by Clive Barker
‘There,’ said Hobart to the driver. ‘We found it. There!’
Suzanna peered from the window. There was neither moon nor stars to illuminate the scene, but she could see the black bulk of the mountains all around, and far below, lights burning.
The convoy followed the hill top for half a mile, then began a steady descent into the valley.
The lights she’d seen were car headlamps, the vehicles parked in a large circle, so that the lights created an arena. The arrival of Hobart’s convoy was clearly expected; as they came within fifty yards of the circle she saw figures coming to greet them.
The car came to a halt.
‘Where are we?’ she slurred.
‘Journey’s end,’ was all Hobart would say. Then, to the driver: ‘Bring her.’
The legs beneath her were rubber-jointed; she had to hold onto the car for a while before she could persuade them to behave. With the driver keeping firm hold of her, she was then taken towards the arena. Only now did she realize the scale of the gathering. There were dozens of cars in the ring, and many more in the darkness beyond. The drivers and passengers, who amounted to hundreds, were not Human but Seerkind. Amongst them were anatomies and colorations that must have made them outcasts in the Kingdom.
She scanned the faces, looking for any that she knew, and one in particular. But Jerichau was not amongst them.
Hobart now stepped into the ring of light, and as he did so from the shadows on the opposite side of the arena stepped a figure Suzanna assumed was that of the Prophet. His appearance was greeted with a soft swell of murmuring from the Seerkind. Some pushed their way forward to get a better look at their Saviour; others fell to their knees.
He was impressive, Suzanna conceded to herself.
His deep-set eyes were fixed on Hobart, and a small smile of approval found his lips as the Inspector bowed his head before his master. So, that was the way of it. Hobart was in the Prophet’s employ, which fact scarcely covered the latter with glory. Words were exchanged between them, the breath of the speakers visible on the cold air. Then the Prophet put his gloved hand on Hobart’s shoulder and turned to announce to the assembly the return of the Weaveworld. Suddenly the air was full of shouts.
Hobart turned towards the Black Maria and beckoned. From its recesses came two of the Inspector’s cohorts, carrying the carpet. They entered the ring of light, and, at Hobart’s instruction, laid the carpet at the Prophet’s feet. The crowd was hushed utterly in the presence of their sleeping homeland; and the Prophet, when he spoke, did not need to raise his voice.
‘Here,’ he said, almost casually. ‘Did I not promise?’
… and so saying he put his heel to the carpet. It unrolled in front of him. The silence held; all eyes were on the design; two hundred minds and more sharing the same thought…
Open Sesame…
… the call of all eager visitors, set before closed doors, and desiring access.
Open; show yourself…
Whether it was that collective act of will that began the unweaving, or whether the Prophet had previously plotted the mechanism, Suzanna could not know. Sufficient that it began. Not at the centre of the carpet, as at Shearman’s house, but from the borders.
The last unweaving had been more accident than design, a wild eruption of threads and pigment, the Fugue breaking into sudden and chaotic life. This time there was clearly system at work in the process, the knots decoding their motifs in a pre-arranged sequence. The dance of threads was no less complex than before, but there was a consummate grace about the spectacle, the strands describing the most elegant manœuvres as they filled the air, trailing life as they went. Forms were clothing themselves in flesh and feather, rock was flowing, trees taking flight towards their rooting place.
Suzanna had seen this glory before, of course, and was to some extent prepared for it. But to the Seerkind, and even more to Hobart and his bully-boys, the sight awoke fear and awe in equal measure.
Her guard utterly forgot his duty, and stood like a child before his first firework display, unsure of whether to run or stay. She took her chance while it was offered, and slipped from his custody, away from the light that would reveal her, glancing back long enough to see the Prophet, his hair rising like white fire from his scalp, standing in the midst of the unweaving while the Fugue burst into life all around him.
It was difficult to draw her gaze away, but she ran as best her legs would allow towards the darkness of the slopes. She moved twenty, thirty, forty yards from the circle. Nobody came after her.
A particularly bright blossoming at her back momentarily lit the terrain before her like a falling star. It was rough, uncultivated ground, interrupted only by the occasional outcrop of rock; a valley chosen for its remoteness, most likely, where the Fugue could be stirred from sleep uninterrupted by Humankind. How long this miracle would remain hidden, with summer on its way, was a moot point, but perhaps they had plans for a rapture to divert the inquisitive.
Again, the land ahead of her was lit, and momentarily she glimpsed a figure up ahead. It was there and gone so quickly she could not trust her eyes.
Another yard however, and she felt a chill on her cheek that was no natural wind. She guessed its source the instant it touched her, but she had no time to retreat or prepare herself before the darkness unfolded and its mistress stepped into her path.
X
FATALITIES
1
he face was mutilated beyond recognition, but the voice, colder than the chill the body gave off, was indisputably that of Immacolata. Nor was she alone: her sisters were with her, darker than the dark.
‘Why are you running?’ said the Incantatrix. ‘There’s nowhere to escape to.’
Suzanna halted. There was no ready way past the three.
Turn around,’ said Immacolata, another splendour from the Weave uncharitably lighting the wound of her face. ‘See where Shadwell stands? That’ll be the Fugue in moments.’
‘Shadwell?’ said Suzanna.
‘Their beloved Prophet,’ came the reply. ‘Beneath that show of holiness I lent him, there beats a Salesman’s heart.’
So Shadwell was the Prophet. What a perfect irony, that the seller of encyclopaedias should end up peddling hope.
‘It was his idea,’ said the Incantatrix, ‘to give them a Messiah. Now they’ve got a righteous crusade, as Hobart calls it. They’re going to claim their promised land. And destroy it in the process.’
‘They won’t fall for this.’
‘They already have, sister. Holy wars are easier to suit than rumours, amongst your Kind or mine. They believe every sacred word he tells them, as though their lives depended upon it. Which in a sense they do. They’ve been conspired against and cheated – and they’re ready to tear the Fugue apart to get their hands on those responsible. Isn’t that perfect? The Fugue’ll die at the very hands of those who’ve come to save it.’
‘And that’s what Shadwell wants?’
‘He’s a man: he wants adoration.’ She gazed over Suzanna’s shoulder towards the unweaving, and the Salesman, still in its midst. ‘And that’s what he’s got. So he’s happy.’
‘He’s pitiful,’ said Suzanna. ‘You know that as well as I do. Yet you give him power. Your power. Our power.’
‘For my own ends, sister.’
‘You gave him the jacket.’
‘It was of my making, yes. Though there’ve been times I’ve regretted the gift.’
The ragged muscle of Immacolata’s face was incapable of its former deceptions. As she spoke she couldn’t mask the sorrow in her.
‘You should have taken it back,’ said Suzanna.
‘A gift of rapture can’t be lent,’ said Immacolata, ‘only given, and given in perpetuity. Did your grandmother teach you nothing? It’s time you learned, sister. I’ll give you those lessons.’
‘And what do you get in return?’
‘A distraction from Romo’s gift to me.’ She touched her face. ‘And from th
e stench of men.’ She paused, her maimed face darkening. They’ll destroy you for your strength. Men like Hobart.’
‘I wanted to kill him once,’ Suzanna said, remembering the hatred she’d felt.
‘He knows that. That’s why he dreams of you. Death the maiden.’ A laugh broke from her. They’re all mad, sister.’
‘Not all,’ said Suzanna.
‘What must I do to persuade you?’ the Incantatrix said. ‘Make you understand how you’ll be betrayed. Have already been betrayed.’
Without seeming to take a step, she moved away from Suzanna. Flickering strands of light were moving past them now, as the Fugue spread from its hiding place. But Suzanna scarcely noticed. Her eyes were fixed on the sight revealed when Immacolata stood aside.
The Magdalene was there, sumptuously clothed in folds of lacy ectoplasm: a wraith bride. And from beneath the creature’s skirts a pitiful figure was emerging, and turning its face up towards Suzanna.
‘Jerichau …’
The man’s eyes were clouded; though they settled on Suzanna there was no recognition in them.
‘See?’ said Immacolata. ‘Betrayed.’
‘What have you done to him?’ Suzanna demanded.
There was nothing left of the Jerichau she’d known. He looked like something already dead. His clothes were in tatters, his skin mottled and seeping from dozens of vicious wounds.
‘He doesn’t know you,’ said the Incantatrix. ‘He has a new wife now.’
The Magdalene stretched her hand out and touched Jerichau’s head, stroking it as if he were a lap-dog.
‘He went to my sister’s arms willingly –’ Immacolata said.
‘Leave him be.’ Suzanna yelled at the Magdalene. Enfeebled by the drugs, her self-control was perilously thin.
‘But this is love,’ Immacolata goaded. ‘There’ll be children in time. Many children. His lust knows no bounds.’
The thought of Jerichau coupling with the Magdalene made Suzanna shudder. Again, she called his name. This time his mouth opened, and it seemed his tongue was seeking to form a word. But no. All his palate could produce was a dribble of saliva.
‘You see how quickly they turn to fresh pleasures?’ said Immacolata. ‘As soon as your back is turned he’s ploughing another furrow.’
Rage leapt up in Suzanna, bettering her disgust. Nor did it come alone. Though the remnants of the drug still made any focus difficult, she felt the menstruum ambitious in her belly.
Immacolata knew it.
‘Don’t be perverse …’ she said, her voice seeming to whisper at Suzanna’s ear though they stood yards apart. ‘We are more alike than not.’
As she spoke Jerichau raised his hands from the ground towards Suzanna, and now she realized why there was no recognition in his eyes. He could not see her. The Magdalene had blinded her consort, to keep him close. But he knew she was there: he heard her, he reached for her.
‘Sister …’ Immacolata said to the Magdalene, ‘… bring your husband to heel.’
The Magdalene was quick to obey. The hand she had on Jerichau’s head grew longer, the fingers pouring down over his face, entering his mouth and nostrils. Jerichau attempted to resist, but the Magdalene pulled on him, and he tumbled backwards amongst her pestilential petticoats.
Without warning, Suzanna felt the menstruum spill from her and fly towards Jerichau’s tormentor. It happened in the time it took to see it. She caught a glimpse of the Magdalene’s features, stretched into a shriek, then the stream of silver light struck her. The wraith’s cry broke into pieces, fragments of sound spiralling off – a sobbing complaint, a howl of anger – as the assault lifted her into the air.
As usual, Suzanna’s thoughts were a beat behind the menstruum. Before she was fully aware of what she was doing the light was tearing at the wraith, gaping holes opening in its matter. The Magdalene retaliated, the stream of the menstruum carrying the attack back into Suzanna’s face. She felt blood splash down her neck, but the barbs only spurred her fury; she was tearing her enemy as though the wraith were a sheet of tissue paper.
Immacolata had not been a passive spectator in this, but had flung her own attack against Suzanna. The ground at Suzanna’s feet shuddered, then rose around her as if to bury her alive, but the subtle body pitched the earth wall back, then went at the Magdalene with redoubled fury. Though the menstruum seemed to have a life of its own, that was an illusion. She owned this power, she knew; now more than ever. It was her anger that fuelled it, that deafened it to mercy or apology; it was she who would not be satisfied until the Magdalene was undone.
And all at once, it was over. The Magdalene’s cries stopped dead.
Enough. Suzanna instructed. The menstruum let the few fragments of rotted ectoplasm drop to the spattered ground, and withdrew its light into its mistress. From attack to counter-attack to coup de grace had taken maybe a dozen seconds.
Suzanna looked towards Immacolata, whose wretched features were all disbelief. She was trembling from head to foot, as if she might fall to the ground in a fit. Suzanna took her chance. She’d no way of knowing if she could survive a sustained attack from the Incantatrix, and now was certainly no time to put the problem to the test. As the third sister threw herself amongst the Magdalene’s litter, and began to wail, Suzanna took to her heels.
The tide of the Fugue was lapping all around them now, and the brilliant air camouflaged her flight. Only after she’d covered ten yards or more did she come to her senses and remember Jerichau. There had been no sign of him in the vicinity of the dead Magdalene. Praying that he had found his way off the battlefield, she ran on, the Hag’s harrowing din loud in her ears.
2
She ran and ran, believing over and over that she felt the chill of the Virgin on her neck. But it seemed she imagined the pursuit, for she ran unhindered for a mile or more, up the slope of the valley and over the crest of a hill, until the light of the Weave’s forthcoming was dim behind her.
It would only be a short time before the Fugue reached her, and when it did she would need to have some strategy. But first she had to catch her breath.
The gloom nursed her awhile. She stood trying not to think too hard of what she’d just done. But a certain ungovernable elation filled her. She had killed the Magdalene; destroyed one of the Three: it was no minor feat. Had the power in her always been so dangerous?; ripening behind her ignorance, growing wise, growing lethal?
For some reason she remembered Mimi’s book, which presumably Hobart still had in his possession. Now more than ever she hoped it could teach her something of what she was, and how to profit by it. She would have to get the volume back, even if it meant confronting Hobart once more.
As she formulated this thought she heard her name uttered, or an approximation of it. She looked in the direction of the voice, and there, standing a few yards from her, was Jerichau.
He had indeed escaped the Magdalene’s grasp, though his face was scored by the sister’s ethereal fingers. His wracked frame was on the verge of collapse, and even as he called Suzanna’s name a second time, and threw his withered arms out towards her, his legs gave way beneath him and he fell face down on the ground.
She was kneeling by his side in moments, and turning him over. He was feather-light. The sisters had drained him of all but the spark of purpose that had sent him stumbling after her. Blood they could take; and seed and muscle. Love he’d kept.
She drew him up towards her. His head lolled against her breasts. His breathing was fast and shallow, his cold body full of tremors. She stroked his head; the diminishing light around it playing about her fingers.
He was not content simply to be cradled, however, but pushed himself away from her body a few inches in order to reach up and touch her face. The veins in his throat throbbed as he tried to speak. She hushed him, saying there would be time to talk later. But he made a tiny shake of his head, and she could feel as she held him how close the end was. She did him no kindness to pretend otherwise. It was time
to die, and he had sought out her arms as a place to perform that duty.
‘Oh my sweet …’ she said, her chest aching. ‘… sweet man …’
Again he strove for words, but his tongue cheated him. Only soft sounds came, which she could make no sense of.
She leaned closer to him. He no longer resisted her comforting, but took hold of her shoulder and drew himself closer still to speak to her. This time she made a sense of the words, though they were scarcely more than sighs.
‘I’m not afraid,’ he said, expelling the last word on a breath that had no brother, but came against her cheek like a kiss.
Then his hand lost its strength, and slipped from her shoulder, his eyes closed, and he was gone from her.
A bitter thought came visiting: that his last words were as much a plea as a statement. Jerichau had been the only one she’d ever told about how at the warehouse the menstruum had stirred Cal from unconsciousness. Was that I’m not afraid his way of saying: leave me to death?; I wouldn’t thank you for resurrection?
Whatever he’d meant she’d never find out now.
She laid him gently on the earth. Once, he’d spoken words of love that had defied their condition, and become light. Were there others he knew, that defied Death, or was he already on his way to that region Mimi had left for, all contact with the world Suzanna still occupied broken?
It seemed so. Though she watched the body ‘til her eyes ached, it made no murmur. He had left it to the earth, and her with it.
XI
CAL, TRAVELLING NORTH
1
al’s journey North dragged on through the night, but he didn’t weary. Perhaps it was the fruit that kept his senses so pretematurally clear; either that or a new-found sense of purpose that pressed him forward. He kept his analytic faculties on hold, making decisions as to his route instinctively.
