by Clive Barker
“Amazing, isn’t it?” the putto said. “To hear and not to see. It’s enough to drive a man mad.”
Again Gentle wheeled, the candle flame fluttering at his speed.
“I’m still here,” the cherub said. “We’ll be together for quite a time, just you and I, so we’d better get to like each other. What do you enjoy chatting about? Politics? Food? I’m good for anything but religion.”
This time, as he turned, Gentle caught a glimpse of his tormentor. It had put off the cherubic illusion. What he saw resembled a small ape, its face either anemic or powdered, its eyes black beads, its mouth enormous. Rather than waste his energies pursuing something so nimble (it had hung from the ceiling minutes before), Gentle stood still and waited. The tormentor was a chatterbox. It would speak again and eventually show itself entirely. He didn’t have to wait long.
“Those demons of yours must have been appalling,” it said. “The way you kicked and cursed.”
“You didn’t see them?”
“No. Nor do I want to.”
“But you’ve got your fingers in my head, haven’t you?”
“Yes. But I don’t delve. It’s not my business.”
“What is your business?”
“How do you live in this brain? It’s so small and sweaty.”
“Your business?”
“To keep you company.”
“I’m leaving soon.”
“I don’t think so. Of course, that’s just my opinion. . . .”
“Who are you?”
“Call me Little Ease.”
“That’s a name?”
“My father was a jailer. Little Ease was his favorite cell. I used to say, Thank God he didn’t circumcise for a living, or I’d be—”
“Don’t.”
“Just trying to keep the conversation light. You seem very agitated. There’s no need. You’re not going to come to any harm, unless you defy my Maestro.”
“Sartori.”
“The very man. He knew you’d come here, you see. He said you’d pine and you’d preen, and how very right he was. But then I’m sure he’d have done the same thing. There’s nothing in your head that isn’t in his. Except for me, that is. I must thank you for being so prompt, by the way. He said I’d have to be patient, but here you are, after less than two days. You must have wanted these memories badly.”
The creature went on in similar vein, burbling at the back of Gentle’s head, but he was barely aware of it. He was concentrating on what to do now. This creature, whatever it was, had tricked its way into him—Open your head and heart, it had said, and he’d done just that, fool that he was: opened himself up to its possession—and now he had to find some way to be rid of it.
“There’s more where those came from, you know,” it was saying.
He’d temporarily lost track of its monologue and didn’t know what it was prattling about.
“More of what?” he said.
“More memories,” it replied. “You wanted the past, but you’ve only had a tiny part of a tiny part. The best’s still to come.”
“I don’t want it,” he said.
“Why not? It’s you, Maestro, in all your many skins. You should have what’s yours. Or are you afraid you’ll drown in what you’ve been?”
He didn’t answer. It knew damn well how much damage the past could do if it came over him too suddenly; he’d laid plans for that very eventuality as he’d come to the house.
Little Ease must have heard his pulse quicken, because it said, “I can see why it’d frighten you. There’s so much to be guilty for, isn’t there? Always, so much.”
He had to be out and away, he thought. Staying here, where the past was all too present, invited disaster.
“Where are you going?” Little Ease said as Gentle started towards the door.
“I’d like to get some sleep,” he said. An innocent enough request.
“You can sleep here,” his possessor replied.
“There’s no bed.”
“Then lie down on the floor. I’ll sing a lullaby.”
“And there’s nothing to eat or drink.”
“You don’t need sustenance right now,” came the reply.
“I’m hungry.”
“So fast for a while.”
Why was it so eager to keep him here? he wondered. Did it simply want to wear him down with sleeplessness and thirst before he even stepped outside? Or did its sphere of influence cease at the threshold? That hope leapt in him, but he tried not to let it show. He sensed that the creature, though it had spoken of entering his head and heart, did not have access to every thought in his cranium. If it did, it’d have no need of threats in order to keep him here. It would simply direct his limbs to be leaden and drop him to the ground. His intentions were still his own, even if the entity had his memories at its behest, and it followed therefore that he might get to the door, if he was quick, and be beyond its grasp before it opened the floodgates. In order to placate it until he was ready to make his move, he turned his back on the door.
“Then I suppose I stay,” he said.
“At least we’ve got each other for company,” Little Ease said. “Though let me make it clear, I draw the line at any carnal relations, however desperate you get. Please don’t take it personally. It’s just that I know your reputation, and I want to state here and now I have no interest in sex.”
“Will you never have children?”
“Oh, yes, but that’s different. I lay them in the heads of my enemies.”
“Is that a warning?” he asked.
“Not at all,” it replied. “I’m sure you could accommodate a family of us. It’s all One, after all. Isn’t that right?” It left off its voice for a moment and imitated him perfectly. “We’ll not be subsumed at our deaths, Roxborough, we’ll be increased to the size of Creation. Think of me as a little sign of that increase, and we’ll get along fine.”
“Until you murder me.”
“Why would I do that?”
“Because Sartori wants me dead.”
“You do him an injustice,” Little Ease said. “I’ve no brief as an assassin. All he wants me to do is keep you from your work until after midsummer. He doesn’t want you playing the Reconciler and letting his enemies into the Fifth. Who can blame him? He intends to build a New Yzordderrex here, to rule over the Fifth from pole to pole. Did you know that?”
“He did mention it.”
“And when that’s done, I’m sure he’ll embrace you as a brother.”
“But until then—”
“—I have his permission to do whatever I must to keep you from being a Reconciler. And if that means driving you insane with memories—”
“—then you will.”
“Must, Maestro, must. I’m a dutiful creature.”
Keep talking, Gentle thought, as it waxed poetic describing its powers of subservience. He wouldn’t make for the door, he’d decided. It was probably double- or treble-locked. Better that he went for the window by which he’d entered. He’d fling himself through if need be. If he broke a few bones in the process, it’d be a small price to pay for escape.
He glanced around casually, as if deciding where he was going to lay his head, never once allowing his eyes to stray to the front door. The room with the open window lay ten paces at most from where he stood. Once inside, there’d be another ten to reach the window. Little Ease, meanwhile, was lost in loops of its own humility. Now was as good a time as any.
He took a pace towards the bottom of the stairs as a feint, then changed direction and darted for the door. He’d made three paces before it even realized what he was up to.
“Don’t be so stupid!” it snapped.
He’d been conservative in his calculation, he realized. He’d be through the door in eight paces, not ten, and across the room in another six.
“I’m warning you,” it shrieked, then, realizing its appeals would gain it nothing, acted.
Within a pace of the door, Gentle felt something open in
his head. The crack through which he allowed the past to trickle suddenly gaped. In a pace the rivulet was a stream; in two, white waters; in three, a flood. He saw the window across the room, and the street outside, but his will to reach it was washed away in the deluge of the past.
He’d lived nineteen lives between his years as Sartori and his time as John Furie Zacharias, his unconscious programmed by Pie to ease him out of one life and into another in a fog of self-ignorance that only lifted when the deed was done, and he awoke in a strange city, with a name filched from a telephone book or a conversation. He’d left pain behind him, of course, wherever he’d gone. Though he’d always been careful to detach himself from his circle, and cover his tracks when he departed, his sudden disappearances had undoubtedly caused great grief to everyone who’d held him in their affections. The only one who’d escaped unscathed had been himself. Until now. Now all these lives were upon him at once, and the hurts he’d scrupulously avoided caught up with him. His head filled with fragments of his past, pieces of the nineteen unfinished stories that he’d left behind, all lived with the same infantile greed for sensation that had marked his existence as John FurieZacharias. In every one of these lives he’d had the comfort of adoration. He’d been loved and lionized: for his charm, for his profile, for his mystery. But that fact didn’t sweeten the flood of memories. Nor did it save him from the panic he felt as the little self he knew and understood was overwhelmed by the sheer profusion of details that arose from the other histories.
For two centuries he’d never had to ask the questions that vexed every other soul at some midnight or other: “Who am I? What was I made for, and what will I be when I die?”
Now he had too many answers, and that was more distressing than too few. He had a small tribe of selves, put on and off like masks. He had trivial purposes aplenty. But there had never been enough years held in his memory at one time to make him plumb the depths of regret or remorse, and he was the poorer for that. Nor, of course, had there been the imminence of death or the hard wisdom of mourning. Forgetfulness had always been on hand to smooth his frowns away, and it had left his spirit unproved.
Just as he’d feared, the assault of sights and scenes was too much to bear, and though he fought to hold on to some sense of the man he’d been when he’d entered the house, it was rapidly subsumed. Halfway between the door and the window his desire to escape, which had been rooted in the need to protect himself, went out of him. The determination fell from his face, as though it were just another mask. Nothing replaced it. He stood in the middle of the room like a stoic sentinel, with no flicker of his inner turmoil rising to disturb the placid symmetry of his face.
The night hours crawled on, marked by a bell in a distant steeple, but if he heard it he showed no sign. It wasn’t until the first light of day crept over Gamut Street, slipping through the window he’d been so desperate to reach, that the world outside his confounded head drew any response from him. He wept. Not for himself, but rather for the delicacy of this amber light falling in soft pools on the hard floor. Seeing it, he conceived the vague notion of stepping out into the street and looking for the source of this miracle, but there was somebody in his head, its voice stronger than the muck of confusion that swilled there, who wanted him to answer a question before it would allow him out to play. It was a simple enough inquiry.
“Who are you?” it wanted to know.
The answer was difficult. He had a lot of names in his head, and pieces of lives to go with them, but which one of them was his? He’d have to sort through many fragments to get a sense of himself, and that was too wretched a task on a day like this, when there were sunbeams at the window, inviting him out to spy their father in Heaven.
“Who are you?” the voice asked him again, and he was obliged to tell the simple truth.
“I don’t know.”
The questioner seemed content with this. “You may as well go, then,” it said. “But I’d like you to come back once in a while, just to see me. Will you do that?”
He said that of course he would, and the voice replied that he was free to go. His legs were stiff, and when he tried to walk he fell instead, and had to crawl to where the sun was brightening the boards. He played there for a time and then, feeling stronger, climbed out of the window into the street.
Had he possessed a cogent memory of the previous night’s pursuits he’d have realized, as he jumped down onto the pavement, that his guess concerning Sartori’s agent had been correct, and its jurisdiction did indeed halt at the limits of the house. But he comprehended not at all the fact of his escape. He’d entered number 28 the previous night as a man of purpose, the Reconciler of the Imajica come to confront the past and be strengthened by self-knowledge. He left it undone by that same knowledge and stood in the street like a bedlamite, staring up at the sun in ignorance of the fact that its arc marked the year’s progression to midsummer, and thus to the hour when the man of purpose he’d been had to act—or fail forever.
Nine
I
ALTHOUGH JUDE HAD NOT slept well after Clem’s visit (dreams of light bulbs, talking in a code of flickers she couldn’t crack), she woke early and had laid her plans for the day by eight. She’d drive up to Highgate, she decided, and try and find some way into the prison beneath the tower, where the only woman left in the Fifth who might help empower her languished. She knew more about Celestine now than she had when she’d first visited the tower on New Year’s Eve. Dowd had procured her for the Unbeheld, or so he claimed, plucking her from the streets of London and taking her to the borders of the First. That she’d survived such traumas at all was extraordinary. That she might be sane at the end of them, after divine violation and centuries of imprisonment, was almost certainly too much to hope for. But mad or not, Celestine was a much needed source of insight, and Jude was determined to dare whatever she had to in order to hear the woman speak.
The tower was so perfectly anonymous she drove past it before realizing that she’d done so. Doubling back, she parked in a side street and approached on foot. There were no vehicles in the forecourt and no sign of life at any of the windows, but she marched to the front door and rang the bell, hoping there might be a caretaker she could persuade to let her in. She’d use Oscar’s name as a reference, she decided. Though she knew this was playing with fire, there was no time for niceties. Whether Gentle’s ambitions as a Reconciler were realized or not, the days ahead would be charged with possibilities. Things sealed were cracking; things silent were drawing breath to speak.
The door remained closed, though she rang and rapped several times. Frustrated, she headed around the back of the building, the route more choked by barbs and stings than ever. The tower’s shadow chilled the ground where Clara had dropped and died, and the earth, which was badly drained, smelled of stagnancy. Until she walked here the thought of finding any fragments of the blue eye had not occurred to her, but perhaps it had been part of her unconscious agenda from the start. Finding no hope of access on this side of the building, she turned her attention to seeking the pieces. Though her recollections of what had happened here were strong, she couldn’t pinpoint with any accuracy the place where Dowd’s mites had devoured the stone, and she wandered around for fully an hour, searching through the long grass for some sign. Her patience was finally rewarded, however. Much farther from the tower than she’d ever have guessed, she found what the devourers had left. It was little more than a pebble,which anybody but herself would have passed over. But to her eyes its blue was unmistakable, and when she knelt to pick it up she was almost reverential. It looked like an egg, she thought, lying there in a nest of grass, waiting for the warmth of a body to kindle the life in it.
As she stood up she heard the sound of car doors slamming on the other side of the building. Keeping the stone in her hand she slipped back down the side of the tower. There were voices in the forecourt: men and women exchanging words of welcome. At the corner, she had a glimpse of them. Here they were, the Ta
bula Rasa. In her imagination she’d elevated them to the dubious status of Grand Inquisitors, austere and merciless judges whose cruelty would be gouged into their faces. There was perhaps one among this quartet—the eldest of the three men—who would not have looked absurd in robes, but the others had an insipidity about their features and a sloth in their bearing that would have made them bathetic in any garb but the most bland. None looked particularly happy with his lot. To judge by their leaden eyes, sleep had failed to befriend them lately. Nor could their expensive clothes (everything charcoal and black) conceal the lethargy in their limbs.
She waited at the corner until they’d disappeared through the front door, hoping the last had left it ajar. But it was once again locked, and this time she declined to knock. While she might have brazened or flattered her way past a caretaker, none of the quartet she’d seen would have spared her an inch. As she stepped away from the door another car turned off the road and glided into the forecourt. Its driver was a male, and the youngest of the arrivees. It was too late to dodge for cover, so she raised her hand in a cheery way and picked up her pace to a smart trot.
As she came abreast of the vehicle it halted. She kept on walking. Once past it, she heard the car door open and a fruity, overeducated voice said, “You there! What are you doing?”
She kept up her trot, resisting the temptation to run even though she heard his feet on the gravel, then another haughty holler as he came in pursuit. She ignored him until she was at the property line and he was within grasping distance of her. Then she turned, with a pretty smile, and said, “Did you call?”
“This is a private ground,” he replied.
“I’m sorry, I must have the wrong address. You’re not a gynecologist, are you?” Where this invention sprang from she didn’t know, but it colored his cheeks in two pulses. “I need to see a doctor as soon as possible.”
He shook his head, covered in confusion. “This isn’t the hospital,” he spluttered. “It’s halfway down the hill.”
Lord bless the English male, she thought, who could be reduced to near idiocy at the very mention of matters vaginal.
