by Clive Barker
“It may take a little time,” Oscar was saying. “But the images are there.”
“I see,” she said.
The Retreat had already appeared in the blur, its dome half hidden behind the screen of the copse. Its appearance was brief. The Tabula Rasa’s tower took its place a moment after, only to be superseded by a third building, quite different from the pair that had gone before, except that it too was half concealed by foliage, in this case a single tree planted in the pavement.
“What’s that house?” she asked Oscar.
“I don’t know, but it comes up over and over again. It’s somewhere in London, I’m certain of that.”
“How can you be sure?”
The building was unremarkable: three stories, flat-fronted, and, as far as she could judge, in a dilapidated state. It could have stood in any inner city in England or for that matter in Europe.
“London’s where the circle’s going to close,” Oscar replied. “It’s where everything began, and it’s where everything’ll end.”
The remark brought echoes: of Dowd at the wall on Pale Hill, talking about history coming around, and of Gentle and herself, mere hours before, devouring each other into perfection.
“There it is again,” Oscar said.
The image of the house had briefly flickered out but now reappeared, brightly lit. There was somebody near the step, she saw, with his arms hanging by his sides and his head back as he stared up at the sky. The resolution of the image was not good enough for her to make out his features. Perhaps he was just some anonymous sun worshiper, but she doubted it. Every detail of this parade had its significance. Now the image decayed again, and the noonday scene, with its gleaming foliage and its pristine sky, gave way to a roiling juggernaut of smoke, all black and gray.
“Here it comes,” she heard Oscar say.
There were forms in the smoke, rising, withering, and falling as ash, but their nature defied her interpretation. Scarcely aware of what she was doing, she took a step towards the bowl.
“Don’t, darling,” Oscar said.
“What are we seeing?” she asked, ignoring his caution.
“The power,” he said. “That’s what’s coming into the Fifth. Or already here.”
“But that’s not Sartori.”
“Sartori?” he said.
“The Autarch.”
Defying his own warning, he came to her side and again said, “Sartori? The Maestro?”
She didn’t look around at him. The juggernaut demanded her utter devotion. Much as she hated to admit it to herself, Oscar had been right, talking of immeasurable powers. This was no human agency at work. It was a force of stupendous scale, advancing over a landscape she’d first thought covered by a stubble of gray grass but which she now realized was a city, those frail stalks buildings, toppling as the power burned out their foundations and overturned them.
No wonder Oscar was trembling behind locked doors; this was a terrible sight, and one for which she was unprepared. However atrocious Sartori’s deeds, he was just a tyrant in a long and squalid history of tyrants, men whose fear of their own frailty made them monstrous. But this was a horror of another order entirely, beyond curing by politics or poisonings: a vast, unforgiving power, capable of sweeping all the Maestros and despots that had carved their names on the face of the world away without pausing to think about it. Had Sartori unleashed this immensity? she wondered. Was he so insane that he thought he could survive such devastation and build his New Yzordderrex on the rubble it left behind? Or was his lunacy profounder still? Was this juggernaut the true city of which he’d dreamed: a metropolis of storm and smoke that would stand to the World’s End because that was its true name?
Now the sight was consumed by total darkness, and she let go of the breath she’d been holding.
“It isn’t over,” Oscar said, his voice close to her ear.
The darkness began to shred in several places, and through the gashes she saw a single figure, lying on a gray floor. It was herself: a crude representation, but recognizable.
“I warned you,” Oscar said.
The darkness this image had appeared through didn’t entirely evaporate, but lingered like a fog, and out of it a second figure came and sank down beside her. She knew before the action had unraveled that Oscar had made an error, thinking this was a prophecy of harm. The shadow between her legs was no killer. It was Gentle, and this scene was here, in the bowl’s report, because the Reconciler stood as a sign of hope to set against the despair that had come before. She heard Oscar moan as the shadow lover reached for her, putting his hand between her legs, then raising her foot to his mouth to begin his devouring.
“It’s killing you,” Oscar said.
Watched remotely, this was a rational interpretation. But it wasn’t death, of course, it was love. And it wasn’t prophecy, it was history: the very act they’d performed the night before. Oscar was viewing it like a child, seeing its parents make love and thinking violence was being done in the marital bed. She was glad of his error, in a way, saving her as it did from the problem of explaining this coupling.
She and the Reconciler were quickly intertwined, the veils of darkness attending on the act and deepening their mingled shadows, so that the lovers became a single knot, which shrank and shrank and finally disappeared altogether, leaving the stones to rattle on as an abstraction.
It was a strangely intimate conclusion to the sequence. From temple, tower, and house to the storm had been a grim progression, but from the storm to this vision of love was altogether more optimistic: a sign, perhaps, that union could bring an end to the darkness that had gone before.
“That’s all there is,” Oscar said. “It just begins again from here. Round and round.”
She turned from the bowl as the din of stones, which had quieted as the love scene was sketched, became loud again.
“You see the danger you’re in?” he said.
“I think I’m just an afterthought,” she said, hoping to steer him away from an analysis of what had been depicted.
“Not to me you’re not,” he replied, putting his arms around her. For all his wounds, he was not a man to be resisted easily. “I want to protect you,” he said. “That’s my duty. I see that now. I know you’ve been mistreated, but I can make reparations for that. I can keep you here, safe and sound.”
“So you think we can hole up here and Armageddon will just pass over?”
“Have you got a better idea?”
“Yes. We resist it, at all costs.”
“There’s no victory to be had against the likes of that,” he said.
She could hear the stones’ thunder behind her and knew they were picturing the storm again.
“At least we’ve got some defenses here,” he went on. “I’ve got spirit guards at every door and every window. You saw those in the kitchen? They’re the tiniest.”
“All male, are they?”
“What’s that got to do with it?”
“They’re not going to protect you, Oscar.”
“They’re all we’ve got.”
“Maybe they’re all you’ve got—”
She slipped from his arms and headed for the door. He followed her out onto the landing, demanding to know what she meant by this, and finally, inflamed by his cowardice, she turned back to him.
“There’s been a power under your nose for years.”
“What power? Where?”
“Sealed up beneath Roxborough’s tower.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“You don’t know who she is?”
“No,” he said, angered now. “This is nonsense.”
“I’ve seen her, Oscar.”
“How? Nobody but the Tabula Rasa gets into the tower.”
“I could show her to you. Take you to the very place.”
She dropped her volume, studying Oscar’s anxious, ruddy features as she spoke. “I think maybe she’s some kind of Goddess. I’ve tried to get her o
ut twice and failed. I need help. I need your help.”
“It’s impossible,” he replied. “The tower’s a fortress, now more than ever. I tell you, this house is the only safe place left in the city. It would be suicide for me to step out of here.”
“Then that’s that,” she said, not about to debate with such timidity. She started down the stairs, ignoring his calls for her to wait.
“You can’t leave me,” he said, as though amazed. “I love you. Do you hear me? I love you.”
“There’s more important things than love,” she returned, thinking as she spoke that this was easy to say with Gentle awaiting her at home. But it was also true. She’d seen this city overturned and pitched into dust. Preventing that was indeed more important than love, especially Oscar’s spineless variety.
“Don’t forget to lock up after me,” she said as she reached the bottom of the stairs. “You never know what’s going to come knocking on the door.”
II
On the way home she stopped to buy groceries, which had never been her favorite chore but was today elevated into the realms of the surreal by the sense of foreboding she brought with her. Here she was going about the business of purchasing domestic necessities, while the image of the killing cloud turned in her head. But life had to go on, even if oblivion waited in the wings. She needed milk, bread, and toilet paper; she needed deodorant and waste bags to line the bin in the kitchen. It was only in fiction that the daily round of living was ignored so that grand events could take center stage. Her body would hunger, tire, sweat, and digest until the final pall descended. There was peculiar comfort in this thought, and though the darkness gathering at the threshold of her world should have distracted her from trivialities, its presence had precisely the reverse effect. She was more pernickety than usual about the cheese she bought and sniffed at half a dozen deodorants before she found a scent that pleased her.
The shopping done, she headed home through streets buzzing with the business of a sunlit day, contemplating the problem of Celestine as she went. With Oscar plainly unwilling to aid her, she would have to look for help elsewhere, and with her circle of trusted souls so shrunk, that only left Clem and Gentle. The Reconciler had his own agenda, of course, but after the promises of the night before—the commitments to be with each other, sharing the fears and the visions—he’d surely understand her need to liberate Celestine, if only to put an end to the mystery. She would tell him all she knew about Roxborough’s prisoner, she decided, as soon as possible.
He wasn’t home when she got back, which was no surprise. He’d warned her that he’d be keeping odd hours as he laid the groundwork for the Reconciliation. She prepared some lunch, then decided she hadn’t got an appetite and went to work one up by tidying the bedroom, which was still chaos after the night’s traffic. As she straightened the sheets she discovered they had a tiny occupant: the blue stone (or, as she preferred to think of it, the egg), which had been in one of the pockets of her ravaged clothes. The sight of it diverted her from her bed making, and she sat on the edge of the mattress, passing the egg from hand to hand, wondering if perhaps it could deliver her, even briefly, into the cell where Celestine was locked. It had of course been much reduced by Dowd’s mites, but even when she’d first discovered it in Estabrook’s safe it had been a fragment of a greater form and possessed some jurisdiction. Did it still?
“Show me the Goddess,” she said, clutching the egg tight. “Show me the Goddess.”
Spoken plainly that way, the notion of her mind’s removal from the physical world, and its flight, seemed absurd. That wasn’t the way the world worked, except perhaps at enchanted midnights. Now it was the middle of the afternoon, and the noise of day rose through the open window. She was loath to go and close it, however. She couldn’t exile the world every time she wanted to alter her consciousness. The street and the people in it—the dirt and the din and the summer sky—all had to be made part of the mechanism for transcendence, or else she’d come to grief the way her sister had, bound up and blind long before her eyes went from her head.
As was her wont, she began to talk to herself, coaxing the miracle. “It’s happened before,” she said. “It can happen again. Be patient, woman.”
But the longer she sat, the stronger the sense of her own ludicrousness became. The image of her idiot devotion appeared in her mind’s eye. There she was, sitting on the bed, staring at a piece of dead stone: a study in fatuity.
“Fool,” she said to herself.
Suddenly weary of the whole fiasco, she got up from the bed. In that rising she realized her error. Her mind’s eye showed her the motion as if it is was detached from her, hovering near the window. She felt a sudden pang of panic and for the second time in the space of thirty seconds called herself fool, not for wasting time with the egg but for failing to realize that the image she’d taken as evidence of her own failure, that of herself sitting waiting for something to happen, was in fact proof that it had. Her sight had drifted from her so subtly she’d not even known it had gone.
“The cell,” she said, instructing her subtle eye. “Show me the Goddess’s cell.”
Though it was close to the window, and could have flown from there, her eye instead rose at a sickening speed, till she was looking down at herself from the ceiling. She saw her body rock below her, as the flight giddied her. Then her sight descended. The top of her head loomed like a planet beneath her, and she was plunged into her skull, down, down into the darkness of her body. She felt her own panic on all sides: the frantic labor of her heart, her lungs drawing shallow breaths. There was none of the brightness she’d found in Celestine’s body, no hint of that luminous blue the Goddess had shared with the stone. There was only the dark and its turmoil. She wanted to make the egg understand its mistake and draw her mind’s eye up out of this pit, but if her lips were making such pleas, which she doubted, they were ignored, and her fall went on, and on, as though her sight had become a fly speck in a well and would fall for hours without reaching its bowels.
And then, below her, a tiny point of light, which grew as she approached, to show itself not a point but a strip of rippling luminescence, like the purest glyph imaginable. What was this doing inside her? Was it some relic of the working that had created her, a fragment of Sartori’s feit, like Gentle’s signature hidden in the brushwork of his forged canvases? She was upon it now, or rather in it, its brightness a blaze that made her mind’s eye squint.
And out of the blaze, images. Such images! She knew neither their origins nor their purpose, but they were exquisite enough to make her forgive the misdirection that had led her here rather than to Celestine. She seemed to be in a paradisiacal city, half overgrown with glorious flora, the profusion of which was fed by waters that rose like arches and colonnades on every side. Flocks of stars flew overhead and made perfect circles at her zenith; mists hung at her ankles, laying their veils beneath her feet to ease her step. She passed through this city like a hallowed daughter and came to rest in a large airy room, where water cascaded in place of doors, and the merest stab of sun brought rainbows. There she sat and with these borrowed eyes saw her own face and breasts, so vast they might have been sculpted for a temple, raised above her. Did milk seep from her nipples, and did she sing a lullaby? She thought so; but her attention strayed too quickly from breasts and face to be sure, her gaze turned towards thefar end of the chamber. Somebody had entered: a man, so wounded and ill-mended she didn’t recognize him at first. It was only when he was almost upon her that she realized the company she kept. It was Gentle, unshaven and badly fed, but greeting her with tears of joy in his eyes. If words were exchanged she didn’t hear them, but he fell to his knees in front of her, and her gaze went between his upturned face and the monumental effigy behind her. It was not, after all, a thing of painted stone, but was in this vision made of living flesh, moving, weeping, even glancing down at the worshiper she was.
All this was strange enough, but there was stranger still to come,
as she looked back towards Gentle and saw him pluck from a hand too tiny to be hers the very stone that had given her this dream. He took it with gratitude, his tears finally abating. Then he rose, and as he made his way back towards the liquid door, the day beyond it blazed, and the scene was washed away in light.
She sensed that the enigma, whatever it signified, was passing away, but she had no power to hold it. The glyph in her core appeared before her, and she rose from it like a diver from some treasure the deep would not relinquish, up through the dark and out into the place she’d left.
Nothing had changed in the room, but a sudden squall was on the world outside, its torrent heavy enough to drop a sheet of water between the raised window and the sill. She stood up, clutching the stone. The journey had left her light-headed, however, and she knew if she tried to go to the kitchen and put some food in her belly her legs would fold up beneath her, so she lay down and let the pillow have her head awhile.
III
She didn’t think she slept, but it was as difficult to distinguish between sleep and wakefulness as it had been in Quaisoir’s bed. The visions she’d seen in the darkness of her own belly were as insistent as some prophetic dream and stayed with her, the music of the rain a perfect accompaniment to the memory. It was only when the clouds moved on, taking their deluge south, and the sun appeared between the sodden curtains, that sleep overcame her.
When she woke, it was to the sound of Gentle’s key in the lock. It was night, or close to it, and he switched on the light in the adjacent room. She sat up and was about to call to him when she thought better of it and, instead, watched through the partially open door. She saw his face for only an instant, but the glimpse was enough to make her want him to come in to her with kisses. He didn’t. Instead, he paced back and forth next door, massaging his hands as though they ached, working first at the fingers, then at the palms.
