by Clive Barker
Lo patted the breast pocket of his coat, the modernity of which rather suited him. ‘Got them here,’ he said. ‘Speaking of which: is the man hungry?’
‘I can always eat,’ said Cal.
‘There’s food to be had when you want it.’
‘Thank you.’
Lem was about to depart, then turned back and very solemnly said:
‘Will you help me plant, Calhoun? When the time comes?’
‘You know I will.’
Lem nodded. ‘I’ll see you in a while,’ he said, and withdrew from the circle of firelight.
‘Are my clothes dry?’ Cal asked, ‘I can’t wander around like this.’
‘Let me see if I can borrow something for you,’ Suzanna replied.
He sat up to let her rise, but before she did so she kissed him on the lips. It was not a casual kiss; its touch did more to warm him than a dozen fires. When she left his side he had to wrap the blanket around him to cover up the fact that more than sap was rising tonight.
Alone, he had time to think. Though he’d come within spitting distance of death it was already difficult to remember the pain he’d been in, such a short time ago; possible, even, to think there was no world at all beyond this enchanted wood, and that they could stay here forever and make magic. But seductive as that thought was he knew indulging it, even for a moment, was dangerous. If there was to be a life for the Kind after tonight – if by some miracle Uriel and its keeper did pass them by – then that life had to be lived as part of the Wonderland he’d found in Gluck’s bureau of miracles. One world, indivisible.
After a dozing time, Suzanna returned with a collection of clothes, and laid them beside him.
‘I’m going to make a round of the lookouts,’ she said, ‘I’ll see you later.’
He thanked her for the clothes, and began to dress. This was his second borrowed skin in twenty-four hours, and it was – predictably, given its source – odder than anything Gluck had supplied. He took pleasure in the collision of styles: a formal waistcoat and a battered leather jacket; odd socks and pigskin shoes.
‘Now that’s the way a poet should dress,’ Lemuel declared when he came back for Cal. ‘Like a blind thief.’
‘I’ve been called worse.’ Cal replied. ‘There was talk of food?’
‘There was,’ said Lem, and escorted him away from the fire. Once his flame-dazzled eyes had grown accustomed to the half-light he realized there were Kind everywhere; perched in the branches or sitting on the ground between the trees, surrounded by their earthly goods. Despite the wonders these people had been intimate with, tonight they resembled any band of refugees, their eyes dark and full of caution, their mouths tight. Some, it was true, had decided to make the best of what might well be their last night alive. Lovers lay in each others’ arms exchanging whispers and kisses; a singer poured a lilt onto the air, to which three women were dancing, the stillness between their steps so profound they were lost amongst the trees. But most of the fugitives were inert, keeping themselves under lock and key for fear their dread show.
The smell of coffee came to greet Cal as Lem brought him into a clearing where another fire, smaller than the one he’d slept by, was burning. Half a dozen Kind were eating here. He knew none of them.
‘This is Calhoun Mooney,’ Lem announced. ‘A poet.’
One of the number, who was sitting in a chair while a woman carefully shaved his head, said:
‘I remember you from the orchard. You’re the Cuckoo.’
‘Yes.’
‘Have you come to die with us?’ said a girl crouching beside the fire, pouring herself coffee. The remark, which would have been judged an indiscretion in most company, drew laughter.
‘If that’s what it comes to,’ said Cal.
‘Well don’t go on an empty stomach,’ said the shaved man. As his barber towelled the last of the suds from his scalp Cal realized he’d grown his mane to conceal a skull decorated with rhymthic pigmentation from the gaze of the Kingdom. Now he could parade it again.
‘We’ve only got bread and coffee,’ Lem said.
‘Suits me,’ Cal told him.
‘You saw the Scourge,’ said another of the company.
‘Yes,’ Cal replied.
‘Must we talk about that, Hamel?’ said the girl at the fire.
The man ignored her. ‘What was it like?’ he asked.
Cal shrugged. ‘Huge,’ he said, hoping the subject would be dropped. But it wasn’t just Hamel who wanted to know; all of them – even the girl who’d objected – were waiting for further details. ‘It had hundreds of eyes …’ he said. ‘That’s all I saw, really.’
‘Maybe we could blind it,’ Hamel said, drawing on his cigarette.
‘How?’ said Lem.
‘The Old Science.’
‘We don’t have the power to keep the screen up much longer,’ said the woman who’d been doing the shaving. ‘Where are we going to get the strength to meet the Scourge?’
‘I don’t understand this Old Science business,’ said Cal, sipping at the coffee Lem had brought him.
‘It’s all gone anyway,’ said the shaved man.
‘Our enemies kept it,’ Hamel reminded him. ‘That bitch Immacolata and her fancy-man – they had it.’
‘And those who made the Loom,’ said the girl.
‘They’re dead and gone,’ Lem said.
‘Anyway,’ said Cal. ‘You couldn’t blind the Scourge.’
‘Why not?’ said Hamel.
‘Too many eyes.’
Hamel wandered to the fire and threw the stub of his cigarette into its heart.
‘All the better to see us with,’ he said.
The flame the stub burned with was bright blue, which made Cal wonder what the man had been smoking. Turning his back on the fire Hamel disappeared between the trees, leaving silence in his wake.
‘Will you excuse me, poet?’ said Lem. ‘I’ve got to go find my daughters.’
‘Of course.’
Cal sat down to finish his meal, leaning his back against a tree to watch the comings and goings. His short sleep had only taken the edge off his fatigue; eating made him dozy again. He might have slept where he sat but that the strong coffee he’d drunk had gone straight to his bladder, and he needed to relieve himself. He got up and went in search of a secluded bush to do just that, rapidly losing his bearings amongst the trees.
In one grove he came upon a couple dancing to the late-night music from a small transistor radio – like lovers left on a dance floor after the place had closed, too absorbed in each other to be parted. In another place a child was being taught to count, its abacus a string of floating lights its mother had spoken into being. He found a deserted spot to unburden himself, and was fumbling to do the buttons of his borrowed trousers up again when somebody took hold of his arm. He turned to find Apolline Dubois at his side. She was in black, as ever, but was wearing lipstick and mascara, which didn’t flatter her. Had he not seen the all but empty vodka bottle in her hand her breath would have told him she’d had a good night’s drinking behind her.
‘I’d offer you some,’ she said, ‘but it’s all I’ve got left.’
‘Don’t worry,’ he told her.
‘Me?’ she said. ‘I never worry. It’s all going to end badly whether I worry or not.’
Drawing herself closer to him, she peered at his face.
‘You look sick,’ she announced. ‘When did you last have a shave?’
As he opened his mouth to answer her something happened to the air around them. A tremor ran through it, with darkness at its heels. She forsook her hold on him instantly, dropping the vodka bottle in the same moment. It struck his foot, but he managed to bite back his curse, and was thankful for it. Every sound from between the trees, music or mathematics, had ceased utterly. So had the noises in the undergrowth, and from the branches. The wood was suddenly death-bed quiet, the shadows thickening between the trees. He put his arm out and clutched hold of one of the trunks, f
earful of losing all sense of geography. When he looked around Apolline was backing away from him, only her powdered face visible. Then she turned away, and that too was gone.
He wasn’t entirely alone. Off to his right he saw somebody step from the cover of the trees and hurriedly kick earth over the small fire by which mother and child had been engaged in their lessons. They were there still, the woman’s hand pressed over her off-spring’s mouth, the child’s eyes turned up to look at her, wide with fear. As the last light was snuffed out Cal saw her mouth ask a question of the man, who in answer jerked his thumb over his shoulder. Then the scene went to black.
For a few moments Cal stayed put, vaguely aware that there were people moving past him – purposefully, as if to their stations. Rather than remain where he was, clinging to the tree like a man in a flood, he decided to go in the direction the fire-smotherer had pointed, and find out what was going on. Hands extended to help him plot his course as he navigated his way between the trees. His every movement produced some unwelcome sound: his pigskin shoes creaked: his hands, touching a trunk, brought fragments of bark down in a pattering rain. But there was a destination in sight. The trees were thinning out, and between them he could see the brightness of snow. Its light made the going easier, and by it he came to within ten yards of the edge of the wood. He knew now where he was. Ahead lay the field where he’d seen Novello playing; and louring over it, the white slope of Rayment’s Hill.
As he started to move closer somebody put their hand on his chest, halting him, and a nod from a dogged face at his side directed him back the way he’d come. But somebody crouched in the shrubbery closer to the edge of the trees turned to look at him, and with a raised hand signalled that he should be allowed passage. It was only when he came within a yard of her hiding-place that he saw it was Suzanna. Though they were very near the perimeter of the trees, and the snow-light was almost lurid, she was difficult to see. A rapture was wrapped around her like a veil, strengthening on her exhaled breaths, weakening on the intake. Her attention was on the field again, and the hill beyond. Snow was still falling without pause; it seemed to have erased his tracks, though not, perhaps, unaided.
‘It’s here,’ she whispered, without looking his way.
He studied the scene before him. There was nothing out there but the hill and the snow.
‘I don’t see –’ he began.
She silenced him with a touch, and nodded towards the young trees at the outskirts of the wood.
‘She sees it,’ her whisper said.
He studied the saplings, and realized that one was flesh and blood. A young girl was standing at the very edge of the trees, her arms extended, her hands holding onto the branches of saplings to left and right.
Somebody moved out of the half-light and took up a position beside Suzanna.
‘How close?’ he said.
Cal knew the voice, though the man was much changed.
‘Nimrod?’
The golden eyes glanced at Cal without registering anything, then looked away, before returning with recognition in them. Apolline had been right, Cal thought; he must look bad. Nimrod stretched his arm in front of Suzanna and clasped Cal’s hand tightly. As he broke contact again the girl at the perimeter let out the tiniest exclamation, and Nimrod’s question – ‘How close?’ – was answered.
Shadwell and Hobart had appeared at the top of the hill. Though the sky at their backs was dark, they were darker still against it, their ragged silhouettes unmistakable.
‘They found us,’ Nimrod breathed.
‘Not yet,’ said Suzanna.
Very slowly, she stood up, and as if on that signal a tremor – the twin to the rumour that had first hushed the wood – ran through the trees. The air seemed to darken even further.
‘They’re strengthening the screen,’ Nimrod whispered.
Cal wished he had some useful role to play in this, but all he could do was watch the hill and hope the enemy would turn its back and go searching elsewhere. He’d known Shadwell too long to believe this likely, however, and he wasn’t surprised when the Salesman started down the slope towards the field. The enemy was obstinate. He’d come to give the gift of Death he’d spoken of in Chariot Street, and he wouldn’t be satisfied until he’d done so.
Hobart, or the power inside him, was lingering on the brow of the hill, where it could better survey the terrain. Even at this distance the flesh of its face flared and darkened like embers in a high wind.
Cal glanced behind him. The Kind were just visible, standing at regular intervals between the trees, their concentration focused on the rapture that stood between them and slaughter. Its redoubled effect was strong enough to invade his eyes, though he stood within the walls. For a moment the darkness of the wood grew tenuous, and it seemed he could see through it, to the snow on the other side.
He looked back at Shadwell, who had reached the bottom of the slope and was scanning the landscape ahead of him. It was only now, seeing the man dearly, that Cal’s thoughts returned to the jacket that Shadwell had lost or thrown away, and which he too had abandoned in his travels. It was out there somewhere in the field behind Rayment’s Hill, where his frozen fingers had let it fall. As Shadwell started to walk towards the wood, he stood up, and whispered:
‘ … the jacket …’
Suzanna was close to him, her answer barely audible.
‘What about it?’
Shadwell had stopped walking again, and was scrutinizing the snow in front of him. Was some vestige of Cal’s and Novello’s tracks still visible?
‘Do you know where the jacket is?’ Suzanna was saying.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘On the other side of the hill.’
The Salesman had raised his eyes once more, and was staring at the scene in front of him. Even from a distance it was clear the expression on his face was one of puzzlement, even suspicion. The illusion was apparently holding; but for how long? On the hill above him Uriel spoke, its words carrying on the snow-laden wind.
‘I smell them,’ it said.
Shadwell nodded, and took a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, lighting it beneath the flap of his coat. Then he returned his gaze to the scene in front of him. Was it the chill that made him squint, or was he seeing a ghost of something against the glare of snow?
‘We’re just going to get weaker,’ said Suzanna. ‘Unless we get help.’
‘From the jacket?’ Cal said.
‘It had power once,’ she replied. ‘Maybe it still does. Can you find it?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘That’s not the answer we need.’
‘Yes. I can find it.’
She looked back towards the hill. Shadwell had decided to rejoin Uriel, and was climbing the slope once more. The Angel had sat Hobart’s body in the snow, and was staring up at the clouds.
‘I’ll go with you,’ said Nimrod.
‘They’ll be able to see us from up there.’
‘We’ll make a detour. Get out round the back.’ He looked at Suzanna. ‘Yes?’ he said.
‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘Go on, while there’s still time.’
He was away at speed, Cal in tow, weaving through the trees and the Kind standing between them. The strain of keeping the shield up against the sight of man and Angel was taking its toll; several of the rapturers had collapsed; others were plainly near it.
Nimrod’s sense of direction was faultless; they came out on the far side of the wood, and instantly threw themselves face down in the snow. The depth of the fall was in their favour; they could practically tunnel through it, keeping the drifts between them and the hill as much as possible. But the snow could not protect them all the way; there were patches of open ground that had to be crossed if they weren’t to follow a route so hopelessly circuitous they’d not, reach their target before dawn. The wind was blowing sheets of loose snow before it, but in the gaps between them they had a clear view of the hill, and those on the summit – should they chance to look down – had
a clear view of them. They’d caught the rhythm of the wind however, laying low when it died down and making a run when a gust gave them cover. By this means they crept within thirty yards of the flank of the hill unseen, and it seemed the most dangerous part of the route was over, when the wind suddenly dropped, and in the lull Cal heard Shadwell’s triumphant voice.
‘You!’ he said, pointing down at them. ‘I see you!’
He stepped down the side of the hill a few yards, then went back up to alert Uriel, who was still gazing at the sky.
‘Run for it!’ Cal yelled to Nimrod, and giving up any attempt at concealment they both ploughed on through the snow, Cal leading now as he went in search of what he’d lost. A glance up at the summit showed him that Shadwell had roused Hobart, who had stood up. The man was stark naked – indifferent to the blizzard – his body blackened by fire and smoke. Any moment. Cal knew, that same fire would find Nimrod and himself.
He began to run again, expecting the flame at any moment. Three stumbling steps, and still it didn’t come. Now four, and five; six, seven. Still there was no avenging flame.
Bafflement made him look once more towards the hill. Shadwell was still at the summit, imploring the Angel to do its damnedest. But in the window between one gust of snow and the next Cal saw that Uriel had other business, distracting it from its role as executioner.
He started to run again, knowing that he and Nimrod had been granted a precious chance at life, but unable to stop himself mourning the sight of Suzanna, climbing the hill to meet the Angel’s gaze.
III
ON THE HILL
1
he had no plan in mind. But as she’d watched Numrod and Cal creeping towards the hill it had become perfectly apparent that unless there was some diversion they’d be sighted and killed. She was not about to ask for volunteers. If anyone was going to distract the Angel’s fire it surely had to be her; after all, she and Hobart had played this game of Dragons before; or a variation upon it.
Rather than step directly out through the screen, and so give Shadwell his target, she slipped through the trees and out at the flank, moving from drift to drift until she was some distance from the wood. Only then did she move out into full view of the Dragon.
