by Clive Barker
The Old Mother was quite happy with this. She had no use for mercy or tenderness. She had given herself to the service of darkness and despair the day she had set fire to the mansion containing her entire family, murdering all those within, except for her baby, Christopher, whom she had raised after her own unholy fashion, educating him in all the joyless wisdom of her rotted heart.
But the teachings had failed. He’d fallen for Boa like a witless adolescent, giving her some of the most potent workings in Abaratian magic as tokens of his undying affections. Had Mater Motley not been more powerful she would have taken this betrayal of her trust more heavily. But Those Who Walk Behind the Stars had given her access to power that made Abaratian magic seem inconsequential. A power as old as Death itself was their muse. And what better proof of how inspiring this power was than the vessel in which the Old Mother presently traveled. The Stormwalker was full of the Nephauree’s genius for death dealing. One such creation was a vast display of the archipelago, which floated on the air before her, with the internal systems and structures of each Hour all rendered visible, so that, should it be her will to destroy an island completely, the maps knew of their frailties and would know exactly where to direct the missiles.
She studied it now, a thirty-foot-long tapestry, which looked as though it had been painted on fog with pastel luminosity. The things that were darkness were only a piece of the knowledge the tapestry provided. It also showed her what emotions were rife in the Hours. A simple map might have shown her the shape of an island, but never the feelings of those who lived there. This schematic showed the glad news that the islands were drowning in panic and terror. Fiends held sway over the ruins of what had once been places of calm and delight.
There were monsters in Babilonium now, walking the boardwalks. And the Legendary City of a Thousand Fiends, a creature that stood half a mile high, and was home—as its name implied—to ten hundred fiends, had been seen moving in the unpopulated wastes of the Island of the Black Egg. Meanwhile, in the southwest, The Great Head was no more than rubble, destroyed by some monstrous being summoned from the deeps of the Izabella. The Council who had once met in its towers, and written the entire laws of the islands and kept the peace, were now drowned or crushed in the rubble.
All the while, Mater Motley’s Arrest Squads continued to collect up anyone who was on the list of those whose names (and there were thousands) appeared on the List of the Empress’s Enemies. They continued to be shipped to the camp behind Mount Galigali, where the other device that the Nephauree had devised for her was being constructed: the Great Eraser of Souls, which was designed to put an end to every individual who had ever raised their voices against her, or that her prophetic seamstresses warned her would do so in the future.
There remained only two thorns in her side, both of which she and her legions, supported by the fury of the Stormwalker, would deal with. One was the garish nonsenses of Commexo City, where the Kid ran riot. The other was the Twenty-Fifth Hour.
She would leave the Time Out of Time until the last.
“To Commexo City then,” she murmured.
The Stormwalker heard her instruction. Walking on legs of lightning, scorching the earth black when it set one of its limbs upon an Hour, or boiling the waters of the Izabella to steam when it set one of its feet upon the sea, it turned its immensity toward Pyon, where Commexo City shone defiantly in the murk of Midnight.
Chapter 50
Out of the Deep
“MR. PIXLER! MR. PIXLER!”
Voorzangler knocked on the door of Rojo Pixler’s suite of rooms cautiously at first, then with his fist rather than his knuckles.
“Please, Mr. Pixler. This is an emergency!”
From within, Voorzangler heard what sounded like the motion of something heavy moving over the polished marble floor. Finally, emerging from this strange sound came the voice of Voorzangler’s beloved genius, the creator of the original Commexo Kid, Rojo Pixler.
“I am well aware of the situation out on the streets, Voorzangler. I have legions of Kid Kops out there, doing their courageous best. But somehow I think a more primal touch is required—”
“There’s a huge vessel—it’s a mile long, I swear—”
“The Stormwalker? Yes. I can see it on the screens in here.”
“It’s Mater Motley, Mr. Pixler. She is calling herself the Empress of All the Islands.”
Voorzangler heard the sound of live reports from the streets of Commexo City, which the great architect was presumably viewing. Pixler had built the city from the wealth the Commexo Kid had brought it. It was the work of a true visionary to have made a city of everlasting light at an Hour where the darkness was very deep. The city stood at Three in the Morning. But nobody who lived in its bright streets feared the night. Until now.
“You don’t care that this woman has a vessel capable of destroying the city—”
“She wouldn’t.”
“She’s perfectly capable of killing everything you—”
“And the Kid.”
“Yes.”
“Don’t forget the Kid.”
“But before the Kid was you, Mr. Pixler. You are the creator.”
“Am I . . . ?”
“Yes . . .” Voorzangler said, his voice a little less certain now, “. . . of course you are. Without you . . . There’s nothing.”
“The Kid?”
“Sir. You came before the Kid. The father must come before the son.”
“Yes . . .”
“So the city, sir.”
“Yes, the city . . .” He seemed to remember the words he’d once believed above all things.
“Commexo City belongs to the Spirit of the Kid and always will.”
“Good,” Voorzangler said, relieved that the genius he worked for had not lost his grip on the order of things. “So what do we do about the . . . Stormwalker, sir? It hangs above us with all its firepower directed at the city. You don’t want any harm to the Spirit of the Kid, surely.”
“Absolutely not. This city must stand as a testament to the dreams of the Commexo Kid.”
“Good, Mr. Pixler. So . . . What should I do?”
“What would you advise?”
“Me?”
“Yes, Doctor. What would you advise for the health of the Kid’s city?”
“I don’t think we have any choice, sir. We are either destroyed or we surrender.”
“Do you think if I were to surrender to this Empress person she might come for me here?”
“I’m sorry, sir. What are you saying?”
“I’m saying that if she wants total supremacy, then it would be quite a coup for her, would it not? My priceless body in return for the safety of the city.”
“Is that what you want to offer her, sir?”
“I accept,” Mater Motley said.
“Is that her?” Pixler asked, sounding quite puzzled.
“Yes, sir,” said Voorzangler. “It is.”
“How did she get onto our secure line?”
“She’s not on the line, sir. She’s here. With me.”
“What?”
“I’m sorry, sir, I had no choice.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“She forbade me, sir.”
“And like the sensible coward he is,” the Old Mother said, “he preferred to keep his one good eye rather than tell you the truth.”
“I don’t blame him,” Pixler said. “No doubt he thought his little life was all he had. So losing it meant more to him than it would have if he’d known the truth.”
“What are you babbling about, Pixler?” Mater Motley demanded.
“Once we witness the great certainties of the High Worlds and the Deep Worlds, once we know darkness absolute and breathe the truth of light, everything else—like life—seems inconsequential.”
“You make no sense.”
“Do I not? Well, the fault is surely mine, lady. I’m afraid I’m sick. Some strange contagion I picked up on my descent
into the waters of the Izabella.”
“You’re not going to frighten me off with stories of deep-water plagues, Pixler. I fear nothing and no one.”
“Oh, Empress, that’s extraordinary! To have no fear. I want to look in your eyes and see that for myself. Voorzangler?”
“Sir?”
“Will you escort the Empress into the library?”
“Of course, sir.”
“I will be with you in just a moment, Empress.”
The line was broken and went to black noise.
“He’s no longer in contact,” Voorzangler said. “He’s never done that before. He’s always been listening.”
“Apparently not today, Doctor. Or he would have realized I was here with you. So take me to him.”
“I can only go as far as the door. I’ve never entered the sanctum. It’s his private world.”
“Well, today you will accompany me, Voorzangler. I am your Empress. Serve me, and I will always be with you.”
“Then of course I must obey you.”
Voorzangler proceeded to make his way through the poorly lit rooms. The only consistent illumination was from the hooded lamps above the paintings that lined the walls.
“Pixler has very eclectic taste, Voorzangler.”
“The paintings?”
Mater Motley paused to look at one of them: a very brightly colored canvas, depicting a simple white cottage, some trees, a small shed and a single star.
“Voorzangler?”
“Yes?”
“What is this atrocity?”
“I believe it’s called The Morning of Christ’s Nativity.”
“Decadence. Look at it, showing off its colors. It sickens me.”
“I’ll have it removed.”
“No need,” Mater Motley said.
She raised her hand and the canvas was consumed by an invisible flame, the bright color blackening and blistering until every last fleck of color had been consumed, leaving the antique gilded frame to enclose a view of almost any part of Abarat at that moment.
Just a few paces farther on was another picture, its style and subject as agitated and violent as the first image had been calm and peaceful. It appeared to be a body hung on a grid of barbed wire, but the details were hard to decipher. Again the cremating hand was raised, and Voorzangler flinched. But Mater Motley simply pointed.
“Now that,” she said, “I like.” She looked at Voorzangler. “All right. I’ve had my fill of art.”
She didn’t linger in front of any other painting, but followed Voorzangler to the large room at the end of the passageway.
“You seem to have a problem with your drains, Pixler,” she said as she stepped into the room.
“And with the lights . . .” Pixler replied from somewhere in the darkness. “Everything in here has failed, I’m afraid. Your . . . your . . . forces . . . Empress . . . have . . . taken . . . their . . . toll. My perfect city is no longer perfect.”
“Forget about your city. It’s you I need to see. Are there no lights in here at all?” There was an edge in her voice, more than a touch of suspicion. “Surely the chamber has a window, Doctor? The light from the burning city would—”
“Light . . .” Pixler replied, “would not . . . show you . . . anything your eyes would want to see.”
“You would forbid me?”
“No. Of course nnnnot. How could I? You are the Empressssss.”
“Then what’s going on in here? I demand to know.”
“If that is what the Empresssss wishes . . .”
“It is.”
“Then . . . sssseeeee.”
And suddenly there was light in the chamber, though it didn’t emanate from a lamp. It was Rojo Pixler, himself, who was the source of this frigid light, though his human anatomy was merely the frail centerpiece of a living form that had taken over the entire chamber, an intricate filigree of lacy tissue that covered the walls and hung in lazy decay from the ceiling. A foul stench was in these layers of rotting tissue, which here and there clotted, forming sluggish creatures that were attached by pulsing cords of matter to the body of Pixler himself.
Mater Motley seized hold of Voorzangler, her fingers digging so deep into his body that he cried out in pain.
“A crude trap, Doctor.”
“I had no knowledge of this, Empress,” Voorzangler said.
“She . . . is no Empress,” Pixler replied, his corrupted voice thick with contempt.
He rose up now, although there was little sign that it was the work of Pixler’s limbs that allowed him to do so. It was the creature within whose body he was enmeshed that drew him into a standing position.
“I . . . ammmmm . . . a part of something greater now,” Pixler said. “And I do not . . . ffffearr your DARKNESS, witch.” The light in the lace body flickered. “I . . . have passed eons in a deeperrrr darknesssss than your gray Midnight.”
Again, the light flickered. But it didn’t plunge the room into darkness. Instead it revealed, like a corrupted X-ray, the single vast anatomy of man and monster, exposing with appalling clarity how Pixler’s bones were interwoven with the stinking substance of his possessor. Rojo Pixler, the great architect himself, had become a piece of a piece of something that existed in all its unknowable immensity somewhere in the depths of the Sea of Izabella.
He rose up off the floor, lifted up on fans of fluttering tissue that shimmered as they worked. Rows of wet-rimmed valves twitched and spat; soft spines swelled into clusters of vicious barbs, surges of power passed through translucent ducts from one body to the next, noisily spilling Requiatic liquids onto the marble floor when they brimmed over.
“A Requiax,” Mater Motley said, her lip curling with contempt. “No wonder it stinks like a shore at high tide in here.”
“And . . . what is your stench, Hag?” the Pixler-Requiax said. By now Pixler’s body was ten feet off the ground, lit from below by the flashes of cold luminescence that spilled through the layers of tissue scattered everywhere.
“Tell your master to leash his tongue, Voorzangler, or else I will reach into that foul mouth of his and tear it out by the root.”
Voorzangler attempted to form some response to this, but she was killing him with her grip, and he was losing control of his body. His tongue could only flop about in his mouth, unable to shape a single coherent word. His whole anatomy had been drained of life force, and was now so weak that if the Empress hadn’t had her fingers buried deep in his shoulder he would have dropped to the ground and died where he fell.
But she held on to him, shaking him like a little one-eyed doll.
“Tell him, idiot!” All Voorzangler could do was shake his head in terrorized despair. “You thought to lure me into a trap, didn’t you? With this . . . fish.”
Again, Voorzangler shook his head, his control over his body seeming to become weaker with every passing moment.
“What do you want, fish?” the Old Mother said. “Are you hanging up there to terrorize me? Because you haven’t a hope of doing so! Whatever you assume you have made yourself, you are nothing, fish. Bow down! Do you hear me? Bow down before the Empress of the Abarat!”
As she spoke she let her free hand drop to her side, presenting her open palm to the floor. This simple gesture caused her to rise up into the air, dragging Dr. Voorzangler, his body now in the grip of something very close to a full seizure, with her.
Others had entered the room now, and were witnessing these grotesqueries: Voorzangler’s assistants from the Circular Room had followed him in, as had several seamstresses, but nobody made any attempt to intervene. This was a pitting of Higher Powers; everyone watching knew that. Anyone who attempted to interfere now would only earn themselves a quick death. So they all stayed close to the door in case things took a turn for the apocalyptic. And from there they bore witness.
“Bow down!” Mater Motley said again as she rose. “With your face to the ground.”
There was no response from the Pixler-Requiax, at least at
first. Then, very slowly, the creature began to shake its head. The weight of the great architect’s brain distorted the soft bone as it swung back and forth, his mouth lolling open, allowing a stream of fluid that resembled molasses to pour forth. Its issue caused the stink in the chamber to become far, far worse: so vile and overpowering that three members of Voorzangler’s staff turned and fled, puking, back into the passageway.
But Mater Motley had seen and smelled far worse. She was untouched by this whole performance. She was standing on the air at the same height as the architect now and raising her hand, presenting her palm to the enemy.
“You have one last chance to bend to me. And then I will make you do so, even if I have to break every bone in you to do it. Choose, fish. Bow or be broken.”
The shaking of the head slowed, and then ceased. Pixler raised his own hand to wipe from around his mouth the last of the noisome fluid. When the thing spoke again the corruption of its speech was over. The Requiax spoke now with a clear intention to sound as though Pixler had regained control, enunciating each word with almost absurd precision.
“You would find it hard to break bones that are so soft—” the thing began. As it spoke, the thing lifted its arms above its head, seizing the wrist of his left with its right, and twisting it around as though the bones were made of rubber. “—I can let the currents carry me and never break.”
“So go back to your currents, fish.”
“I am no fish, woman,” the creature said. “I AM REQUIAX!”
Chapter 51
Father and Son
EVEN BEFORE THE FINAL syllable was out of the creature’s mouth it flung itself at Mater Motley. She had anticipated that it would do exactly that, because as it reached for her, something that resembled a fan, decorated in purple and gold, snapped open in front of her. She blew on it: the lightest of breaths, motes of purple and silver clouded the air around the Pixler-Requiax’s head.
Innocent though the weapon she had just called into service might have appeared, the innocence was a lie. It was that most guilty of things—a weapon possessed of the power to lay death down wherever its dart went. The purple and golden motes broke against Pixler-Requiax’s face like tiny sparks. As he threw back his pierced visage, finely knotted cords of dark matter flew up out of the many wounds and rose to strike the ceiling. Cobs of plaster came showering down, like brute snow. But their descent merely presaged a far more bizarre descent. The knots of dark matter burst like overripe fruit. Out of their split skins came a rain of the Requiax’s base matter; the raw sea muck from which its elaborate filigree was made. As soon as it fell on Mater Motley, it began to spread like a vine, insane with its own fecundity, coursing over her body in all directions; dozens of trails of the nameless stuff raced down her body, crisscrossing to form a foul-smelling net around her.
