by Clive Barker
XVII
Out on the hills, Will just kept moving, his body trekking the cold slopes while his spirit wandered in far stranger places. He plunged deep into ocean trenches and swam with forms that had not yet been found or named. He was carried as a motey insect over peaks so remote the tribes in the valley below believed divinities lived upon them. But he knew better now. The creators of the world had not retreated to the heights. They were everywhere. They were stones, they were trees, they were shafts of light and burgeoning seeds. They were broken things, they were dying things, and they were all that sprang up from things dying and broken. And where they were, he was too. Fox and God and the creature between.
He wasn’t hungry, nor was he sleepy, though in his passage he encountered beasts that were both. He seemed sometimes to travel in the dreams of sleeping animals: in dreams of the hunt, in dreams of coupling. He seemed sometimes to be a dream himself: a dream of the human, being experienced by an animal.
Perhaps dogs barked in their sleep, sensing his proximity; perhaps the chick grew restless in the egg when he brought it news of the light. And perhaps he was nothing but a figment in his own haunted thoughts, inventing this journey, so as not to go back, not ever go back, to the city of Rabjohns and the house of Will.
Every now and then, he’d cross the path of the fox, and he’d move on before the animal could make its formal farewells and depart. But somewhere along the way—who knew how many days had passed?—he chanced upon the creature in the back yard of a house he vaguely knew. It had its head in the garbage, and was rifling through the muck with no little enthusiasm. Will had better places to linger than here and was about to depart for those places, but the fox turned its besmirched face his way and said, “Do you remember this yard?”
Will didn’t answer. He hadn’t spoken to anybody in a long time and didn’t particularly want to start talking now. But the fox was ready with an answer anyhow. “This is Lewis’s house,” the creature said. “Lewis? The poet?” he prompted. Will remembered. “This is where you saw a raccoon, so rumor tells, doing much as I’m doing now.”
Will broke his silence, finally. “I did?” he said.
“You did. But that’s not why you’re here.”
“No . . .” Will said, now sensing the significance of his presence.
“You know why, don’t you?”
“Yes. I’m afraid I do.”
So saying, he left the yard, and went out into the street. It was early evening, the sky still warm with light toward the west.
He walked along Cumberland to Noe; then on to Nineteenth and so to Castro Street. The sidewalks were already crowded, so he assumed it was either Friday or Saturday, a night when people were casting off the restraints of the working week and were out on the town.
He didn’t know what form he had traveling here, but he soon found out. He was nobody; he was nothing. Not a single gaze came his way as he climbed Castro, not even to despise him.
He walked among the beauties and the watchers of beauties (and who here wasn’t one or the other?) unnoticed, past the tourists out to see how homosexual heaven might look, and the hustlers, checking their pants and their reflections, and the high queens, pronouncing on every other sight they saw, and the sad, sick men who were out because they feared they’d not see another party night. He passed through this throng like the ghost he’d perhaps become, his trek bringing him at last to the house at the summit where Patrick lived.
I’ve come to see him die, he realized. He looked around him for some sign of the fox, but the scurrilous animal, having brought him here, was now hiding its head. He was alone in this business; already slipping up the steps and through the door into the hall. Here he halted for a moment, to gather his wits. This was the first place of human habitation he’d visited in a little while, and it felt like a tomb to him: the silent walls, the roof keeping out the sky. He wanted to turn and leave, to get back out into the open air. But as he started up the stairs to the apartment door, the memories began to come. He’d undressed Patrick climbing these stairs, so eager to have him naked he couldn’t wait until the key was in the lock, stumbled over the threshold, hauling his lover’s shirt from his pants, fumbling with his belt, telling Patrick how fine he was, how perfect in every particular: chest and nipples and belly and prick. No man in Castro had been more beautiful, nor any wanted him more in return.
He was at the apartment door now, and through it, and moving toward the bedroom. Somebody was crying there, pitifully. He hesitated before entering, afraid of what he would discover on the other side. Then he heard Patrick speak.
“Please stop that,” he said, gently, “it’s very depressing.” I’m not too late, Will thought, and slipped through the door into the bedroom.
Rafael was standing at the window, obediently stifling his tears. Adrianna was sitting on the bed, watching her patient, who had before him a bowl of vanilla pudding. His condition had deteriorated considerably in the days since Will had departed for England. He’d lost weight and his pallor was sickly, his eyes sunk in bruisy shadow. Plainly he needed to sleep; his eyelids were heavy, his features slack with exhaustion. But Adrianna was gently insisting he first finish his food, which he did, conscientiously scraping the bowl to be sure he’d eaten it all.
“I’m done,” he said eventually. His voice was a little slurred, his head nodding, as though he might fall asleep with the spoon still in his hand.
“Here,” Adrianna said. “Let me take those from you.” She took the bowl and spoon from him and set them on the bedside table, where there sat a small squad of pill bottles.
Several of them had been left with their tops unscrewed, Will saw. All of them were empty.
A sickening suspicion rose in Will. He looked at Adrianna, who, despite her stoical expression, was plainly having difficulty holding back tears of her own. This wasn’t just any dinner she’d been telling Patrick to finish up. There’d been more than pudding in the bowl.
“How do you feel?” she asked him.
“Okay,” Patrick said. “A little lightheaded, but okay. It wasn’t the best pudding I ever tasted, but I’ve had worse.” His voice was thin and strained, but he was doing his best to put some music into it.
“This is wrong—” Rafael said.
“Don’t start again,” Adrianna told him sternly.
“It’s what I want,” Patrick said firmly. “You don’t have to be here if it bothers you.”
Rafael looked back at him, his face knotted up with contrary feelings. “How long . . . does it take?” he murmured.
“It’s different from person to person,” Adrianna said to him. “That’s what I heard.”
“You’ve got time to get a brandy,” Patrick said, his eyes closing for a time, then opening again as though he was waking from a five-second doze. He looked at Adrianna. “It’s going to be strange . . .” he said dreamily.
“What’s going to be strange?”
“Not having me,” he replied, with a dazed smile. His hand, which had been rhythmically smoothing a wrinkle in the sheet, now slid over the coverlet and caught hold of her hand. “We’ve talked a lot over the years, haven’t we . . . about what happens next?”
“We have,” she said.
“And I’m going to find out . . . before you—”
“I’m jealous,” she said.
“Bet you are,” he replied, his voice steadily failing him.
“I can’t bear this,” Rafael said, coming to the bottom of the bed. “I can’t listen to this.”
“It’s okay, baby,” Patrick said, as though to comfort him.
“It’s okay. You’ve done so much for me. More than anyone. You just go have a cigarette. It’ll be all right. Really it will.” He was interrupted by the sound of the doorbell. “Now who the fuck is that?” he said, a spark of the old Patrick momentarily ignited.
“Don’t answer it,” Rafael said. “It could be cops.”
“And it could be Jack,” Adrianna said, rising from the be
d.
The doorbell was being rung again. more urgently. “Whoever it is,” she said, “they’re not going to go away.”
“Why don’t you go, babe?” Patrick said to Rafael. “Whoever it is send them away. Tell them I’m dictating my memoirs.” He chuckled at his own joke. “Go on,” he said, as the bell was rung a third time.
Rafael went to the door, glancing back at the man in the bed as he went. “What if it is the cops?” he said.
“Then they’ll probably kick the door in if you don’t answer it,” Patrick said. “So go. Give ’em hell.” At this, Rafael made his departure, leaving Patrick to sink back down among the pillows. “Poor kid,” he said, his eyes fluttering closed. “You’ll take care of him, won’t you?”
“You know I will,” Adrianna reassured him.
“He’s not equipped for this,” Patrick said.
“Are any of us?” she replied.
He squeezed her hand. “You’re doing fine.”
“How about you?”
He opened his weighted eyes. “I’ve been trying to think . . . of something to say when it’s time. I wanted to have something . . . pithy, you know? Something quotable.”
He was slipping away, Will could see, his words becoming steadily more slurred, his gaze, when he once again opened his eyes, unfocused. But he wasn’t so far gone he failed to hear the voices from the front door: “Who is that?” he asked her. “Is it Jack?”
“No . . . it sounds like Lewis.”
“I don’t want to see him,” Patrick said.
Rafael was having trouble keeping Lewis out, however. He was doing his best to insist Lewis leave, but he clearly wasn’t being attended to.
“Maybe you should just go lend a hand,” Patrick suggested.
Adrianna didn’t move. “Go on,” he insisted, though all the force had left him. “I’m not going anywhere yet. Just don’t . . . take too long.”
Adrianna got to her feet and hurried to the door, clearly caught between the need to stay with Patrick and the need to keep Lewis from disturbing her patient’s peace of mind. “I won’t be a minute,” she promised, and disappeared into the hall, leaving the door a little ajar. Will heard her calling ahead as she went, telling Lewis this wasn’t the time to come calling unannounced for God’s sake, so would he please leave?
Then, very quietly, Patrick said: “Where . . . the hell did you come from?”
Will looked back at him and saw to his astonishment Patrick’s hazy, puzzled gaze was fixed on him as best it could be fixed, and there was a small smile on his face. Will went to the end of the bed and looked at him. “You can see me?” he said.
“Yes, of course . . . I can see you,” Patrick replied. “Did you come with Lewis?”
“No.”
“Come a little closer. You’re a bit fuzzy around the edges.”
“That’s not your eyes, that’s me.”
Patrick smiled. “My poor, fuzzy Will.” He swallowed, with some difficulty. “Thank you for being here,” he said. “Nobody said you were coming . . . I would have waited . . . if I’d known.
So we could talk.”
“I didn’t know I was coming myself.”
“You don’t think I’m being a coward, do you?” Patrick said.
“I . . . just couldn’t bear the . . . the idea of withering away.”
“No, you’re not being a coward,” Will replied.
“Good,” Patrick said. “That’s what I thought.” He drew a long, soft breath. “It’s been such a busy day,” he said, “and I’m tired . . .” His lids were closing, slowly. “Will you stay with me a while?”
“All the time you want,” Will said.
“Then . . . always,” Patrick said, and died.
It was that simple. One moment Patrick was there, in all his sweetness. The next he was gone, and there was only the husk of him, its miracle departed.
Barely able to breathe with grief, Will went to Patrick’s side and stroked his face. “I loved you, my man,” he said. “More than anyone in my life.” Then, in a whisper, “Even more than I loved Jacob . . .”
The exchange out in the hall had come to an end now, and Will could hear Adrianna coming back toward the bedroom, talking to Patrick as she approached. All was well, she told him.
Lewis had gone off home to write a sonnet. Then she opened the door, and for a moment, as she looked into the room, it seemed she saw Will standing beside the bed; she even began to say his name. But her powers of reason persuaded her senses they were wrong—Will couldn’t be here, could he?—and she left the word unfinished. Her gaze went instead to Patrick, and she let out a soft sigh that was as much relief as sorrow. Then she closed her eyes, silently instructing herself to be calm, Will guessed, to be, as she had always been, the rock in times of emotional turmoil.
Rafael was in the hallway just outside the bedroom door, calling her name.
“You’d better come in and see him,” she said. There was no reply from Rafael. “It’s all right,” she said. “It’s over. It’s all over.” Then she went to the bed, and sat down beside Patrick and stroked his face.
For the first time since departing into the Domus Mundi, Will longed to be back in his own body, wished he was there beside Adrianna, offering what comfort he could. Lingering unseen this way was uncomfortable; he felt like a voyeur. Maybe it would be better just to go, he thought; leave the living to their grief, and the dead to their ease. He belonged in neither tribe, it seemed, and that unfixedness, which had been a pleasure to him as he went through the world, was now no pleasure at all. It only made him lonely.
Out into the hallway he went, past Rafael, who was standing a yard from the bedroom door, as yet unable to enter, through the apartment to the door, down the stairs, and out into the street. Adrianna would serve Patrick well, he knew. She’d always been tender and pragmatic in equal measure. She’d rock Rafael, if he wanted to be rocked; she’d make sure the body was presentable for the medics when they arrived; she’d scrupulously remove all the evidence of the suicide, and if anybody questioned what had happened tell such barefaced lies nobody would dare challenge her.
But for Will, there were no such distractions. There was only the terrible emptiness of a street that had always been the way to Patrick’s house, indeed would always be the way to Patrick’s house, but that now no longer led anywhere important.
What now? He wondered. He wanted to be away from this city, back into the painless river from which he’d been hauled, that torrent where loss could not touch him, and he could swim inviolate. But how did he get there? Perhaps he should go back to Lewis’s house, he thought; perhaps the fox, which had plotted to bring him on this sad trek, was still sorting through the garbage and could be persuaded to reverse the process, unmake his memories and return him to the flow of things.
Yes, that’s what he’d do; go back to Cumberland.
The streets were busier than ever, and at the intersection of Castro and Nineteenth, where the foot traffic was particularly heavy, Will caught sight of a face he recognized. It was Drew, moving through the crowd on his own, doing his best to present a contented face to the world, but not doing a very good job of it.
He came to the corner and could not seem to make up his mind which way he wanted to go. People pushed on past him, on their way to this bar or that, a few glanced his way, but, getting no reciprocal smile from him, looked elsewhere. He didn’t seem to care much. He simply stood in the flow, while party-goers moved on about the business of the evening.
Will started in his direction, though it was not his intended route, moving easily through the crowd. When he was perhaps twenty yards from the corner, Drew apparently decided he wasn’t ready for a night of revelry, because he turned and headed back the way he’d come. Will followed him, not certain why he was doing so (he could offer neither solace nor apologies in his present state), but unwilling simply to let Drew go. The crowd thickened in front of him and, though in his present state he was able to pass through them wit
hout resistance, he had not yet got the confidence of his condition. He proceeded with more caution than was strictly necessary and almost lost sight of Drew. He pressed his spirit forward, however; on through the throng of men and women (and a few who were in transit), calling after Drew, though he knew he had no hope of being heard. Wait, he yelled; Drew, please wait!
And as he ran, and the figures turned to a blur around him, he remembered another such chase, pursuing a fox through the flickering wood, while the light of wakefulness waited for him at the finishing line. This time he didn’t attempt to slow himself as he had that first time, didn’t try to look over his shoulder at the street and the crowd, fearful he would not see it again. Drew had emerged from the knot of bodies at the intersection and was now no more than ten yards ahead of Will, staring at the sidewalk as he trudged back home.
As the distance between them closed, however, Drew seemed to hear something and, raising his head, glanced back toward Will, the third and last soul to whom he was momentarily visible tonight. Will saw him scan the crowd, his expression sweetly expectant. Then his face grew brighter, and brighter still, and Castro, and the crowd, and the night that contained them both, went away into the west, and he woke.
XVIII
He was in the wood, his head laid in the very spot where the birds had fallen. Though it was still night in California, here in England day had come; a crisp, late-autumn day. He unknitted his aching joints and sat up, the turmoil he’d felt leaving Patrick’s side soothed somewhat by the quiet ease of his waking state. There was quite a litter around him. Some half-eaten fruit, a couple of discarded slices of bread, much of it on its way to rot.
