Weaveworld

by Clive Barker

  ‘What happens to me?’ said Cal.

  ‘You’re a Cuckoo,’ Chloe shouted back at him, as Floris hauled the rickshaw away. ‘You can simply walk out the other side!’

  She shouted something else, which he failed to catch.

  He hoped to God it wasn’t a prayer.

  XII

  A VANISHING BREED

  1

  espite Chloe’s words, the spectacle ahead offered little comfort. The devouring line was approaching at considerable speed, and it left nothing unchanged. His gut feeling was to flee before it, but he knew that would be a vain manœuvre. This same transfiguring tide would be eating in from all compass points: sooner or later there would be nowhere left to run.

  Instead of standing still and letting it come to fetch him, he elected to walk towards it, and brave its touch.

  The air began to itch around him as he took his first hesitant steps. The ground squirmed and shook beneath his feet. A few more yards and the region he was walking through actually began to shift. Loose pebbles were snatched into the flux; leaves plucked from bush and tree.

  ‘This is going to hurt,’ he thought.

  The frontier was no more than ten yards from him now, and he could see with astonishing clarity the processes at work: the raptures of the Loom dividing the matter of the Fugue into strands, then drawing these up into the air and knotting them – those knots in their turn filling the air like countless insects, until the final rapture called them into the carpet.

  He could afford to wonder at this sight for seconds only before he and it met each other, strands leaping up around him like rainbow fountains. There was no time for farewells: the Fugue simply vanished from sight, leaving him immersed in the working of the Loom. The rising threads gave him the sensation of falling, as though the knots were destined for heaven, and he a damned soul. But it wasn’t heaven above him: it was pattern. A kaleidoscope that defeated eye and mind, its motifs configuring and re-configuring as they found their place beside their fellows. Even now he was certain he’d be similarly metamorphosed; his flesh and bone become symbol, and he be woven into the grand design.

  But Chloe’s prayer, if that it had been, afforded him protection. The Loom rejected his Cuckoo-stuff and passed him by. One minute he was in the midst of the Weave. The next the glories of the Fugue were behind him, and he was left standing in a bare field.

  2

  He wasn’t alone there. Several dozen Seerkind had chosen to step out into the Kingdom. Some stood alone watching their home consumed by the Weave, others were in small groups, debating feverishly; yet others were already heading off into the gloom before the Adamaticals came looking for them.

  Among them, lit by the blaze of the Weave, a face he recognized: that of Apolline Dubois. He went to her. She saw him coming, but offered no welcome.

  ‘Have you seen Suzanna?’ he asked her.

  She shook her head. ‘I’ve been cremating Frederick, and setting my affairs to rights,’ she said.

  She got no further. An elegant individual, his cheeks rouged, now appeared at her side. He looked every inch a pimp.

  ‘We should go. Moth,’ he said. ‘Before the beasts are upon us.’

  ‘I know,’ Apolline said to him. Then to Cal: ‘We’re going to make our fortunes. Teaching you Cuckoos the meaning of desire.’

  Her companion offered a less than wholesome grin. More than half his teeth were gold.

  ‘There are high times ahead,’ she said, and patted Cal’s cheek. ‘So you come see me one of these days,’ she said. ‘We’ll treat you well.’

  She took the pimp’s arm.

  ‘Bon chance,’ she said, and the pair hurried away.

  The line of the Weave was by now a good distance from where Cal stood, and the numbers of Seerkind who’d emerged was well into three figures. He went amongst them, still looking for Suzanna. His presence was largely ignored; they had more pressing concerns, these people, delivered into the late twentieth century with only magic to keep them from harm. He didn’t envy them.

  Amongst the refugees he caught sight of three of the Buyers, standing dazed and dusty, their faces blank. What would they make of tonight’s experiences he wondered. Would they pour the whole story out to their friends, and endure the disbelief and contempt heaped on their heads; or would they let the tale fester untold? The latter, he suspected.

  Dawn was close. The weaker stars had already disappeared, and even the brightest were uncertain of themselves.

  ‘It’s over …’ he heard somebody murmur.

  He looked back towards the Weave; the brilliance of its making had almost flickered out.

  But suddenly, a shout in the night, and a beat later Cal saw three lights – members of the Amadou – rising from the embers of the Weave at enormous speed. They drew together as they rose, until, high above the streets and fields, they collided.

  The blaze of their meeting illuminated the landscape as far as the eye could see. By it Cal glimpsed Seerkind running in all directions, averting their eyes from the brilliance.

  Then the light died, and the pre-dawn gloom that followed seemed so impenetrable by contrast that Cal was effectively blind for a minute or more. As, by slow degrees, the world re-established itself about him, he realized that there had been nothing arbitrary about the fireworks or their effect.

  The Seerkind had disappeared. Where, ninety seconds ago, there had been scraggling figures all around him, there was now emptiness. Under the cover of light, they’d made their escape.

  XIII

  A PROPOSAL

  1

  obart had seen the blaze of the Amadou too, though he was still two and a half miles from the spot. The night had brought disaster upon disaster. Richardson, still jittery after events at Headquarters, had twice driven the car into the back of stationary vehicles, and their route, which had taken them all over the Wirral, had been a series of cul-de-sacs.

  But at last, here it was: a sign that their quarry was close.

  ‘What was that?’ said Richardson. ‘Looked like something exploding.’

  ‘God knows,’ said Hobart. ‘I wouldn’t put anything past these people. Especially the woman.’

  ‘Should we call in some back-up, sir? We don’t know their numbers.’

  ‘Even if we could –’ Hobart said, switching off the white noise which had swallowed Downey hours ago, ‘– I want to keep this quiet until we know what’s what. Kill the headlights.’

  The driver did so, and they drove on in the murk that preceded daybreak. Hobart thought he could see figures moving in the mist beyond the grey foliage that lined the road. There was no time to investigate however; he would have to trust his instinct that the woman was somewhere up ahead.

  Suddenly there was somebody in the road ahead of them. Cursing, Richardson threw the wheel over, but the figure seemed to leap up and over the car.

  The vehicle mounted the pavement, and ran a few yards before Richardson brought it under control again.

  ‘Shit. Did you see that?’

  Hobart had, and felt the same aching unease he’d felt back at Headquarters. These people were holding weapons that worked on a man’s sense of what was real, and he loved reality more than his balls.

  ‘Did you see?’ said Richardson. ‘The fucker just flew.’

  ‘No.’ Hobart said firmly. ‘There was no flying. Understood?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Don’t trust your eyes. Trust me.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And if anything else gets in your way, run it down.’

  2

  The light that had blinded Cal blinded Shadwell too. He fell from the back of his human horse, and scrabbled around in the dirt until the world began to come back into focus. When it did two sights greeted him. One, that of Norris, lying on the ground sobbing like an infant. The other, Suzanna, accompanied by two of the Kind, emerging from the rubble of Shearman’s house.

  They weren’t empty-handed. They were carrying the carpet.
God, the carpet! He looked about him for the Incantatrix, but there was no-one near to aid him except the horse, who was well past aiding anybody.

  Stay calm, he told himself, you’ve still got the jacket. He brushed off the worst of the dirt he’d acquired, centred the knot of his tie, then walked over to intercept the thieves.

  ‘Thank you so much,’ he said as he approached them, ‘for preserving my property.’

  Suzanna gave him a single glance, then told the carpet-bearers:

  ‘Ignore him.’

  That said, she led them towards the road.

  Shadwell went after them quickly, and took firm hold of the woman’s arm. He was determined to preserve his politeness as long as possible; it always confused the enemy.

  ‘Do we have a problem here?’ he wondered.

  ‘No problem,’ Suzanna said.

  ‘The carpet belongs to me. Miss Parrish. I insist that it remain here.’

  Suzanna looked around for Jerichau. They’d become separated in the last minutes of her briefing at Capra’s House, when Messimeris had taken her aside to offer her some words of advice. He had still been in full flow when the Weave had reached the doorstep of Capra’s House: she had never heard his final remarks.

  ‘Please …’ said Shadwell, smiling. ‘We can surely come to some arrangement. If you wish, I’ll buy the item off you. How much shall we say?’

  He opened his jacket, no longer directing his spiel at Suzanna but at the two who were carrying the carpet. Strong armed they might be, but easy fodder. Already they were staring into the folds of the jacket.

  ‘Maybe you see something you like?’ he said.

  ‘It’s a trick,’ said Suzanna.

  ‘But look –’ one of them said to her, and damn it if she instinctively didn’t do exactly that. Had the night not brought so many exhausting diversions she would have had the strength to avert her sight immediately, but she wasn’t fast enough. Something glimmered in the mother-of-pearl lining, and she could not quite unhook her gaze.

  ‘You do see something –’ Shadwell said to her. ‘Something pretty, for a pretty woman.’

  She did. The raptures of the jacket had seized her in two seconds flat, and she couldn’t resist its mischief.

  At the back of her head a voice called her name, but she ignored it. Again, it called. Look away, it said, but she could see something taking shape in the lining, and it tantalized her.

  ‘No, damn you!’ the same voice shouted, and this time a blurred figure came between her and Shadwell. Her reverie broke, and she was thrown from the jacket’s soothing embrace to see Cal in front of her, throwing a barrage of punches at the enemy. Shadwell was much the bigger of the two men, but the heat of Cal’s fury had momentarily cowed him.

  ‘Get the fuck out of here!’ Cal yelled.

  By now Shadwell had overcome his shock, and launched himself upon Cal, who reeled before the retaliation. Knowing he’d lose the bout in seconds, he ducked beneath Shadwell’s fists and took hold of the Salesman in a bear-hug. They wrestled for several seconds: precious time which Suzanna seized to lead the carpet-carriers through the rubble and away.

  Their escape came not a moment too soon. In the time she’d been distracted by the jacket, day had almost come upon them. They’d soon be easy targets for Immacolata, or indeed anyone else who wanted to stop them.

  Hobart, for instance. She saw him now, as they reached the edge of Shearman’s estate, stepping out of a car parked in the street. Even in this dubious light – and at some distance – she knew it was he. Her hatred smelt him. And she knew too, with some prophetic sense the menstruum had undammed in her, that even if they escaped him now, the pursuit would not stop here. She’d made an enemy for the millennium.

  She didn’t watch him for long. Why bother? She could perfectly recall every nick and pore upon his barren face; and if the memory ever grew a little dim all she would have to do was look over her shoulder.

  Damn him, he’d be there.

  3

  Though Cal held onto Shadwell with the tenacity of a terrier, the Salesman’s superior weight rapidly gained the day. Cal was thrown down amongst the bricks, and Shadwell closed in. No quarter was given. Shadwell began to kick him, not once but a dozen times.

  ‘Fucking bastard!’ he yelled.

  The kicks kept coming, timed to prevent Cal getting up.

  ‘I’m going to break every bone in your fucking body,’ Shadwell promised. ‘I’m going to fucking kill you.’

  He might have done it too, but that somebody said:

  ‘You –’

  Shadwell’s assault stopped momentarily, and Cal looked past the Salesman’s legs to the man in dark glasses who was approaching. It was the policeman from Chariot Street.

  Shadwell turned on the man.

  ‘Who the hell are you?’ he said.

  ‘Inspector Hobart,’ came the reply.

  Cal could imagine the wave of guilelessness that would now be breaking over Shadwell’s face. He could hear it in the man’s voice:

  ‘Inspector. Of course. Of course.’

  ‘And you?’ Hobart returned. ‘Who are you?’

  Cal didn’t hear the rest of the exchange. He was occupied with the business of making his bruised body crawl away through the rubble, hoping the same good fortune that had let him escape alive had speeded Suzanna on her way.

  Where is she?’

  Where’s who?’

  ‘The woman who was here,’ said Hobart. He took off his glasses, the better to see this suspect in the half-light. The man has dangerous eyes, thought Shadwell. He has the eyes of a rabid fox. And he wants Suzanna too. How interesting.

  ‘Her name is Suzanna Parrish,’ said Hobart.

  ‘Ah,’ said Shadwell.

  ‘You know her?’

  ‘Indeed I do. She’s a thief.’

  ‘She’s a good deal worse than that.’

  What’s worse than a thief? thought Shadwell. But said: ‘Is that so?’

  ‘She’s wanted for questioning on charges of terrorism.’

  ‘And you’re here to arrest her?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Good man,’ said Shadwell. What better? he thought: an upstanding, fine-principled, Law-loving despot. Who could ask for a better ally in such troubled times?

  ‘I have some evidence,’ he said, ‘that may be of value to you. But strictly for your eyes only.’

  On Hobart’s instruction Richardson retired a little way.

  ‘I’m in no mood for games,’ Hobart warned.

  ‘Believe me,’ said Shadwell, ‘upon my mother’s eyes: this is no game.’

  He opened his jacket. The Inspector’s fretful glance went immediately to the lining. He’s hungry, thought Shadwell; he’s so hungry. But what for? That would be interesting to see. What would friend Hobart desire most in all the wide world?

  ‘Maybe … you see something there that catches your eye?’

  Hobart smiled; nodded.

  ‘You do? Then take it, please. It’s yours.’

  The Inspector reached towards the jacket.

  ‘Go on,’ Shadwell encouraged him. He’d never seen such a look on any human face: such a wilderness of innocent malice.

  A light ignited within the jacket, and Hobart’s eyes suddenly grew wilder still. Then he was drawing his hand out of the lining, and Shadwell almost let out a yelp of surprise as he shared the lunatic’s vision. In the palm of the man’s hand a livid fire was burning, its flames yellow and white. They leapt a foot high, eager for something to consume, their brilliance echoed in Hobart’s eyes.

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Hobart. ‘Give me fire –’

  ‘It’s yours, my friend.’

  ‘– and I’ll burn them away.’

  Shadwell smiled.

  ‘You and I together,’ he proposed.

  Thus began a marriage made in Hell.

  Part Six

  Back Among the

  Blind Men

  ‘If a man could pass through

>   Paradise in a dream, and have

  a flower presented to him as a

  pledge that his soul had really

  been there, and if he found that

  flower in his hand when he

  awoke – Aye, and what then?’

  S. T. Coleridge

  Anima Poetae

  I

  TIME’S GONE BY

  1

  he people of Chariot Street had witnessed some rare scenes in recent times, but they’d re-established the status quo with admirable zeal. It was just before eight in the morning when Cal got off the bus and began the short walk to the Mooney residence, and everywhere along the street the same domestic rituals that he’d witnessed here since his childhood were being played out. Radios announced the morning’s news through open windows and doors: a Parliamentarian had been found dead in his mistress’ arms; bombs had been dropped in the Middle East. Slaughter and scandal, scandal and slaughter. And was the tea too weak this morning, my dear?; and did the children wash behind their ears?

  He let himself into the house, turning over yet again the problem of what to tell Brendan. Anything less than the truth might beg more questions than it answered; and yet to tell the whole story… was that even possible? Did the words exist to evoke more than an echo of the sights he’d seen, the feelings he’d felt?

  The house was quiet, which was worrying. Brendan had been a dawn riser since his days working on the Docks; even during the worst of recent times he’d been up to greet his grief early.

  Cal called his father’s name. There was no response.

  He went through to the kitchen. The garden looked like a battlefield. He called again, then went to search upstairs.

  His father’s bedroom door was closed. He tried the handle, but the door was locked from the inside, something he’d never known happen before. He knocked lightly.

  ‘Dad?’ he said. ‘Are you there?’

  He waited several seconds, listening closely, then repeated his enquiry. This time from within came a quiet sobbing.