Imajica

by Clive Barker

  He reached down and snatched the shroud off the corpse closest to him. The face beneath was that of a pretty woman. Her open eyes were glazed. So was her face: painted and glazed. Carved, painted, and glazed. He tugged the sheet farther back, hearing Athanasius’ hard, humorless laugh as he did so. The woman had a painted child perched in the crook of her arm. There was a gilded halo around its head, and its tiny hand was raised in benediction.

  “She may lie very still,” Athanasius said. “But don’t be deceived. She’s not dead.”

  Gentle went to another of the bodies and drew back its covering. Beneath lay a second Madonna, this one more baroque than the first, its eyes turned up in a beatific swoon. He let the shroud drop from between his fingers.

  “Feeling weak, Maestro?” Athanasius said. “You conceal your fear very well, but you don’t deceive me.”

  Gentle looked around the room again. There were at least thirty bodies laid out here. “Are all of them Madonnas?” he said.

  Reading Gentle’s bewilderment as anxiety, Athanasius said, “Now I begin to see the fear. This ground is sacred to the Goddess.”

  “Why?”

  “Because tradition says a great crime was committed against Her sex near this spot. A woman from the Fifth Dominion was raped hereabouts, and the spirit of the Holy Mother calls sacred any ground thus marked.” He went down on his haunches and uncovered another of the statues, touching it reverentially. “She’s with us here,” he said. “In every statue. In every stone. In every gust of wind. She blesses us, because we dare to come so close to Her enemy’s Dominion.”

  “What enemy?”

  “Are you not allowed to utter his name without dropping to your knees?” Athanasius said. “Hapexamendios. Your Lord, the Unbeheld. You can confess it. Why not? You know my secret now, and I know yours. We’re transparent to each other. I do have one question, however, before you leave.”

  “What’s that?”

  “How did you find out we worship the Goddess? Was it Floccus who told you or Nikaetomaas?”

  “Nobody. I didn’t know and I don’t much care.” He started to walk towards the man. “I’m not afraid of your Virgins, Athanasius.”

  He chose one nearby and unveiled her, from starry crown to cloud-treading toe. Her hands were clasped in prayer. Stooping, just as Athanasius had, Gentle put his hand over the statue’s knitted fingers.

  “For what it’s worth,” he said, “I think they’re beautiful. I was an artist once myself.”

  “You’re strong, Maestro, I’ll say that for you. I expected you to be brought to your knees by Our Lady.”

  “First I’m supposed to kneel for Hapexamendios; now for the Virgin.”

  “One in fealty, one in fear.”

  “I’m sorry to disappoint you, but my legs are my own. I’ll kneel when I choose to. If I choose to.”

  Athanasius looked puzzled. “I think you half believe that,” he said.

  “Damn right I do. I don’t know what kind of conspiracy you think I’m guilty of, but I swear there’s none.”

  “Maybe you’re more His instrument than I thought,” Athanasius said. “Maybe you’re ignorant of His purpose.”

  “Oh, no,” Gentle said. “I know what work I’m meant to do, and I see no reason to be ashamed of it. If I can reconcile the Fifth I will. I want the Imajica whole, and I’d have thought you would too. You can visit the Vatican. You’ll find it’s full of Madonnas.”

  As though inspired to fury by his words, the wind beat at the walls with fresh venom, a gust finding its way into the chamber, raising several of the lighter shrouds into the air and extinguishing one of the lamps.

  “He won’t save you,” Athanasius said, clearly believing this wind had come to carry Gentle away. “Nor will your ignorance, if that’s what’s kept you from harm.”

  He looked back towards the bodies he’d been studying as Floccus departed.

  “Lady, forgive us,” he said, “for doing this in your sight.”

  The words were a signal, it seemed. Four of the figures moved as he spoke, sitting up and pulling the shrouds from their heads. No Madonnas these. They were men and women of the Dearth, carrying blades like crescent moons. Athanasius looked back at Gentle.

  “Will you accept the blessing of Our Lady before you die?” he said.

  Somebody had already begun a prayer behind him, Gentle heard, and he glanced around to see that there were another three assassins there, two of them armed in the same lunatic fashion, the third—a girl no more than Huzzah’s age, bare-breasted, doe-faced—darting between the rows uncovering statues as she went. No two were alike. There were Virgins of stone, Virgins of wood, Virgins of plaster. There were Virgins so crudely carved they were barely recognizable, and others so finely hewn and finished they looked ready to draw breath. Though minutes before, Gentle had laid his hand on one of this number without harm, the spectacle faintly sickened him. Did Athanasius know something about the condition of Maestros that he, Gentle, didn’t? Might he somehow be subjugated by this image, the way in an earlier life he’d been enthralled by the sight of a woman naked, or promising nakedness?

  Whatever mystery was here, he wasn’t about to let Athanasius murder him while he puzzled it out. He drew breath and put his hand to his mouth as Athanasius drew a weapon of his own and started towards him at speed. The breath proved faster than the blade. Gentle unleashed the pneuma, not at Athanasius directly, but at the ground in front of him. The stones it struck flew into pieces, and Athanasius fell back as the fusillade hit him. He dropped his knife and clamped his hands to his face, yelling as much in rage as in pain. If there was a command in his clamor the assassins missed or ignored it. They kept a respectful distance from Gentle as he walked towards their wounded leader, through an air still gray with motes of pulverized stone. Athanasius was lying on his side, propped on his elbow. Gentle went down on his haunches beside the man and carefully drew Athanasius’ hands from his face. There was a deep cut beneath his left eye, and another above his right. Both were bleeding copiously, as werea score of littler cuts. None of them, however, would be calamitous for a man who wore wounds the way others wore jewelry. They would heal and add to his sum of scars.

  “Call your assassins off, Athanasius,” Gentle told him. “I didn’t come here to hurt anybody, but if you press me to it I’ll kill every last one of them. Do you understand me?” He put his arm beneath the man and hauled him to his feet. “Now call them off.”

  Athanasius shrugged himself free of Gentle’s hold and scanned his cohorts through a drizzle of blood.

  “Let him pass,” he said. “There’ll be another time.”

  The assassins between Gentle and the door parted, though none of them lowered or sheathed their weapons. Gentle stood up and left Athanasius’ side, pausing only to offer one final observation.

  “I wouldn’t want to kill the man who married me to Pie ‘oh’ pah,” he said, “so before you come after me again, examine the evidence against me, whatever it is. And search your heart. I’m not your enemy. All I want to do is to heal Imajica. Isn’t that what your Goddess wants too?”

  If Athanasius had wanted to respond, he was too slow. Before he could open his mouth a cry rose from somewhere outside, and a moment later another, then another, then a dozen: all howls of pain and panic, twisted into eardrum-bruising screeches by the gusts that carried them. Gentle turned back to the door, but the wind had hold of the entire chamber, and even as he made to depart, one of the walls rose as if a titanic hand had seized hold of it and lifted it up into the air. The wind, bearing its freight of screams, rushed in, flinging the lamps over, their fuel spilled as they rolled before it. Caught by the very flames it had fed, the oil burst into bright yellow balls, by which light Gentle saw scenes of chaos on all sides. The assassins were being thrown over like the lamps, unable to withstand the power of the wind. One he saw impaled on her own blade. Another was carried into the oil and was instantly consumed by flame.

  “What have you su
mmoned?” Athanasius yelled.

  “This isn’t my doing,” Gentle replied.

  Athanasius screeched some further accusation, but it was snatched from his lips as the rampage escalated. Another of the chamber’s walls was summarily snatched away, its tatters rising into the air like a curtain to unveil a scene of catastrophe. The storm was at work throughout the length of the tents, disemboweling the glorious and scarlet beast Gentle had entered with such awe. Wall after wall was shredded or wrenched from the ground, the ropes and pegs that had held them lethal as they flew. And visible beyond the turmoil, its cause: the once featureless wall of the Erasure, featureless no longer. It roiled the way the sky Gentle had seen beneath the Pivot had roiled, a maelstrom whose place of origin seemed to be a hole torn in the Erasure’s fabric. The sight gave substance to Athanasius’ charges. Threatened by assassins and Madonnas, had Gentle unwittingly summoned some entity out of the First Dominion to protect him? If so, he had to find it and subdue it before he had more innocent livesto add to the roster of those who’d perished because of him.

  With his eyes fixed on the tear, he vacated the chamber and headed towards the Erasure. The route between was the storm’s highway. It carried the detritus of its deeds back and forth, returning to places it had already destroyed in its first assault to pick up the survivors and pitch them into the air like sacks of bloody down, tearing them open up above. There was a red rain in the gusts, which spattered Gentle as he went, yet the same authority that was condemning men and women all around left him untouched. It could not so much as knock him off his feet. The reason? His breath, which Pie had once called the source of all magic. Its cloak clung to him as it had before, apparently protecting him from the tumult, and, though it didn’t impede his steps, it lent him a mass beyond that of flesh and bone.

  With half the distance covered, he glanced back to see if there was any sign of life among the Madonnas. The place was easy to find, even amid this carnage; the fire burned with a wind-fed fervor, and through air thickened by blood and shards Gentle saw that several of the statues had been raised from their stony beds and now formed a circle in which Athanasius and several of his followers were taking shelter. They’d offer little defense against this havoc, he thought, but several other survivors could be seen crawling towards the place, eyes fixed on the Holy Mothers.

  Gentle turned his back on the sight and strode on towards the Erasure, catching sight of another soul here weighty enough to resist the assault: a man in robes the color of the shredded tents, sitting cross-legged on the ground no more than twenty yards from the fury’s source. His head was hooded, his face turned towards the maelstrom. Was this monkish creature the force he’d summoned? Gentle wondered. If not, how was this fellow surviving so close to the engine of destruction?

  He started to yell to the man as he approached, by no means certain that his voice would carry in the din of wind and screams. But the monk heard. He looked round at Gentle, the hood half eclipsing his face. There was nothing untoward about his placid features. His face was in need of a shave; his nose, which had been broken at some time, in need of resetting; his eyes in need of nothing. They had all they wanted, it seemed, seeing the Maestro approach. A broad grin broke over the monk’s face, and he instantly rose to his feet, bowing his head.

  “Maestro,” he said. “You do me honor.” His voice wasn’t raised, but it carried through the commotion. “Have you seen the mystif yet?”

  “The mystif’s gone,” Gentle said. He didn’t need to yell, he realized. His voice, like his limbs, carried an unnatural weight here.

  “Yes, I saw it go,” the monk replied. “But it’s come back, Maestro. It broke through the Erasure, and the storm came after it.”

  “Where? Where?” Gentle said, turning full circle. “I don’t see it!” He looked accusingly at the man. “It would have found me if it was here,” he said.

  “Trust me, it’s trying,” the man replied. He pulled back his hood. His gingery curls were thinning, but there was the vestige of a chorister’s charm there. “It’s very close, Maestro.”

  Now it was he who stared into the storm: not to left and right, however, but up into the labyrinthine air. Gentle followed his gaze. There were swaths of tattered canvas on the wind high above them, rising and falling like vast wounded birds. There were pieces of furniture, shredded clothes, and fragments of flesh. And in among these clouds of dross, a darting form darker than either sky or storm, descending even as he set his eyes upon it. The monk drew closer to Gentle.

  “That’s the mystif,” he said. “May I protect you, Maestro?”

  “It’s my friend,” Gentle said. “I don’t need protecting.”

  “I think you do,” the other replied, and raised his arms above his head, palms out as if to deflect the approaching spirit.

  It slowed at the sight of this gesture, and Gentle had time to see the form above him plainly. It was indeed the mystif, or its remains. Either by stealth or sheer force of will it had breached the Erasure. But its escape had brought it no comfort whatsoever. The uredo burned more venomously than ever, almost entirely consuming the shadow body it had fixed upon and poisoned; and from the sufferer’s mouth, a howl that could not have been more pained had its guts been drawn out of its belly in front of its eyes.

  It had come to a complete halt now and hovered above the two men like a diver arrested in mid-descent, arms outstretched, head, or its traces, thrown back.

  “Pie?” Gentle said. “Have you done this?”

  The howl went on. If there were words in its anguish, Gentle couldn’t make them out.

  “I have to speak to it,” Gentle said to his protector. “If you’re causing it pain, for God’s sake stop.”

  “It came out of the margin howling like this,” the man said.

  “At least drop your defenses.”

  “It’ll attack us.”

  “I’ll take that risk,” he replied.

  The man let his shunning hands fall to his side. The form above them twisted and turned but did not descend. Another force had a claim upon it, Gentle realized. It was thrashing to resist a summons from the Erasure, which was calling it back into the place from which it had escaped.

  “Can you hear me, Pie?” Gentle asked it.

  The howl went on, unabated.

  “If you can speak, do it!”

  “It’s already speaking,” the monk said.

  “I only hear howls,” Gentle said.

  “Past the howls,” came the reply, “there are words.”

  Drops of fluid fell from the mystif’s wounds as its struggles to resist the Erasure’s power intensified. They stank of putrescence and burned Gentle’s upturned face, but their sting brought comprehension of the words encoded in Pie’s screeches.

  “Undone,” the mystif was saying. “We’re . . . undone. . . .”

  “Why did you do this?” Gentle asked.

  “It wasn’t . . . me. The storm was sent to claim me back.”

  “Out of the First?”

  “It’s . . . His will,” Pie said. “His . . . will. . . .”

  Though the tortured form above him resembled the creature he’d loved and wed scarcely at all, Gentle could still hear fragments of Pie ‘oh’ pah in these replies and, hearing them, wanted to raise his own voice in anguish at the thought of Pie’s pain. The mystif had gone into the First to end its suffering; but here it was, suffering still, and he was powerless to help it or heal it. All he could do by way of comfort was tell it that he understood, which he did. Its message was perfectly clear. In the trauma of their parting Pie had sensed some equivocation in him. But there was none, and he said so.

  “I know what I have to do,” he told the sufferer. “Trust me, Pie. I understand. I’m the Reconciler. I’m not going to run from that.”

  At this, the mystif writhed like a fish on a hook, no longer able to keep itself from being hauled in by the fisherman in the First. It started to scrabble at the air, as if it might gain another moment in thi
s Dominion by catching hold of a mote. But the power that had sent such furies in pursuit of it had too strong a hold, and the spirit was drawn back towards the Erasure. Instinctively Gentle reached up towards it, hearing and ignoring a cry of alarm from the man at his side. The mystif reached for his hand, extending its shadowy substance to do so, and curling grotesquely long fingers around Gentle’s. The contact sent such a convulsion through his system he would have been thrown to the ground but that his protector took hold of him. As it was his marrow seemed to burn in his bones, and he smelled the stench of rot off his skin, as though death were coming upon him inside and out. It was hard, in that agony, to hold on to the mystif, much less to the words it was trying to say. But he fought the urgeto let go, struggling for the sense of the few syllables he was able to grasp. Three of them were his name.

  “Sartori . . .”

  “I’m here, Pie,” Gentle said, thinking perhaps the thing was blinded now. “I’m still here.”

  But the mystif wasn’t naming its Maestro.

  “The other,” it said. “The other . . .”

  “What about him?”

  “He knows,” Pie murmured. “Find him, Gentle. He knows.”

  With this command, their fingers separated. The mystif reached to take hold of Gentle again, but with its frail hold lost it was prey to the Erasure and was instantly snatched towards the tear through which it had appeared. Gentle started after it, but his limbs had been more severely traumatized by the convulsion than he’d thought, and his legs simply folded up beneath him. He fell heavily, but raised his head in time to catch sight of the mystif disappearing into the void. Sprawled on the hard ground, he remembered his first pursuit of Pie, through the empty, icy streets of Manhattan. He’d fallen then, too, and looked up as he did now to see the riddle escaping him, unsolved. But it had turned that first time; turned and spoken to him across the river of Fifth Avenue, offering him the hope, however frail, of another meeting. Not so now. It went into the Erasure like smoke through a drafty door, its cry stopping dead.