. And indeed it was difficult not to sympathize with her case. After so much sleep, the idea of consigning themselves to the dreamless bed of the Weave could not be attractive.

  ‘I’m not saying you should stay in the carpet for long,’ said Suzanna. ‘Just until a safe place can be –’

  ‘I’ve heard all of this before,’ Yolande broke in. ’We’ll wait, we said, we’ll keep our heads low ‘til the storm blows over.’

  There are storms and storms,’ said a man somewhere at the back of the crowd. His voice penetrated the clamour with ease, though it was scarcely more than a whisper. This in itself was enough to make the argument die down.

  Suzanna looked in the direction of the sound, though she could no
t yet see the speaker. It came again:

  ‘If the Kingdom destroys you …’ the voice said, ‘… then all my Mimi’s pain was for nothing …’

  The Councillors were stepping aside as the speaker moved through them towards the centre of the room. He came into view. It took Suzanna several seconds to realize that she’d seen this face before, and another beat to remember where: in the portrait on Mimi’s bedroom wall. But the faded photograph had failed to convey more than a hint of the man’s presence; or indeed of his physical beauty. It wasn’t difficult, seeing the way his eyes flickered, and his close-cropped hair flattered the curve of his skull, to understand why Mimi had slept beneath his gaze all her lonely life. This was the man she’d loved. This was –

  ‘Romo,’ he said, addressing Suzanna. ‘Your grandmother’s first husband.’

  How had he known, sleeping in the Weave, that Mimi had taken a human husband? Had the air told him that tonight?

  ‘What do you want here?’ said Tung. This isn’t a public thoroughfare.’

  ‘I want to speak on behalf of my wife. I knew her heart better than any of you.’

  ‘That was years ago, Romo. Another life.’

  Romo nodded.

  ‘Yes …’ he said. ‘It’s gone, I know. So’s she. All the more reason I speak for her.’

  Nobody made any attempt to silence him.

  ‘She died in the Kingdom,’ he said, ‘to keep us from harm. She died without trying to wake us. Why was that? She had every reason to want the unweaving. To be relieved of her duties; and be back with me.’

  ‘Not necessarily –’ Messimeris said.

  Romo smiled. ‘Because she married?’ he said. ‘I would have expected no less. Or because she’d forgotten? No. Never.’ He spoke with such authority, yet so gently, everyone in the room attended to him. ‘She didn’t forget us. She simply knew what her granddaughter knows. That it isn’t safe.’

  Yolande went to interrupt, but Romo raised his hand.

  ‘A moment, please,’ he said. ‘Then I’m going. I’ve got business elsewhere.’ Yolande closed her mouth.