by Clive Barker
The Knight Hobart opened his eyes, and there was something new in them, something besides tears and fatigue. He too had heard the voices; and hearing them, he was reminded of the place that lay beyond these Wild Woods.
The Dragon’s moment of triumph was already sliding away. She roared her frustration, but there was nothing to be done. She felt herself shedding her scales, dwindling from the mythical to the particular, while Hobart’s scarred body fluttered like a flame in a breeze, and went out.
Her instant of questioning would surely cost her dearly. In failing to finish the story, to satisfy her victim’s desire for death, she’d given him fresh motive for hatred. What change might it have wrought in Hobart to have dreamed himself devoured?; to have made a second womb in the Worm’s belly until he was born back into the world?
Too late, damn it; far too late. The pages could contain them no longer. Leaving their confrontation unfinished they broke from the words in a burst of punctuation. They didn’t leave the din of the animals behind them: it grew louder as the darkness of the Wild Woods lifted.
Her only thought was for the book. She felt it in her hands once more, and took fiercer hold of it. But Hobart had the same idea. As the room appeared around them in all its solidity she found his fingers clawing at hers, tearing at her skin in his eagerness to claim the prize back.
‘You should have killed me,’ she heard him murmur.
She glanced up at his face. He looked even sicklier than the knight he’d been, sweat running down his sallow cheeks, gaze desperate. Then he seemed to realize himself, and the eyes grew arctic.
Somebody was beating on the other side of the door, from which the pained cacophony of animals still came.
‘Wait!’ Hobart yelled to his visitors, whoever they were. As he shouted he took one hand from the book and drew a gun from the inside of his jacket, digging the muzzle into Suzanna’s abdomen.
‘Let the book go, or I’ll kill you.’
She had no choice but to comply. The menstruum would not be swift enough to incapacitate him before he pulled the trigger.
As her hands slipped from the volume, however, the door was thrown open, and all thought of books was eclipsed by what stood on the threshold.
Once, this quartet had been amongst the pride of Hobart’s Squad: the smartest, the hardest. But their night of drinking and seduction had unbuttoned more than their trousers. It had undone their minds as well. It was as if the splendours Suzanna had first seen on Lord Street, the haloes that sainted Human and Seerkind alike, had somehow been drawn inside them, for the skin of their limbs and faces was swollen and raw, bubbles of darkness scurrying around their anatomies like rats under sheets.
In their panic at this disease, they’d clawed their clothes to tatters; their torsos shone with sweat and blood. And from their throats came the cacophony that had called the Dragon and the Knight out of the book; a bestiality that was echoed in a dozen horrid details. The way this one’s face had swollen to lend him a snout; the way another’s hands were fat as paws.
This, she presumed, was how the Seerkind had opposed the occupation of their homeland. They’d feigned passivity to seduce the invading army into their raptures, and this nightmare menagerie was the result. Apt as it was, she was appalled.
One of the pack now staggered into the room, his lips and forehead swollen to the brink of bursting. He was clearly trying to address Hobart, but all his spellbound palate could produce was the complaint of a cat having its neck wrung.
Hobart had no intention of deciphering the mewls, but instead levelled his gun at the wreckage shambling towards him.
‘Come no closer,’ he warned.
The man, spittle running from his open mouth, made a incoherent appeal.
‘Get out!’ was Hobart’s response. He took a step towards the quartet.
The leader retreated, as did those in the doorway. Not for the gun’s sake, Suzanna thought, but because Hobart was their master. These new anatomies only confirmed what their training had long ago taught them: that they were unthinking animals, in thrall to the Law.
‘Out!’ said Hobart again.
They were backing off along the corridor now, their din subdued by their fear of Hobart.
In a matter of moments his attention would no longer be diverted, Suzanna knew. He’d turn on her again, and the slim advantage gained by this interruption would have been squandered.
She had to let her instinct lead; she might have no other opportunity.
Seizing the moment, she ran at Hobart and snatched the book from his hand. He shouted out, and glanced her way, his gun still keeping the howling quartet at bay. With his eye off them, the creatures set up their racket afresh.
There’s no way out –’ Hobart said to her, ‘– except by this door. Maybe you’d like to go that way …?’
The creatures clearly sensed that something was in the air, and redoubled their din. It was like feeding time at the zoo. She’d not get two steps down the passage before they were upon her. Hobart had her trapped.
At that realization, she felt the menstruum rise in her, coming with breath-snatching suddenness.
Hobart knew instantly she was gathering strength. He crossed quickly to the door, and slammed it on the howling breed outside, then turned on her again.
‘We saw some things, didn’t we?’ he said. ‘But it’s a story you won’t live to tell.’
He aimed the gun at her face.
It wasn’t possible to analyse what happened next. Perhaps he fired and the shot miraculously went wide, shattering the window behind her. Whatever, she felt the night air invade the room, and the next moment the menstruum was bathing her from head to foot, turning her on her heel, and she was running towards the window with no time to consider the sense of this escape route until she was up on the sill and hurling herself out.
The window was three storeys up. But it was too late for such practicalities. She was committed to the leap, or fall, or-flight!
The menstruum scooped her up, throwing its strength against the wall of the house opposite, and letting her slide from window to roof on its cool back. It wasn’t true flight, but it felt like the real thing.
The street reeled beneath her as she tumbled on solid air to meet the eaves of the other house, only to be scooped up a second time and carried over the roof, Hobart’s shouts diminishing behind her.
She could not be held aloft for long, of course; but it was an exhilarating ride while it lasted. She slid helter skelter down another roof, catching sight in that moment of a streak of dawn light between the hills, then over gables and chimney stacks and down, swooping, into a square where the birds were already tuning up for the day.
As she flew down they scattered, startled by the twist evolution had taken to produce such a bird as this. Her landing must have reassured them that there was much design work still to do. She skidded across the paving stones, the menstruum cushioning the worst of the impact, and came to a halt inches from a mosaiced wall.
Shaking, and faintly nauseous, she stood up. The entire flight had probably lasted no more than twenty seconds, but already she heard voices raising the alarm in an adjacent street.
Clutching Mimi’s gift, she slipped from the square and out of the township by a route that took her once in a circle and twice almost threw her into the arms of her pursuers. Every step of the way she discovered a new bruise, but she was at least alive, and wiser for the night’s adventures.
Life and wisdom. What more could anybody ask?
IX
THE FIRE
he day and night that Suzanna spent in Nonesuch, and in the Wild Woods, stalking Hobart, took Cal and de Bono to no less remarkable places. They too had their griefs, and revelations; they too came closer to death than either wanted to come again.
Upon parting from her, they’d resumed their journey to the Firmament in silence, until out of nowhere de Bono had said: ‘Do you love her?’
Oddly enough, that very thought had been on Cal�
��s mind, but he hadn’t replied to the question. It had frankly embarrassed him.
‘You damn fool,’ de Bono said. ‘Why are you Cuckoos so afraid of your feelings? She’s worth loving; even I can see that. So why don’t you say it?’
Cal grunted. De Bono was right, but it rankled to be lectured on the matter by someone younger.
‘You’re afraid of her, is that it?’ de Bono said.
The remark added insult to injury.
‘Christ no,’ Cal said. ‘Why the fuck should I be afraid of her?’
‘She’s got powers,’ said de Bono, taking off his spectacles and surveying the terrain ahead. ‘Most women have, of course. That’s why Starbrook wouldn’t have them in the Field. It threw him off balance.’
‘And what have we got?’ Cal asked, kicking a stone ahead of him.
‘We’ve got our pricks.’
‘Starbrook, again?’
‘De Bono,’ came the reply, and the boy laughed. ‘I tell you what,’ he said. ‘I know this place where we could go –’
‘No detours,’ said Cal.
‘What’s an hour or two?’ said de Bono. ‘Have you ever heard of Venus Mountain?’
‘I said no detours, de Bono. If you want to go, then go.’
‘Jesus, you’re boring,’ de Bono sighed. ‘I just might leave you to it.’
‘I’m not much enjoying your damn fool questions, either,’ Cal said. ‘So if you want to go pick flowers, do it. Just point me to the Firmament.’
De Bono fell silent. They walked on. When they did start talking again de Bono began to parade his knowledge of the Fugue, more for the pleasure of belittling his fellow traveller than out of any genuine desire to inform. Twice, in the middle of a diatribe, Cal dragged them into hiding as one of Hobart’s patrols came within sighting distance of them. On the second occasion they were pinned down for two hours while the Squad got progressively drunker within yards of their hiding place.
When they finally moved on, they progressed much more slowly. Their cramp-ridden limbs felt leaden; they were hungry, thirsty and irritated by each other’s company. Worst of all, dusk was creeping on.
‘Just how far is it from here?’ Cal wanted to know. Once, looking down on the Fugue from Mimi’s wall, the confusion of its landscape had promised unending adventure. Now, immersed in that confusion, he would have given his eye-teeth for a good map.
‘It’s quite a distance yet,’ de Bono replied.
‘Do you know where the hell we are?’
De Bono’s lip curled. ‘Of course.’
‘Name it.’
‘Huh?’
‘Name it!’
‘I’ll be damned if I will. You just have to trust me, Cuckoo.’
The wind had got up in the last half hour, and now it brought with it the sound of cries, which halted the escalating war of words between them.
‘I smell a bonfire burning,’ de Bono said. It was true. Besides its burden of pain, the wind brought the scent of burning wood. De Bono was already bounding off in search of its source. Nothing would have given Cal more satisfaction at that moment than leaving the rope-dancer to his own devices, but – much as he doubted de Bono’s value as a guide – he was better than nothing. Cal followed him through the gathering darkness, up a small ridge. From there – across a space of fields littered with arches – they had a fine view of the fire. What looked to be a small copse was burning lustily, the flames fanned by the wind. On the outskirts of this sizeable blaze a number of cars were parked, their owners – more of Shadwell’s army of deliverance – running riot.
‘Bastards,’ said de Bono, as several of them hounded down a victim and laid into him with cudgels and boots. ‘Cuckoo bastards.’
‘It’s not just my people –’ Cal began. But before he could finish the defence of his tribe, the words died on his tongue, as he recognized the place that was being destroyed in front of his eyes.
This was no wood. The trees weren’t arbitrarily scattered, but planted in ordered avenues. Once, beneath the awning of those trees, he’d spoken Mad Mooney’s verses. Now the orchard of Lemuel Lo was ablaze from end to end.
He started down the slope towards the conflagration.
‘Where are you going?’ de Bono asked him. ‘Calhoun? What do you think you’re doing?’
De Bono came after him, and took hold of his arm.
‘Calhoun! Listen to me!’
‘Let me alone,’ Cal said, attempting to throw de Bono off. In the violence of that attempt the soil of the incline gave way beneath his heel and he lost balance, taking de Bono with him. They slid down the hill, dirt and stones showering them, and came to a halt in a waist-deep ditch of stagnant water at the bottom. Cal began to haul himself out the other side, but de Bono had hold of his shirt.
‘You can’t do anything, Mooney,’ he said.
‘Get the fuck off me.’
‘Look, I’m sorry about the Cuckoo remark, right? We breed vandals too.’
‘Forget it,’ said Cal, his eyes still on the fire. He detached de Bono’s hand. ‘I know this place,’ he said. ‘I can’t just let it burn.’
He pulled himself up out of the ditch and started towards the blaze. He’d kill the bastards who’d done this, whoever they were. Kill them, and call it justice.
‘It’s too late!’ de Bono called after him. ‘You can’t help.’
There was truth in what the youth said. Tomorrow there’d be nothing left of the orchard but ashes. Still he couldn’t bring himself to turn his back on the spot where he’d first tasted the Fugue’s raptures. Vaguely aware that de Bono was padding after him, and completely indifferent to the fact, he headed on.
As the scene before him became clearer he realized that the Prophet’s troops (the word flattered them; it was a rabble) were not going unresisted. In several places around the fire figures were locked in hand-to-hand combat. But the orchard’s defenders were easy meat for the fire-raisers, for whom these barbarities were little more than sport. They’d come into the Fugue armed with weapons that could decimate the Seerkind in hours. Even as Cal watched he saw one of the Kind felled with a pistol shot. Somebody went to the wounded man’s aid, but was in her turn brought down. The soldiers went from body to body to see that the job was done. The first of the victims was not dead. He raised his hand towards his executioner, who pointed his gun at the man’s head and fired.
A spasm of nausea convulsed Cal’s system, as the smell of cooking flesh mingled with the smoke. He couldn’t control his revulsion. His knees buckled, and he fell to the ground, retching on his empty stomach. At that moment his misery seemed complete: the wet clothes icy on his spine; the taste of his stomach in his throat; the paradise orchard burning nearby. The horrors the Fugue was showing him were as profound as its visions had been elevated. He could fall no further.
‘Come away, Cal.’
De Bono’s hand was on his shoulder. He put a handful of freshly torn grass in front of Cal.
‘Wipe your face,’ he said softly. ‘There’s nothing to be done here.’
Cal pressed the grass beneath his nose, inhaling its cool sweetness. The nausea was passing. He chanced one more look up at the burning orchard. His eyes were watering, and at first glance he couldn’t trust what they now told him. He wiped them with the back of his hand, sniffing. Then he looked again, and there – moving through the smoke in front of the fire – he saw Lem.
He spoke the man’s name.
‘Who?’ said de Bono.
Cal was already getting up, though his legs were jittery.
‘There,’ Cal said, pointing towards Lo. The orchard-keeper was crouching beside one of the bodies, his hand extended to the face of the corpse. Was he closing the dead man’s eyes, offering a blessing as he did so?
Cal had to make his presence known; had to speak to the man, even if it was just to say that he too had witnessed the horrors here, and that they wouldn’t go unrevenged. He turned to de Bono. The blaze, reflected in the rope-dancer’s spectacle
s, hid his eyes, but it was clear from the way his face was set that what he’d seen had not left him untouched.
‘Stay here,’ Cal said. ‘I have to speak to Lem.’
‘You’re insane, Mooney,’ de Bono said.
‘Probably.’
He began back towards the fire, calling Lem’s name. The rabble seemed to have tired of their hunt. Several had returned to their cars; another was pissing into the fire; yet others were simply watching the blaze, stupefied by drink and destruction.
Lem had done with his blessings, and was walking away from the remains of his orchard. Cal called his name again, but the sound of the fire drowned it out. He began to pick up his pace, and as he did so Lem caught sight of him from the corner of his eye. He seemed not to recognize Cal, however. Instead, alarmed by the approaching figure, he turned and started to run. Again, Cal yelled his name, and this time drew the man’s attention. He stopped running and glanced back, squinting through the smoke and smuts.
‘Lem! It’s me!’ Cal yelled. ‘It’s Mooney!’
Lo’s grimy face was not capable of a smile, but he opened his arms in welcome to Cal, who crossed the last yards between them fearful that at any moment the curtain of smoke would part them again. It didn’t. They embraced like brothers.
‘Oh my poet,’ said Lo, his eyes reddened with tears and smoke. ‘What a place to find you.’
‘I told you I wouldn’t forget,’ said Cal. ‘Didn’t I say that?’
‘You did, by God.’
‘Why did they do it, Lem? Why did they burn it down?’
‘They didn’t,’ Lem replied, ’I did.’
‘You?’
‘You think I’d give those bastards the pleasure of my fruit?’
‘But, Lem … the trees. All those trees.’
Lo was digging in his pockets, and brought out handfuls of the Jude Pears. Many were bruised and broken, sap glistening as it ran over Lo’s fingers. Their perfume pierced the filthy air, bringing back memories of lost times.
