Imajica

by Clive Barker

  “We don’t have to be enemies.”

  “Didn’t I say the very same thing in Yzordderrex? And didn’t you try and murder me?”

  “I had good reason.”

  “Name one.”

  “You destroyed the first Reconciliation.”

  “It wasn’t the first. There’ve been three other attempts to my certain knowledge.”

  “It was my first. My Great Work. And you destroyed it.”

  “Who did you hear that from?”

  “From Lucius Cobbitt,” Gentle replied.

  There was a silence then, and in it Gentle thought he heard the darkness move, a sound like silk on silk. But his head was never quite silent these days, and before he could clear a path through the whispers Sartori had recovered his equilibrium.

  “So Lucius is alive,” he said.

  “Just in memory. In Gamut Street.”

  “That fuckhead Little Ease let you have quite an education, didn’t he? I’ll have his guts.” He sighed. “I miss Rosengarten, you know. He was so very loyal. And Racidio and Mattalaus. I had some good people in Yzordderrex. People I could trust; people who loved me. It’s the face, I think; it inspires devotion. You must have noticed that. Is it the divine in you, or is it just the way we smile? I resist the notion that one’s a symptom of the other. Hunchbacks can be saints and beauties perfect monsters. Haven’t you found that?”

  “Certainly.”

  “You see how much we agree? We sit here in the dark, and we talk like friends. I truly think if we never again stepped out into the light we could learn to love each other, after a time.”

  “That can’t happen.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I’ve work to do, and I won’t let you delay me.”

  “You did terrible harm last time, Maestro. Remember that. Put it in your mind’s eye. Remember how it looked, seeing the In Ovo spilling out. . . .”

  By the sound of Sartori’s voice, Gentle guessed that the man had risen to his feet. But again it was difficult to be certain, when the darkness was so profound. He stood up himself, his chair tipping over behind him.

  “The In Ovo’s a filthy place,” Sartori was saying. “And believe me, I don’t want it dirtying up this Dominion. But I’m afraid that may be inevitable.”

  Now Gentle was certain there was some duplicity here. Sartori’s voice no longer had a single source but was being subtly disseminated throughout the room, as though he was seeping into the darkness.

  “If you leave this room, brother—if you leave me alone—there’ll be such horror unleashed on the Fifth.”

  “I won’t make any errors this time.”

  “Who’s talking about error?” Sartori said. “I’m talking about what I’ll do for righteousness’ sake, if you desert me.”

  “So come with me.”

  “What for? To be your disciple? Listen to what you’re saying! I’ve got as much right to be called Messiah as you. Why should I be a piddling acolyte? Do me the courtesy of understanding that, at least.”

  “So do I have to kill you?”

  “You can try.”

  “I’m ready to do it, brother, if you force me.”

  “So am I. So am I.”

  There was no purpose in further debate, Gentle thought. If he was going to kill the man, as it seemed he must, he wanted to do it swiftly and cleanly. But he needed light for the deed. He moved towards the door, intending to open it, but as he did so something touched his face. He put his hand up to snatch it away, but it had already gone, flitting towards the ceiling. What defense was this? He’d sensed no living thing when he’d entered the room, other than Sartori. The darkness had been inert. Either it had now taken on some illusory life as an extension of Sartori’s will, or else his other had used the darkness as a cover for some summoning. But what? There’d been no evocations spoken, no hint of a feit. If he’d managed to call up some defender, it was flimsy and witless. He heard it flapping against the ceiling like a blinded bird.

  “I thought we were alone,” he said.

  “Our last conversation needs witnesses, or how would the world know I gave you a chance to save it?”

  “Biographers, now?”

  “Not exactly. . . .”

  “What then?” Gentle said, his outstretched hand reaching the wall and sliding along it towards the door. “Why don’t you show me?” he said, his palm closing around the handle. “Or are you too ashamed?”

  With this, he pulled not one but both doors open. The phenomenon that followed was more startling than dire. The meager light in the passageway outside was drawn into the room in a rush, as though it were milk, sucked from day’s teat to feed what waited inside. It flew past him, dividing as it went, going to a dozen places around the room, high and low. Then the handles were snatched from Gentle’s grip, and the doors slammed.

  He turned back to face the room and as he did so heard the table being thrown over. Some of the light had been drawn to what lay beneath. There was Godolphin, gutted, his entrails splayed around him, his kidneys laid on his eyes, his heart at his groin. And skittering around his body, some of the entities this arrangement had called forth, carrying fragments of the light stolen through the door. None of them made much sense to Gentle’s eye. They had no limbs recognizable as such, nor any trace of features, nor, in most cases, heads upon which features might have sat. They were scraps of nonsense, some strung together like the cloggings of a drain, and mindlessly busy, others lying like bloated fruit, splitting and splitting and showing themselves seedless.

  Gentle looked towards Sartori. He hadn’t taken any light for himself, but a loop of wormy life hung over his head and cast its baleful brightness down.

  “What have you done?” Gentle asked him.

  “There are workings a Reconciler would never stoop to know. This is one. These beasts are Oviates. Peripeteria. You can’t raise the weightier beasts with a corpse that’s cold. But these things know how to be compliant, and that’s all either you or I have ever really asked for from our abettors, isn’t it? Or our loved ones, come to that.”

  “Well, you’ve shown me them now,” Gentle said. “You can send them home.”

  “Oh, no, brother. I want you to know what they can do. They’re the least of the least, but they’ve got some maddening tricks.”

  Sartori glanced up, and the loop of wretchedness above him went from its cherished place, moving towards Gentle, then to the ground, its target not the living but the dead. It was around Godolphin’s neck in moments, while in the air above it an alliance of its fellows formed, congealing into a peristaltic cloud. The loop tightened like a noose and rose, hauling Godolphin up. The kidneys fell from his eyes; they were open beneath. The heart dropped from his groin; there was a wound where his manhood had been. Then the remaining innards spilled from his carcass, preserved in a jelly of cold blood. The peripeteria overhead offered themselves as a gallows for the ascending noose and, having it in their midst, rose again, so that the dead man’s feet were pulled clear off the ground.

  “This is obscene, Sartori,” Gentle said. “Stop it.”

  “It’s not very pretty, is it? But think, brother, think what an army of them could do. You couldn’t even heal this single little horror, never mind this a thousandfold.” He paused, then said, with genuine inquiry in his voice, “Or could you? Could you raise poor Oscar? From the dead, I mean. Could you do that?”

  He left his place at the other end of the room and moved towards Gentle, the look on his face, lit by the gallows, one of exhilaration at this possibility. “If you could do that,” he said, “I swear I’d be your perfect disciple. I would.”

  He was past the hanged man now and coming within a yard or two of Gentle. “I swear,” he said again.

  “Let him down.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it’s pointless and pathetic.”

  “Maybe that’s what I am,” Sartori said. “Maybe that’s what I’ve been from the beginning, and I never had the wi
t to realize it.”

  This was a new tack, Gentle thought. Five minutes before the man had been demanding due respect as an aspirant Messiah; now he was wallowing in self-abnegation.

  “I’ve had so many dreams, brother. Oh, the cities I’ve imagined! The empires! But I could never quite remove the niggling doubt, you know? The worm at the back of the skull that keeps saying, It’ll come to nothing, it’ll come to nothing. And you know what? The worm was right. All I ever attempted was doomed from the beginning, because of what we are to each other.”

  Tragic, Clem had said, describing the look on Sartori’s face as he’d fled the cellar. And perhaps in his way he was. But what had he learned, that had brought him so low? It had to be goaded out of him, now or never.

  “I saw your empire,” Gentle replied. “It didn’t fall apart because there was some judgment on it. You built it out of shit. That’s why it collapsed.”

  “But don’t you see? That was the judgment. I was the architect, and I was also the judge who found it unworthy. I was set against myself from the beginning, and I never realized it.”

  “But you realize it now?”

  “It couldn’t be plainer.”

  “Why? Do you see yourself in this filth? Is that it?”

  “No, brother,” Sartori said. “It’s when I look at you—”

  “At me?”

  Sartori stared at him, tears beginning to fill his eyes. “She thought I was you,” he murmured.

  “Judith?”

  “Celestine. She didn’t know there were two of us. How could she? So when she saw me she was pleased. At first, anyway.”

  There was a weight of pain in his speech Gentle hadn’t anticipated, and it was no pretense. Sartori was suffering like a damned man.

  “Then she smelled me,” he went on. “She said I stank of evil, and I disgusted her.”

  “Why should you care?” Gentle said. “You wanted to kill her anyway.”

  “No,” he protested. “That wasn’t what I wanted at all. I wouldn’t have laid a finger on her if she hadn’t attacked me.”

  “You’re suddenly very loving.”

  “Of course.”

  “I don’t see why.”

  “Didn’t you say we were brothers?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then she’s my mother too. Don’t I have some right to be loved by her?”

  “Mother?”

  “Yes. Mother. She’s your mother, Gentle. She was raped by the Unbeheld, and you’re the consequence.”

  Gentle was too shocked to reply. His mind was gathering puzzles from far and wide—all of them solved by this revelation—and the solving filled him to brimming.

  Sartori wiped his face with the heels of his hands. “I was born to be the Devil, brother,” he said. “Hell to your Heaven. Do you see? Every plan I ever laid, every ambition I ever had, is a mockery, because the part of me that’s you wants love and glory and great works, and the part of me that’s our Father knows it’s shite and brings it down. I’m my own destroyer, brother. All I can do is live with destruction, until the end of the world.”

  II

  In the foyer six stories below, Celestine’s rescuers had, after much coaxing, persuaded the woman out of the labyrinth and into the light. Weak though she’d been when Clem had entered her cell, she’d resisted his consolations for a good while, telling him that she wanted no part of them. She preferred to remain underground, she said, and perish there.

  His experience on the streets had given him a way with such recalcitrance. He didn’t argue with her, nor did he leave. He bided his time at the threshold, telling her she was probably right; there was nothing to be gained from seeing the sun.

  After a while she balked at this, telling him that wasn’t her opinion at all and if he had any decency about him he’d give her some comfort in her distress. Did he want her to die like an animal, she said, locked away in the dark? He then allowed that the fault was his, and if she wanted to be taken up into the outside world, he’d do what he could.

  With his tactic successful, he sent Monday off to bring Jude’s car to the front of the tower and began the business of getting Celestine out. There was a delicate moment at the door of the cell when the woman, setting eyes on Jude, almost recanted her desire to leave, saying she wanted no truck with this tainted creature. Jude kept her silence, and Clem, tact personified, sent her up to fetch blankets from the car while he escorted Celestine to the stairs. It was a slow business, and several times she asked him to stop, holding on to him fiercely and telling him that she wasn’t trembling because she was afraid, but because her body was unused to such freedom, and that if anybody, particularly the tainted woman, was to remark on these tremors, he was to hush them.

  Thus, clinging to Clem one moment, then demanding he not lean on her the next, slowing at times, then rising up with preternatural strength in her sinews the instant after, Roxborough’s captive quit her prison after two centuries of incarceration, and went up to meet the day.

  But the tower’s sum of surprises, whether above or below, was not yet exhausted. As Clem escorted her across the foyer, he stopped, his eyes on the door ahead, or rather on the sunlight that poured through it. It was laden with motes: pollen and seeds from the trees and plants outside; dust from the road beyond. Though there was scarcely a breeze outside, they were in lively motion.

  “We’ve got a visitor,” he remarked.

  “Here?” Jude said.

  “Up ahead.”

  She looked at the light. Though she could see nothing that resembled a human form in it, the particles were not moving arbitrarily. There was some organizing principle among them, and Clem, it seemed, knew its name.

  “Taylor,” he said, his voice thick with feeling. “Taylor’s here.”

  He glanced across at Monday, who without being told stepped in to take Celestine’s weight. The woman had been hovering on unconsciousness again, but now she raised her head and watched, as did they all, while Clem started to walk towards the light-filled door.

  “It’s you, isn’t it?” he said softly.

  In reply, the motion in the light became more agitated.

  “I thought so,” Clem said, coming to a halt a couple of yards from the edge of the pool.

  “What does he want?” Jude said. “Can you tell?”

  Clem glanced back at her, his expression both awed and afraid.

  “He wants me to let him in,” he replied. “He wants to be here.” He tapped his chest. “Inside me.”

  Jude smiled. The day had brought little in the way of good news, but here was some: the possibility of a union she’d never have believed possible. Still Clem hesitated, keeping his distance from the light.

  “I don’t know if I can do it,” he said.

  “He’s not going to hurt you,” Jude said.

  “I know,” Clem said, glancing back at the light. Its gilded dust was more hectic than ever. “It’s not the hurt . . .”

  “What then?”

  He shook his head.

  “I did it, man,” Monday said. “Just close your eyes and think of England.”

  This earned a little laugh from Clem, who was still staring at the light when Jude voiced the final persuasion.

  “You loved him,” she said.

  The laugh caught in Clem’s throat, and in the utter hush that followed he murmured, “I still do.”

  “Then be with him.”

  He looked back at her one last time and smiled. Then he stepped into the light.

  To Jude’s eyes there was nothing so remarkable about the sight. It was just a door, and a man stepping through it into sunlight. But there was significance in it now she’d never understood before, and as she stood witness a warning of Oscar’s returned to her head, spoken as they’d prepared to leave for Yzordderrex. She’d come back changed, he’d said, seeing the world she’d left with clearer eyes. Here was proof of that. Perhaps sunlight had always been numinous, and doorways signs of a greater passage than that of one roo
m to another. But she’d not seen it, until now.

  Clem stood in the beams for perhaps thirty seconds, his hands palm up in front of him. Then he turned back towards her, and she saw that Taylor had come with him. If she’d been asked to name the places where she saw his presence, she couldn’t have done so. There was no change in his physiognomy, no particular in which they could be seen, unless it was in signs so subtle—the angle of his head, the fixedness of his mouth—that she couldn’t distinguish them. But he was there, no doubt of it. And so was an urgency that had not been in Clem a minute before.

  “Take Celestine out of here,” he said to Jude and Monday. “There’s something terrible going on upstairs.”

  He left the doorway, heading for the stairs.

  “Do you want help?” Jude said.

  “No. Stay with her. She needs you.”

  At this, Celestine uttered her first words since leaving the cell. “I don’t need her,” she said.

  Clem reeled around on one heel, coming back to the woman and putting his nose an inch from hers.

  “You know, I’m finding you hard to like, madam!” he snapped.

  Jude laughed out loud, hearing Tay’s irascible tones so clearly. She’d forgotten how his and Clem’s natures had dovetailed, before sickness had taken the piss and vinegar out of Tay.

  “We’re here because of you, remember that,” Tay said. “And you’d still be down there picking the fluff from your navel if Judy hadn’t brought us.”

  Celestine narrowed her eyes. “Put me back, then,” she said.

  “Just for that”—Jude held her breath; he wouldn’t, surely?—“I’m going to give you a big kiss and ask you very politely to stop being a cantankerous old bag.” He kissed her on the nose. “Now let’s get going,” he said to Monday, and before Celestine could summon a reply he headed to the stairs and was up them and out of sight.