by Clive Barker
The scene was not so different when they reached the suburbs: ordinary men and women in their nightclothes, standing at street corners or on their front lawns, watching the sky. The phenomenon petered out the farther from the center of London—from Clerkenwell, perhaps—they traveled, only to reappear when they reached the outskirts of the village of Yoke, where, just a few days before, she and Gentle had stood soaked in the post office. Passing down the lanes they’d trudged in the rain reminded her of the naïve ambition she’d returned into the Fifth bearing: the possibility of some reunion between Gentle and herself. Now she was retracing her route with all such hopes dashed, carrying a child that belonged to his enemy. Her two-hundred-year courtship with Gentle was finally, and irredeemably, over.
The undergrowth around the estate had swelled monstrously, and it took more than the switch Estabrook had wielded to clear a way to the gates. Despite the fact that it was flourishing, the greenery smelled rank, as if it was decaying as quickly as it was growing, and its buds would not be blossoms but rot. Thrashing to left and right with his knife, Monday led the way to the gates and through the corrugated iron into the parkland beyond. Though it was an hour for moths and owls, the park was swarming with all manner of daylight life. Birds circled the air as though misdirected by a change in the poles and blind to their nests. Gnats, bees, dragonflies, and all the mazing species of a summer’s day flitted in desperate confusion through the moonlit grass. Like the sky gazers in the streets they’d passed through, Nature sensed imminence and could not rest.
Jude’s own sense of direction served her well, however. Though the copses scattered ahead of them looked much the same in the blue-gray light, she fixed upon the Retreat, and they trudged towards it, slowed by the muddy ground and the thickness of the grass. Monday whistled as he went, with that same blissful indifference to melody that Clem had remarked upon a few hours before.
“Do you know what’s going to happen tomorrow?” Jude asked him, almost envious of his strange serenity.
“Yeah, sort of,” he said. “There’s these heavens, see? And the boss is going to let us go there. It’s going to be amazin’.”
“Aren’t you afraid?” she said.
“What of?”
“Everything’s going to change.”
“Good,” he said. “I’m fucked off with the way things are.”
Then he picked up the thread of his whistle again and headed on through the grass for another hundred yards, until a sound more insistent than his din silenced him.
“Listen to that.”
The activity in the air and the grass had steadily increased as they approached the copse, but with the wind blowing in the opposite direction the din of such an assembly as was gathered there had not been audible until now.
“Birds and bees,” Monday remarked. “And a fuck of a lot of ‘em.”
As they continued their advance, the scale of the parliament ahead steadily became more apparent. Though the moonlight did not pierce the foliage very deeply, it was clear that every branch of every tree around the Retreat, to the tiniest twiglet, was occupied with birds. The smell of their massing pricked their nostrils; its din, their ears.
“We’re going to get our heads right royally shat on,” Monday said. “Either that or we’ll get stung to death.”
The insects were by now a living veil between them and the copse, so thick that they gave up attempting to flail it aside after a few strides and bore the deaths on their brows and cheeks, and the countless flutterings in their hair, in order to pick up speed and dash for their destination. There were birds in the grass now, commoners among the parliament, denied a seat on the branches. They rose in a squawking cloud before the runners, and their alarm caused consternation in the trees. A thunderous ascent began, the mass of life so vast that the violence of its motion beat the tender leaves down. By the time Jude and Monday reached the corner of the copse, they were running through a double rain: one green and falling, the other rising and feathered.
Picking up her pace, Jude overtook Monday and headed around the Retreat—the walls of which were black with insects—to the door. At the threshold, she halted. There was a small fire burning inside, built close to the edge of the mosaic.
“Some bugger got here first,” Monday remarked.
“I don’t see anyone.”
He pointed to a bundle lying on the floor beyond the fire. His eyes, more accustomed than hers to seeing life in rags, had found the fire maker. She stepped into the Retreat, knowing before he raised his head who this creature was. How could she not? Three times before—once here, once in Yzordderrex, and once, most recently, in the Tabula Rasa’s tower—this man had made an unexpected arrival, as though to prove what he’d claimed not so long ago: that their lives would be perpetually interwoven, because they were the same.
“Dowd?”
He didn’t move.
“Knife,” she said to Monday.
He passed it over and, armed, she advanced across the Retreat towards the bundle. Dowd’s hands were crossed on his chest, as though he expected to expire where he lay. His eyes were closed, but they were the only part of his face that was. Almost every other inch had been laid open by Celestine’s assault, and despite his legendary powers of recuperation he’d been unable to make good the damage done. He was unmasked to the bone. Yet he breathed, albeit weakly, and moaned to himself now and then, as though dreaming of punishment or revenge. She was half tempted to kill him in his sleep and have this bitter business brought to an end on the spot. But she was curious to know why he was here. Had he attempted to return to Yzordderrex, and failed, or was he expecting someone to come back this way and meet him here? Either could be significant in these volatile times, and though in her present venomous state she felt perfectly capable of dispatching him, he’d always been an agent in the dealings of greater souls and might still have some fragment of use as a messenger. She went down on her haunches beside him and spoke his name above the din of birds coming back to roost on the roof. He opened his eyes only slowly, adding their glisten to the wetness of his features.
“Look at you,” he said. “You’re radiant, lovey.” It was a line from a boulevard comedy, and despite his wretched condition he spoke it with élan. “I, of course, look like ordure. Will you come closer to me? I don’t have the energy for volume.”
She hesitated to comply. Though he was on the verge of extinction, he had boundless capacity for malice in him and, with the Pivot’s sloughings still fixed in his flesh, the power to do harm.
“I can hear you perfectly well where I am,” she said.
“I’m good for a hundred words at this volume,” he bargained. “Twice that at a whisper.”
“What have we got left to say to each other?”
“Ah,” he said. “So much. You think you’ve heard everybody’s stories, don’t you? Mine. Sartori’s. Godolphin’s. Even the Reconciler’s, by now. But you’re missing one.”
“Oh, am I?” she said, not much caring. “Whose is that?”
“Come closer.”
“I’ll hear it from here or not at all.”
He looked at her beadily. “You’re a bitch, you really are.”
“And you’re wasting words. If you’ve got something to say, say it. Whose story am I missing?”
He bided his time before replying, to squeeze what little drama he could out of this. Finally, he said, “The Father’s.”
“What father?”
“Is there more than one? Hapexamendios. The Aboriginal. The Unbeheld. He of the First Dominion.”
“You don’t know that story,” she said.
He reached up with sudden speed, and his hand was clamped around her arm before she could move out of range. Monday saw the attack and came running, but she halted him before he plowed into Dowd and sent him back to sit by the fire.
“It’s all right,” she told him. “He’s not going to hurt me. Are you?” She studied Dowd. “Well, are you?” she said again. “You can’
t afford to lose me. I’m the last audience you’ll have, and you know it. If you don’t tell this story to me, you’re not going to tell it to anybody. Not this side of Hell.”
The man quietly conceded her point. “True,” he said.
“So tell. Unburden yourself.”
He drew a laborious breath; then he began.
“I saw Him once, you know,” he said. “The Father of the Imajica. He came to me in the desert.”
“He appeared in person, did He?” she said, her skepticism plain.
“Not exactly. I heard Him speaking out of the First. But I saw hints, you know, in the Erasure.”
“And what did He look like?”
“Like a man, from what I could see.”
“Or what you imagined.”
“Maybe I did,” Dowd said. “But I didn’t imagine what He told me—”
“That He’d raise you up. Make you His procurer. You’ve told me all this before, Dowd.”
“Not all of it,” he said. “When I’d seen Him, I came back to the Fifth, using feits He’d whispered to me to cross the In Ovo, and I searched the length and breadth of London for a woman to be blessed among women.”
“And you found Celestine?”
“Yes. I found Celestine—at Tyburn, as a matter of fact—watching a hanging. I don’t know why I chose her. Perhaps because she laughed so hard when the man kissed the noose, and I thought, She’s no sentimentalist, this woman; she won’t weep and wail if she’s taken into another Dominion. She wasn’t beautiful, even then, but she had a clarity, you know? Some actresses have it. The great ones, anyway. A face that could carry extremes of emotion and not look bathetic. Maybe I was a little infatuated with her. . . .” He shivered. “I was capable of that when I was younger. So . . . I made myself known to her, and told her I wanted to show her a living dream, the like of which she’d never forget. She resisted at first, but I could have talked the face off the moon in those days, and she let me drug her with sways and take her away. It was a hell of a journey. Four months, across the Dominions. But I got her there eventually, back to the Erasure. . . .”
“And what happened?”
“It opened.”
“And?”
“I saw the City of God.”
Here at least was something she wanted to know about. “What was it like?” she said.
“It was just a glimpse—”
Having denied him her proximity for so long, she leaned towards him and repeated her question inches from his ravaged face. “What was it like?”
“Vast and gleaming and exquisite.”
“Gold?”
“All colors. But it was just a glimpse. Then the walls seemed to burst, and something reached for Celestine and took her.”
“Did you see what it was?”
“I’ve tried to remember, over and over. Sometimes I think it was like a net; sometimes like a cloud. I don’t know. Whatever it was, it took her.”
“You tried to help her, of course,” Jude said.
“No, I shat my pants and crawled away. What could I do? She belonged to God. And in the long run, wasn’t she the lucky one?”
“Abducted and raped?”
“Abducted, raped, and made a little divine. Whereas I, who’d done all the work, what was I?”
“A pimp.”
“Yes. A pimp. Anyway, she’s had her revenge,” he said sourly. “Look at me! She’s had more than enough.”
That was true. The life both Oscar and Quaisoir had failed to extinguish in Dowd, Celestine had virtually put out.
“So that’s the Father’s tale?” Jude said. “I’ve heard most of it before.”
“That’s the tale. But what’s the moral?”
“You tell me.”
He shook his head slightly. “I don’t know whether you’re mocking or not.”
“I’m listening, aren’t I? Be grateful for small mercies. You could be lying here without an audience.”
“Well, that’s part of it, isn’t it? I’m not. You could have come here when I was dead. You could maybe not have come here at all. But our lives have collided one last time. That’s fate’s way of telling me to unburden myself.”
“Of what?”
“I’ll tell you.” Again, a labored breath. “All these years I’ve wondered: Why did God pluck a scabby little actor chappie up out of the dirt and send him across three Dominions to fetch Him a woman?”
“He wanted a Reconciler.”
“And He couldn’t find a wife in His own city?” Dowd said. “Isn’t that a little odd? Besides, why does He care whether the Imajica’s Reconciled or not?”
Now that was a good question, she thought. Here was a God who’d sealed Himself away in His own city, and showed no desire to lower the wall between His Dominion and the rest, yet went to immense lengths to breed a child who would bring all such walls tumbling down.
“It’s certainly strange,” she said.
“I’d say so.”
“Have you got any answers to any of this?”
“Not really. But I think He must have some purpose, don’t you, or why go to all this trouble?”
“A plot . . .”
“Gods don’t plot. They create. They protect. They proscribe.”
“So which is He doing?”
“That’s the nub of it. Maybe you can find out. Maybe the other Reconcilers already did.”
“The others?”
“The sons He sent before Sartori. Maybe they realized what He was up to, and they defied Him.”
There was a thought.
“Maybe Christos didn’t die saving mortal man from his sins—”
“But from his Father?”
“Yes.”
She thought of the scenes she’d glimpsed in the Boston Bowl—the terrible spectacle of the city, and most likely the Dominion, overwhelmed by a great darkness—and her body, that had been driven to fits and convulsions by the torments visited upon her, grew suddenly still. There was no panic, no frenzy: just a deep, cold dread.
“What do I do?”
“I don’t know, lovey. You’re free to do whatever you like, remember?”
A few hours before, sitting on the step with Clem, her lack of a place in the Gospel of Reconciliation had depressed her spirits. But now it seemed that fact offered her some frail thread of hope. As Dowd had been so eager to claim at the tower, she belonged to no one. The Godolphins were dead, and so was Quaisoir. Gentle had gone to walk in the footsteps of Christos, and Sartori was either out building his New Yzordderrex or digging a hole to die in. She was on her own, and in a world in which everyone else was blinded by obsession and obligation, that was a significant condition. Perhaps only she could see this story remotely now and make a judgment unswayed by fealty.
“This is some choice,” she said.
“Perhaps you’d better forget I even spoke, lovey,” Dowd said. His voice was becoming frailer by the phrase, but he preserved as best he could his jaunty tone. “It’s just gossip from an actor chappie.”
“If I try and stop the Reconciliation—”
“You’ll be flying in the face of the Father, the Son, and probably the Holy Ghost as well.”
“And if I don’t?”
“You take the responsibility for whatever happens.”
“Why?”
“Because”—the power in his voice was now so diminished the sound of the fire he’d built was louder—“because I think only you can stop it.”
As he spoke, his hand lost its grip on her arm. “Well . . .” he said, “that’s done. . . .” His eyes began to flicker closed.
“One last thing, lovey?” he said.
“Yes?”
“It’s maybe asking too much . . .”
“What is?”
“I wonder . . . could you . . . forgive me? I know it’s absurd . . . but I don’t want to die with you despising me.”
She thought of the cruel scene he’d played with Quaisoir, when her sister had asked for some kindness. Whil
e she hesitated, he began whispering again.
“We were . . . just a little . . . the same, you know?”
At this, she put out her hand to touch him and offer what comfort she could, but before her fingers reached him his breath stopped and his eyes flickered closed.
Jude let out a tiny moan. Against all reason, she felt a pang of loss at Dowd’s passing.
“Is something wrong?” Monday said.
She stood up. “That rather depends on your point of view,” she said, borrowing an air of comedic fatalism from the man at her feet. It was a tone worth rehearsing. She might need it quite a bit in the next few hours. “Can you spare a cigarette?” she asked Monday.
Monday fished out his pack and lobbed it over. She took one and threw the pack back as she returned to the fire, stooping to pluck up a burning twig to light the tobacco.
“What happened to fella, m’lad?”
“He’s dead.”
“So what do we do now?”
What indeed? If ever a road divided, it was here. Should she prevent the Reconciliation—it wouldn’t be difficult; the stones were at her feet—and let history call her a destroyer for doing so? Or should she let it proceed and risk an end to all histories, and futures, too?
“How long till it’s light?” she asked Monday.
The watch he was wearing had been part of the booty he’d brought back to Gamut Street on his first trip. He consulted it with a flourish. “Two and a half hours,” he said.
There was so little time to act, and littler still to decide on a course. Returning to Clerkenwell with Monday was a cul-de-sac; that at least was certain. Gentle was the Unbeheld’s agent in this, and he wasn’t going to be diverted from his Father’s business now, especially on the word of a man like Dowd, who’d spent his life a stranger to truth. He’d argue that this confession had been Dowd’s revenge on the living: a last desperate attempt to spoil a glory he knew he couldn’t share. And maybe that was true; maybe she’d been duped.
