Weaveworld

by Clive Barker

  ‘Of course, there’s been an official cover-up,’ Gluck was saying, ‘here in Spook City.’

  ‘Cover-up?’

  ‘Certainly. It wasn’t just houses that disappeared. People went too. Lured here, at least that’s what my information suggests. Moneyed people; people with important friends, who came here and never left. Or at least not of their own accord.’

  ‘Extraordinary.’

  ‘Oh, I could tell you tales that would make the disappearance of a plutocrat seem small beer.’ Gluck re-kindled his cigar, which had died each time he’d taken off on some fresh tack. He puffed on it until he was veiled in smoke. ‘But we know so little,’ he said. ‘That’s why I keep searching, keep asking. I would have been on your doorstep a lot earlier, but that things have been so hectic’

  ‘I don’t think there’s much I can tell you,’ said Cal. ‘That whole period’s sort of vague –’

  ‘Yes,’ said Gluck. ‘It would be. I’ve had this happen repeatedly. Witnesses simply forgetting. I believe it’s something our friends –’ he pointed the wet end of his cigar skyward, ‘– are able to induce: this forgetfulness. Was there anybody else in the house that day?’

  ‘My father. I think.’

  He couldn’t even be perfectly certain of that.

  ‘Might I have a word with him?’

  ‘He’s dead. He died last month.’

  ‘Oh. My condolences. Was it sudden?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You’re selling the house then. Leaving Liverpool to its own devices?’

  Cal shrugged. ‘I don’t think so,’ he said. Gluck peered at him out of the smoke. ‘I just can’t seem to make up my mind about much these days,’ Cal confessed. ‘It’s like I’m living in a dream.’

  You never spoke a truer word, said a voice at the back of his head.

  ‘I understand,’ said Gluck. ‘Truly I do.’

  He unbuttoned his jacket, and opened it. Cal’s heartbeat unaccountably quickened, but all the man was doing was fishing in his inside pocket for his visiting card.

  ‘Here,’ he said. ‘Please. Take it.’

  A. V. Gluck, the card announced, and below the Birmingham address a phrase, in red ink:

  What is now proved was once only imagined.

  ‘Who’s the quote from?’

  ‘William Blake,’ said Gluck. “The Marriage of Heaven and Hell. Would you keep the card? If anything should occur to you; anything … anomalous … I’d like to hear from you.’

  ‘I’ll keep it in mind,’ Cal said. He looked at the card again. ‘What does V. stand for?’ he asked.

  ‘Virgil,’ Gluck confided. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘everybody should have some little secret, don’t you think?’

  2

  Cal kept the card, more as a keepsake of the encounter than in the expectation of using it. He’d enjoyed the man’s company, in its off-beat way, but it was probably a performance best enjoyed once only. Twice might stale its eccentric charm.

  When Geraldine got back he began to tell her about the visit, then thought better of it, and diverted the conversation to another subject entirely. He knew she’d laugh at his giving the fellow a minute of his attention, and, outlandish as Gluck and his theories were, he didn’t want to hear the man mocked, however gently.

  Maybe the man had taken the wrong turning, but at least he’d travelled some extraordinary roads. Though Cal could no longer remember why, he had the suspicion that they had that in common.

  Part Seven

  The Demagogue

  ‘All rising to great place is by a winding stair.’

  Sir Francis Bacon

  Essays

  I

  THE MESSENGER

  1

  pring was late that year, the March days murky, the nights frost-bitten. It sometimes seemed winter would never end; that the world would go on like this, grey upon grey, until entropy claimed its little life entirely. The weeks brought bad times for Suzanna and Jerichau. It wasn’t Hobart that caused them: indeed she even got to thinking that a reminder of their jeopardy might usefully shake them from their complacency.

  But, while she suffered from lethargy and ennui, Jerichau’s response to these weeks was in its way far more alarming. The pleasure he took in the inconsequentia of the Kingdom, which had been a source of amusement to them both, now took on the quality of an obsession. He lost entirely his capacity for stillness, which had initially drawn her to him. Now he was full of spurious energy, spouting advertising catch-phrases and jingles which he soaked up – Babu that he was – like a sponge, his talk an imitation of the flipness of television detectives and game-show hosts. They argued often, sometimes bitterly; he’d more often than not walk out in the middle of such exchanges, as if anger were not worth his sweat, only to return with some booty – usually drink – which he’d consume in sullen solitude if he couldn’t get Suzanna to join him.

  She tried to satisfy his restlessness by keeping them on the move, but it only exacerbated the disease.

  Privately she began to despair, as she pictured history repeating itself two generations on, with her cast in Mimi’s role.

  And then, not a moment too soon, the weather began to improve, and her spirits started to rise. She even dared entertain the hope that the chase had actually stopped; their pursuers given up and gone home. In a month or so, perhaps, they could with some confidence go in search of a haven to begin the unweaving again.

  But then came the glad tidings.

  2

  They were in a small town outside Coventry, rejoicing in the name of Fatherless Barn; as good a reason as any to be there. The day being bright, and the sun almost warm, they’d decided to risk leaving the carpet in storage at the boarding house they’d found, and take the air together.

  Jerichau had just emerged from a confectioner’s, his pockets full of white chocolate, his current passion, when somebody brushed past Suzanna, saying: ‘Left and left’, then hurried on without looking back.

  Jerichau had heard the words too, and he instantly followed both stranger and instructions. She called after him, but he wasn’t about to be waylaid. He turned left at the first intersection. Suzanna went in pursuit, cursing his indiscretion, which had already drawn some attention. Left and left again brought her into the narrowest of streets, where the sun surely seldom came. There Jerichau was embracing the stranger like a long lost brother.

  It was Nimrod.

  3

  ‘You were so difficult to find,’ he said, when they returned to the seclusion of the boarding house, taking a dog’s leg so that Jerichau could steal a bottle of celebratory champagne, ‘I almost caught up with you in Hull, then lost you. But somebody remembered you at your hotel. Said you’d got drunk, Jerichau, is that right? And been helped to bed.’

  ‘Could be,’ said Jerichau.

  ‘Anyhow, here I am, and with great news.’

  ‘What?’ said Suzanna.

  ‘We’re going back home. Very soon.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Capra says so.’

  ‘Capra?’ said Jerichau. It was enough to make him neglect his glass. ‘How can that be?’

  ‘The Prophet says so. It’s all planned. Capra speaks to him –’

  ‘Wait. Wait!’ said Suzanna. ‘What Prophet?’

  ‘He says we have to spread the word,’ said Nimrod, his enthusiasm boundless. ‘Find the ones who left the Weave, and tell them liberation’s at hand. I’ve been all over, doing just that. It was by chance I got wind of you. What luck, eh? Nobody knew where you were –’

  ‘And that was the way it was meant to stay,’ said Suzanna. ‘I was to make contact in my time, when I judged the trail had grown cold.’

  ‘It is cold,’ said Nimrod. ‘Stone cold. Surely you must have noticed that?’ Suzanna kept her silence. ‘Our enemies have given up the chase,’ he went on. ‘The Prophet knows that. He tells us what Capra says, and Capra says our Suppression is at an end.’

  ‘Who is this Prophet?�
� said Suzanna.

  Nimrod’s excited flow ceased. He frowned as he stared at her.

  ‘The Prophet is the Prophet,’ he said. No further explanation was necessary, it seemed.

  ‘You don’t even know his name?’ she said.

  ‘He lived near the Gyre,’ said Nimrod. That much I do know. A hermit, he was, until the weaving. That night, last summer, Capra called him. He left the Weave, to begin his teachings. The tyranny of the Cuckoos is nearly at an end –’

  ‘I’ll believe that when I see it,’ said Suzanna.

  ‘You will,’ said Nimrod, with the unshakeable fervour of a true convert. ‘This time, the earth will rise with us. That’s what people are saying. The Cuckoos have made too much mischief. Their Age is over.’

  ‘Sounds like wish-fulfilment to me.’

  ‘You may doubt -’ said Nimrod.

  ‘I do.’

  ‘– but I’ve seen the Prophet. I’ve heard his words. And they come from Capra.’ His eyes glittered with evangelical glee. ‘I was in the gutter when the Prophet found me. Broken in pieces. Prey to every Cuckoo sickness. Then I heard the Prophet’s voice, and went to him. Now look at me.’

  Suzanna had argued with zealots before – her brother had been born again at twenty-three, and given his life to Christ – she knew from experience there was no gainsaying the bigotry of faith. Indeed there was part of her wanted to join the happy throng of believers Nimrod described; throw off the burden of the carpet and let the Fugue begin its life afresh. She was weary of being afraid to meet anybody’s eye, of forever passing through. Any pleasure she might have taken in being an outsider, possessed of a wonderful secret, had long since soured. Now she wanted to have her fingers in clay again, or sit flirting with friends. But tempting as it was, she couldn’t accept this cant and be silent. It stank.

  ‘How do you know he doesn’t mean us all harm?’ she said.

  ‘Harm? What harm is there in being free? You have to give the Weave back, Suzanna. I’ll take you to him –’ He snatched hold of her hand as he spoke, as if he was prepared to do it now. She pulled her fingers from his grip.

  ‘What’s the problem?’ he said.

  ‘I’m not just going to give the carpet up because you heard the Word,’ she said fiercely.

  ‘You must,’ he said, as much disbelief as anger in his tone.

  ‘When does this Prophet speak again?’ said Jerichau.

  ‘The day after tomorrow,’ Nimrod replied, his eyes still on Suzanna. ‘The chase is over,’ he said to her. ‘You must give the carpet back.’

  ‘And if I don’t, he’ll come and get it?’ she said, ‘is that the implication?’

  ‘You Cuckoos –’ Nimrod sighed. ‘Always making things so damn difficult. He’s come to give us Capra’s wisdom. Why can’t you see that?’ He halted a moment. When he spoke again he’d modulated his strident tone. ‘I respect your doubts,’ he said. ‘But you must understand the situation’s changed.’

  ‘I think we should see this Prophet for ourselves,’ said Jerichau. He cast a glance at Suzanna. ‘Yes?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Yes!’ Nimrod grinned. ‘Yes, he’ll make everything dear to you.’

  She longed for that promise to be made true.

  ‘The day after tomorrow,’ said Nimrod. There’ll be an end to chases.’

  II

  SEEING THE LIGHT

  1

  hat night, with Nimrod gone, and Jerichau sleeping off his champagne, she did something she’d never done before. She evoked the menstruum, simply for company. It had shown her many sights in recent weeks, and it had saved her from Hobart and his malice, but she was still suspicious of its power. She still couldn’t quite work out whether she controlled it, or vice versa. Tonight, however, she decided that that was a Cuckoo’s way of thinking, always making divisions: the viewer from the viewed; the peach from the taste it left on the tongue.

  Such compartments were useful only as tools. At some point they had to be left behind. For better or worse, she was the menstruum, and the menstruum was her. She and it, indivisible.

  Bathing in its silver light, her thoughts turned again to Mimi, who’d lived a life of waiting, her years growing dusty while she hoped for a miracle that was too late in coming. Thinking of that, she began to cry, quietly.

  Not quietly enough, for she woke Jerichau. She heard his footsteps outside, then his tapping on the bathroom door.

  ‘Lady?’ he said. It was the name he only used when there was an apology in the air.

  ‘I’m all right,’ she said.

  She had neglected to lock the door, and he pushed it open. He was dressed only in the long vest he always slept in. Seeing her misery, his face dropped.

  ‘Why so sad?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s all wrong,’ were the only words she could find to express her confusion.

  Jerichau’s eyes had found the dregs of the menstruum, which moved across the floor between them, their brightness flickering out as they left her immediate vicinity. He kept a respectful distance.

  ‘I’ll go to the meeting place with Nimrod,’ he said. ‘You stay with the Weave. Yes?’

  ‘Suppose they demand it?’

  ‘Then we’ll have to decide,’ he said. ‘But we shall see this Prophet first. He could be a charlatan.’ He paused, not looking at her, but at the empty floor between them. ‘A lot of us are,’ he said after a moment. ‘Me, for instance.’

  She stared at him as he loitered in the doorway. It wasn’t the dying glamour of the menstruum that kept him at bay, she now realized. She spoke his name, very quietly.

  ‘Not you,’ she said.

  ‘Oh yes,’ he replied.

  There was another aching silence.

  Then he said: ‘I’m sorry, lady.’

  ‘There’s nothing to be sorry for.’

  ‘I failed you,’ he said. ‘I wanted to be so much to you, and look how I failed.’

  She stood up and went to him. His misery was so heavy he could not raise his head beneath its weight. She took hold of his hand and held it tight.

  ‘I couldn’t have survived these months without you,’ she said. ‘You’ve been my dearest friend.’

  ‘Friend,’ he said, his voice small. ‘I never wanted to be your friend.’

  She felt his hand tremble in hers, and the sensation brought back their adventure on Lord Street, when she’d held him in the crowd, and shared his visions, his terrors. Since then, they’d shared a bed as well, and it had been pleasurable, but little more. She’d been too obsessed with the beasts on their heels to think of much else; both too close and too distant from him to see how he suffered. She saw it now, and it frightened her.

  ‘I love you, lady,’ he murmured, his throat almost swallowing the words before they were said. Then he extricated his hand from hers and retreated from her. She went after him. The room was dark, but there was sufficient illumination to etch his anxious face, his jittering limbs.

  ‘I didn’t understand,’ she said, and reached out to touch his face.

  Not since the first night they’d met had she thought of him as unhuman; his hunger to soak up the trivialities of the Kingdom had further obscured that fact. Now she remembered it. Saw before her another species; another history. The thought made her heart pound. He sensed – or saw – the arousal in her, and his earlier hesitancy evaporated. He took a half step towards her, until his tongue could run along her lips. She opened her mouth to taste him, embracing him as she did so. The mystery embraced her in return.

  Their previous coupling had been comforting, but unremarkable. Now – as though released by the statement of his love – he took a new lead, undressing her almost ritualistically, kissing her over and over and between the kisses whispering words in a language he must have known she couldn’t understand, but which he spoke in a voice of infinite dexterity so that, uncomprehending, she understood. It was his love he spoke; erotic rhymes and promises; words that were the shape of his desire.

  H
is phallus, a word; his semen, a word; her cunt, which he poured his poems into, a dozen words or more.

  She closed her eyes and felt his recital consuming her. She answered him, in her way, sighs and nonsenses that found their place in the swell of his magic. When her eyes flickered open again she found the exchange had ignited the very air about them, their words – and the feelings they conveyed – writing a lexicon of light which flattered their nakedness.

  It was as if the room was suddenly filled with lanterns, made of smoke and paper. They drifted up on the heat of their makers’ bodies, their lights bringing every part of the room to exquisite life. She saw the tightly curled hairs he’d shed on the pillow, describing their own alphabet; saw the simple weave of the sheet extolled; saw everywhere a subtle intercourse of form with form: the walls’ congress with the space they contained; the curtains’ passion for the window; the chair for the coat that lay upon it, and the shoes beneath.

  But mostly she saw him, and he was a wonder.

  She caught the minute fluctuations of his iris when his gaze moved from the darkness of her hair to the pillow upon which it was spread; saw the pulse of his heart in the corrugation of his lips, and at his throat. The skin of his chest had an almost eerie smoothness to it, but was deeply muscled; his arms were sinewy, and would not countenance unbinding her a moment, but held her as tight as she held him. There was no show of machismo in this possessiveness, only an urgency which she more than equalled.

  Outside, darkness was upon the hemisphere, but they were bright.

  And though he had no breath for words now, their tenderness fuelled the lights that cradled them, and they didn’t dim, but echoed the lovers – marrying colour to colour, light to light, until the room blazed.

  They loved, and slept, and loved again, and the words kept vigil around them, mellowing their show to a soothing flicker as sleep came a second time.