by Clive Barker
“Oh Lord, no,” the man breathed.
Will looked up. Light was now spilling into the room, warmer than the luminescence from the walls, its source a doorway that was opening across the chamber. It was twice the height of a man, and a foot or more thick, its immensity moved by a system of ropes and weights. There was a fire burning in the room beyond, perhaps several, and forms moving in the air, wreathed in smoke. And from the heart of the smoke, a languid inquiry, “Do you have something for me, Theodore?” It was plain by the expression on Ted’s face that he wanted to flee. But it was equally plain that he was too cowed or traumatized to do so.
“Come to me,” the speaker said. “Both of you. And put your sticks down, Theodore.”
Ted shook his head in despair, and tossing down the weapons he was carrying, made his way toward the door with the reluctance of a dog in fear of a beating.
Will got to his feet and quickly assessed the damage he’d done himself. There was nothing significant, just a few scrapes.
Ted was already at the door, his head bowed. Will wasn’t so reverent. Head raised, eyes eager, he made his way across the antechamber and, bypassing Ted at the threshold, made his way into the presence of Gerard Rukenau.
XI
Though in principle Frannie’s descent should have become easier as the distance she had to fall decreased, the further from the sunlight she ventured the slimier the rocks became and the rarer the handholds. More than once she was within a hair’s-breadth of falling and would have done so had she not twisted around to wedge herself across the gully as she slipped. If she survived this, she thought, she’d have plenty of bruises as souvenirs.
There was another problem: It was much darker down here than she’d expected it to be. She had only to look up—which against her better judgment she did—to see why. The clouds had been steadily thickening as she descended, and the sliver of sky still visible to her was iron gray. There’d be rain soon, she guessed, which would make the ascent even more problematic.
Well, it was too late for regrets. She’d made it down without serious injury; maybe she’d find a simpler route by which to ascend, she hoped, with Will.
She didn’t let go of the gully wall until she was certain she had her feet on solid ground. Once she did so she looked back up the crevice to locate Will, but the overhang blocked her view. She started toward him, calling to him as she went, reassuring him that she was on her way. There was no reply, and she feared the worst: He’d cracked his skull open, broken his neck; she’d find him lying there, as lifeless as the rock he was sprawled upon.
Steeling herself for the sight, she ducked under the overhang, and there, a few yards ahead of her, was the body that had seduced her down into this wretched crack. It wasn’t Will. Lord God Almighty, it wasn’t Will! It was a human body surely enough, but a very old one. It was virtually a mummy in fact, wrapped up in bandages and cloth. She was relieved, of course, but almost angry at herself for the wasted time and effort making the descent. Steeling herself against the sight, she examined the cadaver a little more closely. Several of its wrappings had rotted away, revealing flesh the color of tobacco. Its head was particularly upsetting to look at, the skin dried tight over the bones of the skull, the lips pulled back from its pearly teeth. Was this Rukenau, she wondered? Had he perished and been buried, or at least hidden away, here in the gully, either by his acolytes or perhaps by fearful islanders unwilling to lay his bones in hallowed ground? She studied the body for some clue, walking around it as she did so. And there in the rotted remains of the casket she found the evidence she needed to identify him: a collection of a half-dozen paintbrushes, bound together with cord and what looked like sealing wax. She loosed a little moan of satisfaction at solving the puzzle. This wasn’t Rukenau: It was the corpse of Thomas Simeon. She remembered only vaguely what the book had said on the subject. The body had been stolen, she recalled, and hadn’t somebody, perhaps Dwyer, theorized that it had been taken north and buried on Rukenau’s island? So it had. A strange and in its way pitiful end to a strange and pitiful life: to be preserved in whatever they’d used for embalming fluids back then, wrapped up in finery, and hidden away like a secret treasure.
Well, that was one question answered. But it begged another. If Will wasn’t down here, then where the hell was he? He’d failed to answer her when she’d called to him, so it was still perfectly possible that he was in trouble; the question was where?
The rain had begun to fall, and to judge by the force of water running down the sides of the crevice it was heavy.
Attempting to clamber back up at the spot where she’d descended would be folly: She’d have to find another method. It was a long trek down to the sea, so she decided first to make her way up to the head of the gully in search of an easier escape route. If she failed to find one, then she’d try the other end, though the way the waves had been beating against the headland it would be difficult to find a means of egress there without risk of being washed away. All in all, not a very appetizing menu of alternatives, but, damn it, she’d got herself into this mess and she would get herself out.
So thinking, she started on her way up to the head of the gully. It got a little brighter a few yards on, the walls far enough apart that the rain came directly down upon her. It was cold, but she was sweaty after her exertions, and she put her face up to the downpour to be cooled. As she did so, she heard Steep say:
“Look at the state of you.”
Despite her extreme frailty, Rosa hadn’t remained on the rocks where Frannie had left her, but had crawled, with painful sloth, to the rocks at the end of the gully. There she had collapsed, unable to move her limbs another inch. And there Steep had found her. He kept his distance from her, stepping close for a moment only in order to pull her hand away from her face, then stepping back again as though Rosa’s weakness was contagious.
“Take me inside,” she murmured to him.
“Why should I do that?”
“Because I’m dying, and I want to be there . . . I want to see Rukenau for myself one last time.”
“He won’t want to see you in this state,” Jacob said.
“Wounded and gasping.”
“Please, Jacob,” she said. “I can’t get there on my own.”
“So I see.”
“Help me.”
Jacob thought about this for a moment. Then he said, “I think not. Really, it’s better I go to him on my own.”
“How can you be so cruel?”
“Because you betrayed me, love, going with Will. Making me follow you like some lost dog.”
“I had no choice,” Rosa protested. “You weren’t going to bring me here.”
“True,” Steep said.
“Though Lord knows, after all we’ve suffered together, the grief . . .” She looked away from Steep now, the tremors in her body escalating. “I’ve thought so often, if we’d had healthy children, perhaps we’d have grown kinder over the years instead of more cruel.”
“Oh Christ, Rosa,” Steep said, his voice oozing contempt.
“Surely you don’t still believe that nonsense? We had healthy children.”
She didn’t move her head, but her eyes slid back in Steep’s direction. “No,” she murmured. “They were—”
“Healthy, bright little babies—”
“Brainless, you said—”
“Perfect, every one of them.”
“No . . .”
“I fertilized you to keep you happy; then I killed them so they wouldn’t get underfoot. And you truly never realized?” She said nothing. “Stupid, stupid woman.”
Now she spoke. “My children . . .” she murmured, so softly he didn’t catch her words.
“What did you say?” he asked her, leaning a little closer to her.
Instead of speaking, she screamed, “My children!”— the sound she emitted shaking the rock on which she lay. Jacob tried to retreat, but she had the force of grief in her sinews, and she reached for him before he could escap
e. Her scream wasn’t her only weapon in this assault. Even as she caught hold of him with her left hand her right tore at the bandages that bound her wound and the braided brightness went from her as though it wanted to devour him—
In the gully below, Frannie had barely clamped her hands over her ears to stop out the scream when she felt a hail of pebbles and wet dirt come down upon her head. She had crept closer to the end of the gully in order to hear the conversation better. Now she regretted her curiosity. The din that issued from Rosa made her sick to her stomach, despite her attempts to block it out. She reeled round, her body responding more to instinct than instruction, and staggered away down the gully, her feet slipping on the slimy stones. She’d got maybe six or seven yards when some portion of the ground—shaken by the din—capitulated, and the fall of clods of dirt and stone became calamitous.
Seeing the brightness escaping Rosa’s abdomen, Steep had lifted his hands to protect his face, fearing it intended to blind him.
But it was not his face it flew toward, nor was it his heart, nor even his groin. It was his hand the light sought, or rather the wound upon the palm of that hand, which his own blade had opened up.
It was he who had cried out, then, his alarm melding with Rosa’s rage in such a powerful combination that the very ground was shaken into collapse.
Overhead, birds ceased their wheeling and swooped toward the safety of their nests. In the surf, seals dove deep so as not to hear the tumult. Amid the dunes, hares bolted for their burrows, and cattle in the meadow shat themselves in terror. And in the houses and bars of Barrapol and Crossapol and Balephuil, and on the open roads between, men and women about their daily labors ceased them on the instant. If they were in company they exchanged troubled looks, and if they were alone went straightaway into company.
And then, just as suddenly as it had begun, it was gone.
——
The avalanche in the gully had its own momentum, however.
The falling stones grew larger in size as the ground gave way; filling the air with so much dirt and debris that Frannie could see nothing. She had retreated almost as far as Thomas Simeon’s resting place, and there waited while the crevice shook from end to end.
At last, the rockfall subsided, and the dust-thickened air began to clear. She kept her distance for a little while, however, fearing either a fresh din from above or some further collapse.
There was neither, however, and after a minute or two she started back up the gully to see how the land now lay. There was far more light than there had been previously, despite the grimy air.
The ground that surrounded the end of the gully had entirely fallen away, she saw, delivering a great tonnage of fractured stone, earth, and grass into the crevice, where it had formed a chaotic slope. She had her means of ascent here, at least, if she was willing to dare such a perilous route. She studied the rim of the hole, looking for some sign of life, but she saw none. Apart from the occasional drizzle of dirt from the raw edges of the hole, the scene was motionless.
At the bottom of the incline, she paused to roughly plan her route, and then began to climb. It was easier than her descent, but it was by no means simple. The rocks had barely settled, and with every step she feared for their solidity; meanwhile the rain was pouring down, turning the dirt to mud. A third of the way up she elected to finish the climb on all fours, which meant that in no time she was virtually muddied from head to foot. No matter, there was less chance of her toppling backward that way, and when one of her foot-or handholds proved treacherous, she had three others for fail safes.
As she came within a couple of yards of the top of the slope, however, she felt something touching her leg. She looked down and to her horror saw Rosa lying partially buried in the churned dirt, her outstretched hand clutching blindly at Frannie’s ankle.
The expression she wore resembled nothing Frannie had seen on a human face before, her mouth grotesquely wide, like that of a landed fish, her golden eyes, despite the rain’s assault, unblinking.
“Steep?” she gasped.
“No. It’s me. It’s Frannie.”
“Did Steep fall?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t see—”
“Lift me up,” Rosa demanded. To judge by the splaying of her limbs, she’d broken a number of bones, but she was plainly indifferent to the fact. “Lift me up,” she said again. “We’re going into the house, you and me.”
Frannie doubted she had the strength to haul the woman further than the top of the incline. But even if she could do that little service it would surely be the last she provided for Rosa.
The woman’s death was imminent, to judge by her quickening gasps and by the violence of the tremors passing through her body. Redistributing her weight on the rocks, Frannie bent to clear the debris off Rosa’s body. The bandages had been torn from her wound, Frannie saw, and though it was partially clogged with mud, the same uncanny iridescence she’d first seen in Donnelly’s house flickered in its depths.
“Did Steep do this to you?” she asked.
Rosa stared sightlessly at the sky. “He cheated me of my children,” she said.
“I heard.”
“He cheated me of my life. And I’m going to make him suffer for it.”
“You’re too weak.”
“My wound’s my strength now,” Rosa said. “He’s afraid of what’s broken in me,” she shaped a terrible smile, as though she had become Death itself, “because it’s found what’s broken in him . . .”
Frannie didn’t try to make sense of this. She simply bent to the task of cleaning the body, and then, once that labor was done, of attempting to raise Rosa into a position that allowed her to be lifted. Once she had her arms beneath the woman, she found to her astonishment that a curious strength passed between them.
Her body became capable of what it could never have achieved a minute before: She lifted Rosa out of the dirt and carried her—not without effort, but with some measure of confidence—up the remainder of the incline to secure ground. The scene looked like a battlefield. Fresh fissures had opened in the earth, running in all directions from the place where Rosa and Jacob had clashed.
“Now to your left—” Rosa said.
“Yes?”
“Do you see a piece of open ground?”
“Yes.”
“Carry me to it. The house is there.”
“I don’t see anything.”
“That’s because it has ways to fold itself out of your sight.
But it’s there. Trust me, it’s there. And it wants us inside.”
XII
The sound of the avalanche was audible in the Domus Mundi, but Will took little notice of it, distracted as he was by the scale of the spectacle before him, or, more precisely, above him. For it was there that Gerard Rukenau, the satiric sermonizer himself, had chosen to make his home. The considerable expanse of the chamber was crisscrossed with a complex network of ropes and platforms, the lowest of them hanging a little above head height, while the highest were virtually lost in the shadows of the vaulted ceiling. In places, the knotted ropes were so densely intertwined, and so encrusted with detritus, that they formed almost solid partitions, and in one spot a kind of chimney that rose to the ceiling. To add further to the sum of these strangenesses, there were scattered throughout the structure items of antique furniture collected, perhaps, out of that mysterious house in Ludlow from which Galloway had liberated his friend Simeon.
Among this collection were several chairs, suspended at various heights, and two or three small tables. There was even a platform heaped with pillows and bedclothes, where, presumably, Rukenau laid his head at night. Though the cords and branches from which all of this was constructed were filthy, and the furniture, despite its quality, much the worse for wear, the obsessive elaboration of knots and partitions and platforms was beautiful in the flickering luminescence that rose from the bowls of pale flame that were set around the web, like stars in a strange firmament.
An
d then, from a location perhaps forty feet above Will’s head, at the top of the woven chimney, Rukenau’s voice came floating down.
“So now, Theodore,” he said. “Who have you brought to see me?” His voice was more musical than it had sounded when he’d been summoning them. He sounded genuinely curious as to who this stranger in their midst might be.
“His name’s Will,” Ted said.
“I heard that much,” Rukenau replied, “and he hates William, which is sensible. But I also heard you came looking for me, Will, and that’s far more intriguing to me. How is it you’ve come looking for a man who’s been removed from human sight for so long?”
“There’s still a few people talking about you,” Will said, looking up into the murky heights.
“You mustn’t do that,” Ted whispered to him. “Keep your head bowed.”
Will ignored the advice and continued to stare up at the mesh. His defiance was rewarded. There was Rukenau, descending through the myriad layers of his suspended world, stepping from one precarious perch to another like a tightrope walker.
And as he made his descent, he talked on, “Tell me, Will, do you know the man and woman making such a ruckus outside?” he asked.
“There’s a man?” Will said.
“Oh yes, there’s a man.”
It could only be one, Will knew, and he hoped to God that Frannie had got out of his path. “Yes, I know them,” he told Rukenau, “but I think you know them better.”
“Perhaps so,” the man above him replied, “though it’s been a very long time since I drove them out of here.”
“Do you want to tell me why you did that?”
“Because the male did not bring my Thomas back to me.”
