Weaveworld

by Clive Barker

  ‘Yes they did.’

  De Bono grinned lewdly.

  ‘Want to tell me about it?’ he said.

  ‘I don’t know how to –’

  ‘Oh spare me the modesty.’

  ‘No, it’s just I … I dreamt I was … the moon.’

  ‘You did what?’

  ‘I dreamt –’

  ‘I bring you to the nearest thing we’ve got to a whorehouse, and you dream about being the moon? You’re a strange man, Calhoun.’

  He picked up his vest, and put it on, shaking his head at Cal’s bizarrity.

  ‘What did you dream of?’ Cal enquired.

  ‘I’ll tell you, one of these times,’ said de Bono. ‘When you’re old enough.’

  4

  They dressed in silence, then set off down the gentle slope of the mountain.

  XI

  A WITNESS

  1

  hough the day had dawned well for Suzanna, with her miraculous escape from Hobart, it had rapidly deteriorated. She’d felt oddly cocooned by night; with the dawn came nameless anxieties.

  And some she could name. First off, the fact that she’d lost her guide. She had only the roughest idea of the direction in which the Firmament lay, so elected to make her way towards the Gyre, which was plainly visible at all times, and make what enquiries she could along the route.

  Her second source of concern: the many signs that events in the Fugue were rapidly taking a turn for the worse. A great pall of smoke hung over the valley, and though there’d been rain in the night, fires still burned in many places. She came upon several battle sites as she went. In one place a fire-gutted car was perched in a tree like a steel bird, blown there presumably, or levitated. She couldn’t know what forces had clashed the previous night, nor what weapons had been used, but the struggle had clearly been horrendous. Shadwell had divided the people of this once tranquil land with his prophetic talk – setting brother against brother. Those conflicts were traditionally the bloodiest. It should have come as no surprise then, to see bodies left where they’d fallen, for foxes and birds to pick at, denied the simple courtesy of burial.

  If there was any sliver of comfort to be drawn from these scenes it was that Shadwell’s invasion had not gone undefied. The destruction of Capra’s House had been a massive miscalculation on his part. What chance he’d had of taking the Fugue with words alone had been squandered in that one tyrannical gesture. He could not now hope to win these territories by stealth and seduction. It was armed suppression or nothing.

  Having seen for herself what damage the Seerkind’s raptures were capable of, she nurtured some faint hope that any such suppression might be subverted. But what damage – perhaps irreversible – would be done to the Fugue while its inhabitants’ freedom was being won? These woods and meadows weren’t meant to host atrocities; their innocence of such horrors was a part of their power to enchant.

  It was at such a spot – once untainted, now all too familiar with death – that she encountered the first living person in her travels that day. It was one of those mysterious snatches of architecture of which the Fugue could boast several; in this case a dozen pillars ranged around a shallow pool. On top of one of the pillars sat a stringy middle-aged man in a shabby coat – a large pair of binoculars around his neck – who looked up from the notebook in which he was scribbling as she approached.

  ‘Looking for someone?’ he enquired.

  ‘No.’

  ‘They’re all dead anyway,’ he said dispassionately. ‘See?’ The pavement around the pool was splashed with blood. Those that had shed it lay face up at the bottom of the water, their wounds white.

  ‘Your handiwork?’ she asked him.

  ‘Me? Good God no. I’m just a witness. And what army are you with?’

  ‘I’m with nobody,’ she said. ‘I’m on my own.’

  This he wrote down.

  ‘I don’t necessarily believe you,’ he said, as he wrote. ‘But a good witness sets down what he sees and hears, even if he doubts it.’

  ‘What have you seen?’ she asked him.

  ‘Confusion,’ he said. ‘People everywhere, and nobody sure who was who. And blood-letting the like of which I never thought to see here.’ He peered at her. ‘You’re not Seerkind,’ he said.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Just wandered in by chance, did you?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘Well I’d wander back out again if I were you. Nobody’s safe. A lot of folks have packed their bags and gone into the Kingdom rather than be slaughtered.’

  ‘So who’s left fighting?’

  ‘Wild men. I know I shouldn’t venture an opinion but that’s the way it looks to me. Barbarians, raging around.’

  Even as he spoke she heard shouting a little way off. With their breakfast done, the wild men were at work already.

  ‘What can you see from up there?’ she asked him.

  ‘A lot of ruins,’ he said. ‘And occasional glimpses of the factions.’ He put his binoculars to his eyes and made a sweep of the terrain, pausing here and there as he caught sight of some interesting detail. ‘There’s been a battalion out of Nonesuch in the last hour,’ he said, ‘looking much the worse for wear. There’s rebels over towards the Steps, and another band to the North-West of here. The Prophet left the Firmament a little while ago – I can’t say exactly when, my watch was stolen – and there’s several squads of his evangelists preceding him, to clear the way.’

  ‘The way where?’

  ‘To the Gyre, of course.’

  ‘The Gyre?’

  ‘My guess is that was the Prophet’s target from the outset.’

  ‘He’s not a Prophet,’ said Suzanna. ‘He’s called Shadwell.’

  ‘Shadwell?’

  ‘Go on, write that down. He’s a Cuckoo, and a salesman.’

  ‘You know this for certain?’ the man said. Tell me all.’

  ‘No time,’ Suzanna replied, much to his aggravation. ‘I’ve got to get to him.’

  ‘Oh. So he’s a friend.’

  ‘Far from it,’ she said, her eyes straying back to the bodies in the pool.

  ‘You’ll never get near his throat, if that’s what you’re hoping,’ the man told her. ‘He’s guarded day and night.’

  ‘I’ll find a way,’ she said. ‘You don’t know what he’s capable of.’

  ‘If he’s a Cuckoo and he tries stepping into the Gyre, that’ll be the end of us, that I do know. Still, it’ll give me a last chapter, eh?’

  ‘And who’ll be left to read it?’

  2

  She left him up on his pillar, like some lonely penitent, pondering the remark. Her thoughts were grimmer for the conversation. Despite the presence of the menstruum in her system, she knew very little of how the forces that had made the Weaveworld worked, but it didn’t take genius to see that for Shadwell to trespass on the rapturous ground of the Gyre would prove cataclysmic. He was all that rarefied region, and its makers, despised: he was Corruption. Perhaps the Gyre could destroy itself rather than give him access to its secrets. And if it ceased to exist wouldn’t the Fugue – the unity of which was preserved by the power there – be lost to the maelstrom? That, she feared, was what the witness had meant with his pronouncements. If Shadwell entered the Gyre, the world would end.

  There’d been no sign of animal or bird life since she’d left the vicinity of the pool. The trees and bushes were deserted; the undergrowth was hushed. She summoned the menstruum up until it brimmed in her, ready to be used in her defence should the occasion arise. There was no time left for niceties now. She would kill anyone who tried to prevent her from getting to Shadwell.

  A noise from behind a partially demolished wall drew her attention. She stood her ground, and challenged the observer to make himself known. There was no reply forthcoming.

  ‘I won’t ask you again,’ she said. ‘Who’s there?’

  At this there was a fall of brick shards, and a boy of four or five, naked but for
socks and dust, stood up and clambered over the rubble towards her.

  ‘Oh my God,’ she said, her heart going out to the child. In the instant her defences fell there was movement to right and left of her, and she found herself surrounded by a ragged selection of armed men.

  The child’s forlorn expression dropped, as one of the soldiers summoned him to his side. The man put a grimy hand through the boy’s hair, and gave him a grim smile of approval.

  ‘Name yourself,’ someone demanded of her.

  She had no idea of which side these men were on. If they were of Shadwell’s army, admitting her name would be an instant death sentence. But, desperate as things were, she couldn’t bring herself to unleash the menstruum against men – and a child – whose allegiance she didn’t even know.

  ‘Shoot her,’ the boy said. ‘She’s with them.’

  ‘Don’t you dare,’ said a voice at the back. ‘I know her.’

  She turned, as her saviour spoke her name, and there – of all people – was Nimrod. The last time they’d met he’d been a convert to Shadwell’s unholy crusade: all talk of glorious tomorrows. Time and circumstance had humbled him. He was a picture of wretchedness, his clothes tattered, his face full of hurt.

  ‘Don’t blame me,’ he said before she could even speak.

  ‘I don’t,’ she said. There’d been times she’d cursed him, but they were history now. Truly I don’t.’

  ‘Help me –’ he said suddenly, and came to her. She hugged him. He concealed his tears behind their embrace, until the others left off watching the reunion and slipped back into hiding.

  Only then did he ask:

  ‘Have you seen Jerichau?’

  ‘He’s dead,’ she said. ‘The sisters killed him.’

  He drew away from her, and covered his face with his hands.

  ‘It wasn’t your fault,’ she told him.

  ‘I knew …’ he said quietly. ‘As soon as things went sour. I knew something terrible had happened to him.’

  ‘You can’t be blamed for not seeing the truth. Shadwell’s a brilliant performer. And he was selling what people wanted to hear.’

  ‘Wait,’ said Nimrod, looking up at her. ‘Are you telling me Shadwell’s the Prophet?’

  ‘Yes I am.’

  He made a small shake of the head.

  ‘A Cuckoo,’ he said, his tone still half disbelieving. ‘A Cuckoo.’

  ‘It doesn’t mean he isn’t strong,’ Suzanna cautioned. ‘He’s got raptures all his own.’

  ‘You’ve got to come back to the camp,’ Nimrod said, with fresh urgency. ‘Talk to our commander before we leave for the Gyre.’

  ‘Make it quick,’ she said.

  He was already away, leading her into the rockier terrain that concealed the rebels.

  ‘There’s only me and Apolline left alive,’ he said, as they went, ‘from the First Wakened. The rest are gone. My Lilia. Then Freddy Cammell. Now Jerichau.’

  ‘Where’s Apolline now?’

  ‘She went out into the Kingdom, the last I heard. What about Cal? Is he with you?’

  ‘We were going to meet up at the Firmament. But Shadwell’s already on his way to the Gyre.’

  ‘Which is as far as he’ll get,’ Nimrod said. ‘Whatever raptures he’s stolen, he’s still just a man. And men bleed.’

  So do we all, she thought, but left the thought unspoken.

  XII

  ONE FELL SWOOP

  1

  imrod’s brave talk was undercut by what she found at the camp. It was more like a hospital than a military establishment. Well over three quarters of the fifty or so soldiers, men and women, who were gathered in the shelter of the rocks, had sustained some wound or other. Some were still capable of fighting, but many were clearly at death’s door, tended with soft words in their failing minutes.

  In one comer of the camp, out of sight of the dying, a dozen bodies were laid beneath make-shift shrouds. In another, a cache of captured armaments was being sorted through. It made a chilling display: machine-guns, flame-throwers, grenades. On this evidence Shadwell’s followers had come prepared to destroy their homeland if it resisted their deliverance. Against these horrors, and the zeal with which they were wielded, the profoundest raptures were a frail defence.

  If Nimrod shared her doubts he chose not to show them, but talked ceaselessly of the previous night’s victories, as if to keep a telling silence at bay.

  ‘We even took prisoners,’ he boasted, leading Suzanna to a muddy pit amongst the boulders, where maybe a dozen captives sat, bound at ankles and wrists, guarded by a girl with a machine-gun. They were a forlorn mob. Some were wounded, all were distressed, weeping and muttering to themselves, as though Shadwell’s lies no longer blinded them and they were waking up to the iniquity of what they’d done. She pitied them in their self-contempt. She knew all too well the powers of beguilement Shadwell possessed – in her time she’d almost succumbed to them herself. These were his victims, not his allies; they’d been sold a lie they’d had no power to refuse. Now, disabused of his teachings, they were left to brood on the blood they’d spilt, and despair.

  ‘Has anybody talked with them?’ she asked Nimrod. ‘Maybe they’ve got some grasp of Shadwell’s weaknesses.’

  ‘The commander forbade it,’ said Nimrod. ‘They’re diseased.’

  ‘Don’t talk nonsense,’ Suzanna replied, and climbed down into the pit with the prisoners. Several turned their troubled faces towards her; one, at the sight of a face that bore some sign of lenience, started to sob loudly.

  ‘I’m not here to accuse you,’ she told them. ‘I just want to talk with you.’

  At her side a man with blood-caked features said:

  ‘Are they going to kill us?’

  ‘No,’ she told him. ‘Not if I can help it.’

  ‘What happened?’ another enquired, his voice slurred and dreamy: ‘Is the Prophet coming?’ Someone tried to shush him, but he rambled on. ‘He must come soon, mustn’t he? He must come, and take us into Capra’s hands.’

  ‘He isn’t coming,’ said Suzanna.

  ‘We know that,’ said the first prisoner. ‘At least most of us do. We’ve been cheated. He told us –’

  ‘I know what he told you,’ Suzanna said. ‘And I know how he cheated you. Now you’ve got to make good the damage, by helping me.’

  ‘You can’t overthrow him,’ the man said. ‘He’s got powers.’

  ‘Shut your mouth,’ said one nearby, who was clutching a rosary so tightly his knuckles looked ready to pop. ‘You mustn’t say anything against him. He hears.’

  ‘Let him hear,’ the other spat back. ‘Let him kill me if he chooses. I don’t care.’ He turned back to Suzanna: ‘He’s got demons with him. I’ve seen them. He feeds the dead to them.’

  Nimrod, who was standing behind Suzanna listening to this evidence, now spoke up:

  ‘Demons?’ he said. ‘You’ve seen them?’

  ‘No,’ said the white-faced man.

  ‘I have,’ said another.

  ‘Describe them …’ Nimrod demanded.

  It was surely the by-blows the man spoke of, Suzanna thought, grown to monstrous proportions. But as the man began to tell what he knew she was distracted by the sight of a prisoner she hadn’t previously noticed, squatting in the filthiest part of the compound, face turned to the rock. It was a woman, to judge by the hair that fell to the middle of her back, and she’d not been bound like the rest, simply left to grieve in the dirt.

  Suzanna made her way through the captives towards her. As she approached she heard mutterings, and saw that the woman had her lips pressed to the stone, and was talking to it as if seeking comfort there. Her supplication faltered as Suzanna’s shadow fell on the rock, and she turned.

  It took a heart-beat only for Suzanna to see beyond the dried blood and excrement on the face that now looked up towards her; it was Immacolata. On her maimed face was the look of a tragedian. Her eyes were swollen with tears, and brimming now with a
fresh flood; her hair was unbraided and thick with mud. Her breasts were bared for all to see, and in every sinew there was a terrible bewilderment. Nothing of her former authority remained. She was a madwoman, squatting in her own shit.

  Contrary feelings fought in Suzanna. Here, trembling before her, was the woman who’d murdered Mimi in her own bed; part architect of the calamities which had overtaken the Fugue. The power behind Shadwell’s throne, the source of countless deceits and sorrows; the Devil’s inspiration. Yet she could not feel for Immacolata the hatred she’d felt for Shadwell or Hobart. Was it because the Incantatrix had first given her access to the menstruum, albeit unwillingly; or was it that they were – as Immacolata had always claimed – somehow sisters? Might this, under other skies, have been her fate; to be lost and mad?

  ‘Don’t … look at … me,’ the woman said softly. There was no sign of recognition in her blood-shot eyes.

  ‘Do you know who you are?’ Suzanna asked her.

  The woman’s expression didn’t change. After a few moments her answer came.

  ‘The rock knows,’ she said.

  ‘The rock?’

  ‘It’ll be sand soon. I told it so, because it’s true. It’ll be sand.’

  Immacolata took her gaze off her questioner and began to stroke the rock with her open palm. She’d been doing this for some while, Suzanna now saw. There were streaks of blood on the stone, where she’d rubbed the skin from her palm as if attempting to erase the lines.

  ‘Why will it be sand?’ Suzanna asked.

  ‘It must come,’ said Immacolata. ‘I’ve seen it. The Scourge. It must come, and then we will all be sand.’ She stroked more furiously. ‘I told the rock.’

  ‘Will you tell me?’

  Immacolata glanced round, and then back to the rock. For a little while Suzanna thought the woman had forgotten the questioner until the words came again, haltingly.

  ‘The Scourge must come,’ she said. ‘Even in its sleep, it knows.’ She stopped wounding her hand. ‘Sometimes it almost wakes,’ she said. ‘And when it does, we’ll all be sand …’