by Clive Barker
It was his first. Though he and Quaisoir had attempted to found a dynasty many times, she'd repeatedly miscarried, then later corrupted her body with so much kreauchee it refused to produce another egg. But this Judith was a wonder. Not only had she made surpassing love with him, there was fruit from that coupling. And when the time came to tell her (once the irksome Oscar Godolphin was dead, and the line for whom she'd been made stopped), then she would see the perfection of their union and feel it, kicking in her womb.
Jude hadn't slept, waiting for Gentle to return from another night of wanderings. The summons she carried from Celes-tine was too heavy to sleep with; she wanted it said and done, so she could put her thoughts of the woman away. Nor did she want to be unconscious when he returned. The idea of his coming in and watching her sleep, which would have been comforting two nights before, unsettled her now. He was the egg licker, and its thief. When she had her possession back and he was gone off to Highgate, she'd rest, but not before.
The day was creeping up when he finally returned, but there was insufficient light for her to read much on his face until he was within a few yards of her, by which time he was wreathed in smiles. He chastised her fondly for waiting up. There was no need, he said; he was quite safe. The pleasantries stopped here, however. He saw her unease and wanted to know what was wrong.
"I went to Roxborough's tower," she told him.
"Not on your own, I hope. Those people can't be trusted."
"I took Oscar."
"And how's Oscar?"
She was in no mood to prettify. "He's dead," she said.
He looked genuinely saddened at this. "How did that happen?" he asked.
"It doesn't matter."
"It does to me," he insisted. "Please. I want to know."
"Dowd was there. He killed Godolphin."
"Did he hurt you?"
"No. He tried. But no."
"You shouldn't have gone up there without me. What on earth possessed you?"
She told him, as plainly as she knew: "Roxborough had a prisoner," she said. "A woman he buried under the tower."
"He kept that little kink to himself," came the reply. She thought there was something almost admiring in his tone, but she fought the temptation to accuse him. "So you went to dig up her bones, did you?"
"I went to release her."
Now she had every scrap of his attention. "I don't follow," he said.
"She's not dead."
"So she's not human." He made a curt little smile. "What was Roxborough doing up there? Raising wantons?"
"I don't know what wantons are."
"They're ethereal whores."
"That doesn't describe Celestine." She trailed the bait of the name, but he failed to bite. "She's human. Or at least she was."
"And what is she now?"
Jude shrugged. "Something ... else. I don't quite know what. She's powerful, though. She almost killed Dowd."
"Why?"
"I think you're better off hearing that from her."
"Why should I want to?" he said lightly.
"She asked to see you. She says she knows you."
"Really? Did she say from where?"
"No. But she told me to mention Nisi Nirvana."
He chuckled at this.
"Does it mean something to you?" Jude said.
"Yes, of course. It's a story for children. Don't you know it?"
"No."
Even as she spoke, she realized why, but it was he who voiced the reason. ,
"Of course you don't," he said. "You were never a child, were you?"
She studied his face, wishing she could be certain he meant to be cruel.
"So will you go to her?"
"Why should I? I don't know her."
"But she knows you."
"What is this?" he said. "Are you trying to palm me off on another woman?"
He took a step towards her, and though she tried to conceal her reluctance to be touched, she failed.
"Judith," he said. "I swear I don't know this Celestine. It's you I think about when I'm not here—"
"I don't want to discuss that now."
"What do you suspect me of?" he said. "I've done nothing. I swear." He laid both his hands on his chest. "You're hurting me, Judith. I don't know if that's what you want to do, but you are. You're hurting me."
"That's a new experience for you, is it?"
"Is that what this is about? A sentimental education? If it is, I beg you, don't torment me now. We've got too many enemies to be fighting with each other."
"I'm not fighting. I don't want to fight."
"Good," he said, opening his arms. "So come here."
She didn't move.
"Judith."
"I want you to go and see Celestine. I promised her I'd find you, and you'll make a liar of me if you don't go."
"All right, I'll go," he said. "But I'm going to come back, love, you can depend on that. Whoever she is, whatever she looks like, it's you I want." He paused. "Now more than ever," he said.
She knew he wanted her to ask him why, and for fully ten seconds she kept her silence rather than satisfy him. But the look on his face was so brimming she couldn't keep her curiosity from putting the question on her tongue.
"Why now?" she said.
"I wasn't going to tell you yet..."
"Tell me what?"
"We're going to have a child, Judith."
She stared at him, waiting for some further explanation: that he'd found an orphan on the street or was bringing a babe from the Dominions. But that wasn't what he meant at all, and her pounding heart knew it. He meant a child born from the act they'd performed: a consequence.
"It'll be my first," he said. "Yours too, yes?"
She wanted to call him liar. How could he know when she didn't? But he was quite certain of his facts.
"He'll be a prophet," he said. "You'll see."
She already had, she realized. She'd entered its tiny life when the egg had plunged her consciousness down into her own body. She'd seen with its stirring spirit: a jungle city, and living waters; Gentle, wounded, and coming to take the egg from tiny fingers. Had that perhaps been the first of its prophecies?
"We made a kind of love no other beings in this Dominion could make," Gentle was saying. "The child came from that."
"You knew what you were doing?"
"I had my hopes."
"And didn't I get a choice in the matter? I'm just a womb, am I?"
"That's not how it was."
"A walking womb!"
"You're making it grotesque."
"It is grotesque."
"What are you saying? How can anything that comes from us be less than perfection?" He spoke with almost religious zeal. — Tm changing, sweet. I'm discovering what it is to love, and cherish, and plan for the future. See how you're changing me?"
"From what? From the great lover to the great father? Another day, another Gentle?"
He looked as though he had an answer on his tongue but bit it back. "We know what we mean to each other," he said. "There should be proof of that. Judith, please—" His arms were still open, but she refused to go into them. "When I came here I said I'd make mistakes, and I asked you to forgive me if I did. I'm asking you again now."
She bowed her head and shook it. "Go away," she said.
"I'll see this woman if you want me to. But before I go, I want you to swear something to me. I want you to swear you won't try and harm what's in you."
"Go to hell."
"It's not for me. It's not even for the child. It's for you. If you were to do any harm to yourself because of something I did, my life wouldn't be worth living."
"I'm not going to slit my wrists, if that's what you think."
"It's not that."
"What then?"
"If you try to abort the child, it won't go passively. It's got our purpose in it; it's got our strength. It'll fight for its life, and it may take yours in the process. Do you understand what I'm saying?" S
he shuddered. "Speak to me."
"I've got nothing to say to you that you want to hear. Go talk to Celestine."
"Why don't you come with me?"
"Just... go ... away."
She looked up. The sun had found the wall behind him and was celebrating there. But he remained in shadow. For all his grand purpose, he was still made to be fugitive: a liar and a fraud.
"I want to come back," he said.
She didn't answer.
"If you're not here, I'll know what you want from me."
Without a further word he went to the door and let himself out. Only as she heard the front door slam did she shake herself from her stupor and realize he'd taken the egg with him as he went. But then like all mirror lovers he was fond of symmetry, and it probably pleased him to have that piece of her in his pocket, knowing she had a piece of him hi a deeper place still.
14
Even though Gentle had known the tribe of the South Bank only a few hours, parting from them wasn't easy. He'd felt more secure in their company for that short time than he'd felt with many men and women he'd known for years. They, for their part, were used to loss—it was the theme of almost every life story he'd heard—so there were no histrionics or accusations, just a heavy silence. Only Monday, whose victimization had first stirred the stranger from his passivity, made any attempt to have Gentle linger.
"We've only got a few more walls to paint," he said, "and we'll have covered them all. A few days. A week at the most."
"I wish I had that long," Gentle told him. "But I can't postpone the work I came back to do."
Monday had of course been asleep while Gentle talked with Tay (and had woken much confounded by the respect he got), but the others, especially Benedict, had new words to add to the vocabulary of miracles.
"So what does a Reconciler do?" he asked Gentle. "If you're goin' off to the Dominions, man, we want to be comin' with you."
"I'm not leaving Earth. But if and when I do, you'll be the first to know about it."
"What if we never see you again?" Irish said.
"Then I'll have failed."
"And you're dead and gone?"
"That's right."
"He won't fuck up," Carol said. "Will you, love?"
"But what do we do with what we know?" Irish said, clearly troubled by this burden of mysteries. "With you gone, it won't make sense to us."
"Yes, it will," Gentle said. "Because you'll be telling other people, and that way the stories will stay alive until the door to the Dominions is open."
"So we should tell people?"
"Anyone who'll listen."
There were murmurs of assent from the assembly. Here at least was a purpose, a connection with the tale they'd heard and its teller.
"If you need us for anything," Benedict purred, "you know where to find us."
"Indeed 1 do," Gentle said, and went with Clem to the gate.
"And what if anybody comes looking for you?" Carol called after them.
"Tell 'em I was a mad bastard and you kicked me over the bridge."
This earned a few grins.
"That's what we'll say, Maestro," Irish said. "But I'm tellin' you, if you don't come back for us one of these days, we're goin' to come lookin' for you."
The farewells over, Clem and Gentle headed up onto Waterloo Bridge hi search of a cab to take them across the city to Jude's place. It wasn't yet six, and though the flow of northbound traffic was beginning to thicken as the first commuters appeared, there were no taxis to be had, so they started across the bridge on foot in the hope of finding a cab on the Strand.
"Of all the company to have found you in," Clem remarked as they went, "that has to be the strangest."
"You came looking for me there," Gentle pointed out, "so you must have had some inkling."
"I suppose I must."
"And believe me, I've kept stranger company. A lot stranger."
"I believe it. I'd like you to tell me about the whole journey one day soon. Will you do that?"
"I'll do my best. But it'll be difficult without a map. I kept telling Pie I'd draw one, so that if I ever passed through the Dominions again and got lost..."
"You'd be found."
"Exactly."
"And did you make a map?"
"No. There was never time, somehow. There always seemed to be something new to distract me."
"Tell me as much as— Whoa! I see a cab!"
Clem stepped out into the street and waved the vehicle down. They both got in and Clem supplied the driver with directions. As he was doing so, the man peered into his mirror.
"Is that someone you know?"
They looked back along the bridge to see Monday pelting towards them. Seconds later the paint-smeared face was at the taxi window, and Monday was begging to join them.
"You've got to let me come with you, boss. It's not fair if you don't. I gave you my colors, didn't I? Where would you be without my colors?"
"I can't risk your getting hurt," Gentle said.
"If I get hurt it's my hurt and it's my fault."
"Are we going, or what?" the driver wanted to know.
"Let me come, boss. Please."
Gentle shrugged, then nodded. The grin, which had gone from Monday's face during his appeal, returned in glory, and he clambered into the cab, rattling his tobacco tin of chalks like a ju-ju as he did so.
"I brought the colors," he said, "just in case we need 'em. You never know when we might have to draw a quick Dominion or something, right?"
Though the journey to Judith's flat was relatively short, there were signs everywhere—mostly small, but so numerous their sum became significant—that the days of venomous heat and uncleansing storm were taking their toll on the city and its occupants. There were vociferous altercations at every other corner, and some in the middle of the street; there were scowls and furrows on every passing face.
"Tay said there was a void coming," Clem remarked as they waited at an intersection for two furious motorists to be stopped from making nooses of each other's neckties. "Is this all part of it?"
"It's bloody madness is what it is," the cabbie chimed in. "There's been more murders in the last five days than in all of last year. I read that somewhere. And it's not just murders, neither, it's people toppin' themselves. A mate of mine, a cabbie like, was up the Arsenal on Tuesday and this woman just throws herself in front of his cab. Straight under the front wheels. Bloody tragic."
The fighters had finally been refereed and were being escorted to opposite pavements.
"I don't know what the world's coming to," the cabbie said. "It's bloody madness."
His piece said, he turned on the radio as the traffic began moving again, and began whistling 3n out-of-tune accompaniment to the ballad that emerged.
"Is this something we can help stop?" Clem asked Gentle. "Or is it just going to get worse?"
"I hope the Reconciliation will put an end to it. But I can't be certain. This Dominion's been sealed up for so long, it's poisoned itself with its own shit."
"So we just have to pull down the sod din' walls," Monday said, with the glee of a born demolisher. He rattled his tin of colors again. "You mark 'em," he said, "and I'll knock 'em down. Easy."
The child, Jude had been told, had more purpose in it than most, and she believed it. But what did that mean, besides the risk of its fury if she tried to unhouse it? Would it grow faster than others? Would she be big with it by dusk, and her water ready to break before morning? She lay in the bedroom now, the day's heat already weighing on her limbs, and hoped the stories she'd heard from radiant mothers were true, that her body would pour palliatives into her bloodstream to ease the traumas of nurturing and expelling another life.
When the doorbell rang her first instinct was to ignore it, but her visitors, whoever they were, kept on ringing and eventually began to shout up at the window. One called for Judy; the other, more oddly, for Jude. She sat up, and for a moment it was as though her anatomy had shifted. Her
heart thumped in her head, and her thoughts had to be dragged up out of her belly to form the intention to leave the room and go down to the door. The voices were still summoning her from below, but they petered out as she^ headed down the stairs, and she was ready to find the doorstep empty when she got there. Not so. There was an adolescent there, besmirched with color, who upon sight of her turned and hollered to her other visitors, who were across the street, peering up at her flat.
"She's here!" he yelled. "Boss? She's here!"
They started back across the road towards the step, and as they came her heart, still beating in her head, took up a suicidal tempo. She reached out for some support as the man at Clem's side met her eyes and smiled. This wasn't Gentle. At least it wasn't the egg-thief Gentle who'd left a couple of hours before, his face flawless. This one hadn't shaved for several days and had a brow of scabs.
She backed away from the step, her hand failing to find the door though she wanted to slam it. "Keep away from me," she said.
He stopped a yard or two from the threshold, seeing the panic on her face. The youth had turned to him, and the imposter signaled that he should retreat, which he did, leaving the line of vision between them clear.
"I know.I look like shit," the scabby face said. "But it's me, Jude."
She took two steps back from the blaze in which he stood (How the light liked him! Not like the other, who'd been in shadow every time she'd set eyes on him), her sinews fluttering from toes to fingertips, their motion escalating as though a fit was about to seize her. She reached for the banister and took hold of it to keep herself from falling over.
"It can't be," she said.
This time the man made no reply. It was his accomplice in this deceit—Clem, of all people—who said, "Judy. We have to talk to you. Can I come in?"
"Just you," she said. "Not them. Just you."
"Just me."
He came to the door, approaching her slowly, palms out, "What's happened here?" he said.
"That's not Gentle," she told him. "Gentle's been with me for the last two days. And nights. That's... I don't know who."
