by Clive Barker
“So if they’ll solve themselves,” Jude said, “why do I have to go back to the Fifth?”
Before Uma Umagammagi could resume speaking, another voice intruded. Particles rose between Jude and the Goddess as this other woman spoke, pricking Jude’s flesh where they touched, reminding her of a state that knew ice and fire.
“Why do you trust this woman?” the stranger said.
“Because she came to us openhearted, Jokalaylau,” the Goddess replied.
“How openhearted is a woman who treads dry-eyed in the place where her sister died?” Jokalaylau said. “How openhearted is a woman who comes into Our presence without shame, when she has the Autarch Sartori’s child in her womb?”
“We have no place for shame here,” Umagammagi said.
“You may have no place,” Jokalaylau said, rising into view now. “I have plenty.”
Like her sister, Jokalaylau was here in Her essential form: a more complex shape than that of Uma Umagammagi, and less pleasing to the eye, because the motions that ran in it were more hectic, Her form not so much rippling as boiling, shedding its pricking darts as it did so.
“Shame is wholly appropriate for a woman who has lain with one of Our enemies,” she said.
Despite the intimidation Jude felt from the Goddess, she spoke out in her own defense.
“It’s not as simple as that,” she said, her courage fueled by the frustration she felt, having this intruder spoil the congress between herself and Uma Umagammagi. “I didn’t know he was the Autarch.”
“Who did you imagine he was? Or didn’t you care?”
The exchange might have escalated, but that Uma Umagammagi spoke again, her tone as serene as ever.
“Sweet Judith,” she said, “let me speak with my sister. She’s suffered at the hands of the Unbeheld more than either Tishalullé or myself, and She’ll not readily forgive any flesh touched by Him or His children. Please understand Her pain, as I hope to make Her understand yours.”
She spoke with such delicacy that Jude now felt the shame Jokalaylau had accused her of lacking: not for the child, but for her rage.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “That was . . . inappropriate.”
“If you’ll wait on the shore,” said Uma Umagammagi, “we’ll speak together again in a little while.”
From the moment that the Goddess had talked of Jude’s returning to the Fifth, she’d known this parting would come. But she hadn’t prepared herself to leave the Goddess’s embrace so soon, and now that she felt gravity claiming her again, it was an agony. There was no help for it, however. If Uma Umagammagi knew what she suffered—and how could She not?—She did nothing to ameliorate the hurt, but folded Her glyph back into the matrix, leaving Jude to fall like a petal from a blossom tree, lightly enough, but with a sense of separation worse than any bruising. The forms of the women she’d passed through were still unfolding and folding below, as exquisite as ever, and the water music at the door was as soothing, but they could not salve the loss. The melody that had sounded so joyous when she’d entered was now elegaic, like a hymn for harvest home, thankful for the gifts bestowed but touched by fears for a colder season to come.
It was waiting on the other side of the curtain, that season. Though the children still laughed on the shore, and the basin was still a glorious spectacle of light and motion, she had gone from the presence of a loving spirit and couldn’t help but mourn. Her tears astonished the women at the threshold, and several rose to console her, but she shook her head as they approached, and they quietly parted to let her go her way alone, down to the water. There she sat, not daring to glance back at the temple where her fate was being decided, but gazing out over the basin.
What now? she wondered. If she was called back into the presence of the Goddesses to be told she wasn’t fit to make any decision concerning the Reconciliation, she’d be quite happy with the judgment. She’d leave the problem in surer hands than hers and return to the corridors around the basin, where she might after a time reinvent herself and come back into this temple as a novice, ready to learn the way to fold light. If, on the other hand, she was simply shunned, as Jokalaylau clearly wanted, if she was driven from this miraculous place back into the wilderness outside, what would she do? Without anyone to guide her, what knowledge did she possess to help choose between the ways ahead? None. Her tears dried after a time, but what came in their place was worse: a sense of desolation that could only be Hell itself, or some neighboring province, divided from the main by infernal jailers, made to punish women who had loved immoderately and who had lost perfection, for want of a little shame.
Twenty
I
IN HIS LAST LETTER to his son, written the night before he boarded a ship bound for France—his mission to spread the gospel of the Tabula Rasa across Europe—Roxborough, the scourge of Maestros, had set down the substance of a nightmare from which he’d just woken.
I dreamed that I drove in my coach through the damnable streets of Clerkenwell, he wrote, I need not name my destination. You know it, and you know too what infamies were planned there. As is the way in dreams, I was bereft of self-government, for though I called out many times to the driver, begging him, for my soul’s sake, not to take me back to that house, my words had no power to persuade him. As the coach turned the corner, however, and the Maestro Sartori’s house came in sight, Bellamare reared up affrighted and would go no further. She was ever my favorite bay, and I felt such a flood of gratitude towards her for refusing to carry me to that unholy step that I climbed from the coach to speak my thanks into her ear.
And lo! as my foot touched the ground the cobbles spoke up like living things, their voices stony but raised in a hideous lamentation, and at the sound of their anguish the very bricks of the houses in that street, and the roofs and railings and chimneys, all made similar cry, their voices joined in sorrowful testament to Heaven. I never heard a din its like, but I could not stop my ears against it, for was their pain not in some part of my making? And I heard them say:
Lord, we are but unbaptized things and have no hopes to come into your Kingdom, but we beseech you to bring some storm down upon us and grind us into dust with your righteous thunder, that we may be scoured and destroyed and not suffer complicity with the deeds performed in our sight.
My son, I marveled at their clamor, and wept too, and was ashamed, hearing them make this appeal to the Almighty, knowing that I was a thousand times more accountable than they. O! how I wished my feet might carry me away to some less odious place! I swear at that moment I would have judged the heart of a fiery furnace an agreeable place, and lain my head there with hosannahs, rather than be where these deeds had been done. But I could not retreat. On the contrary, my mutinous limbs carried me to the very doorstep of that house. There was foamy blood upon the threshold, as though the martyrs had that night marked the place so that the Angel of Destruction might find it, and cause the earth to gape ‘neath it, and commit it to the Abyss. And from within was a sound of idle chatter as the men I had known debated their profane philosophies.
I went down on my knees in the blood, calling to those within to come out and join me in begging forgiveness of the Almighty, but they scorned me with much laughter, and called me coward and fool, and told me to go on my way. This I presently did, with much haste, and did escape the street with the cobbles telling me I should go about my crusade without fear of God’s retribution, for I had turned my back on the sin of that house.
That was my dream. I am setting it down straightway, and will have this letter sent post haste, that you may be warned what harm there is in that place and not be tempted to enter Clerkenwell or even stray south of Islington while I am gone from you. For my dream instructs me that the street will be forfeit, in due course, for the crimes it has entertained, and I would not wish one hair of your sweet head harmed for the deeds I in my delirium committed against the edicts of Our Lord. Though the Almighty did offer His only begotten Son to suffer and die for our sins,
I know that He would not ask that same sacrifice of me, knowing that I am His humblest servant, and pray only to be made His instrument until I quit this vale and go to Judgment.
May the Lord God keep you in His care until I embrace you again.
The ship Roxborough boarded a few hours after finishing this letter went down a mile out of Dover harbor, in a squall that troubled no other vessel in the vicinity but overturned the purger’s ship and sank it in less than a minute. All hands were lost.
The day after the letter arrived, the recipient, still tearful with the news, went to seek solace at the stables of his father’s bay, Bellamare. The horse had been jittery since her master’s departure and, though she knew Roxborough’s son well, kicked out at his approach, striking him in the abdomen. The blow was not instantly fatal, but with stomach and spleen split wide, the youth was dead in six days. Thus he preceded his father, whose body was not washed up for another week, to the family grave.
II
Pie ‘oh’ pah had recounted this sorry story to Gentle as they’d traveled from L’Himby to the Cradle of Chzercemit in search of Scopique. It was one of many tales the mystif had told on that journey, offering them not as biographical details, though of course many of them were precisely that, but as entertainment, comedic, absurd, or melancholy, that usually opened with: “I heard about this fellow once . . .”
Sometimes the stories were told within a few minutes, but Pie had lingered over this one, repeating word for word the text of Roxborough’s letter, though to this day Gentle didn’t know how the mystif had come by it. He understood why it had committed the prophecy to memory, however, and why it had taken such trouble to repeat it for Gentle. It had half believed there was some significance in Roxborough’s dream, and just as it had educated Gentle on other matters pertaining to his concealed self, so it had told this tale to warn the Maestro of dangers the future might bring.
That future was now. As the hours since Monday’s return crept on, and Jude still didn’t return, Gentle was reduced to picking his recollections of Roxborough’s letter apart, looking for some clue in the purger’s words as to what threat might be coming to the doorstep. He even wondered if the man who’d written the letter was numbered among the revenants who by midmorning could be glimpsed in the heat haze. Had Roxborough come back to watch the demise of the street he’d called damnable? If he had—if he listened at the step the way he had in his dream—he was most likely as frustrated as the occupants, wishing they’d get on with the work he hoped would invite calamity.
But however many doubts Gentle harbored concerning Jude, he could not believe she would conspire against the Great Work. If she said it was unsafe she had good reason for so saying, and, though every sinew in Gentle’s body raged at inactivity, he refused to go downstairs and bring the stones up into the Meditation Room, for fear their very presence might tempt him into warming the circle. Instead he waited, and waited, and waited, while the heat outside rose and the air in the Meditation Room grew sour with his frustration. As Scopique had said, a working like this required months of preparation, not hours, and now even those hours were being steadily whittled away. How late could he afford to postpone the ceremony before he gave up on Jude and began? Until six? Until nightfall? It was an imponderable.
There were signs of unease outside the house as well as in. Scarcely a minute went by without a new siren being added to the chorus of whoops and wails from every compass point. Several times through the morning, bells began chiming from steeples in the vicinity, their peals neither summons nor celebration but alarm. There were even cries occasionally: shouts and screams from distant streets carried to the open windows on air now hot enough to make the dead sweat.
And then, just after one in the afternoon, Clem came up the stairs, his eyes wide. It was Taylor who spoke, and there was excitement in his voice.
“Somebody’s come into the house, Gentle.”
“Who?”
“A spirit of some kind, from the Dominions. She’s downstairs.”
“Is it Jude?”
“No. This is a real power. Can’t you smell her? I know you’ve given up women, but your nose still works, doesn’t it?”
He led Gentle out onto the landing. The house lay quiet below. Gentle sensed nothing.
“Where is she?”
Clem looked puzzled. “She was here a moment ago, I swear.”
Gentle went to the top of the stairs, but Clem held him back.
“Angels first,” he said, but Gentle was already beginning his descent, relieved that the torpor of the last few hours was over and eager to meet this visitor. Perhaps she carried a message from Jude.
The front door stood open. There was a pool of beer glinting on the step, but no sign of Monday.
“Where’s the boy?” Gentle asked.
“He’s outside, sky watching. He says he saw a flying saucer.”
Gentle threw his companion a quizzical look. Clem didn’t reply but laid his hand on Gentle’s shoulder, his eyes going to the door of the dining room. From inside came the barely audible sound of sobbing.
“Mama,” Gentle said, and gave up any caution, hurrying down the rest of the flight with Clem in pursuit.
By the time he reached Celestine’s room, the sound of her sobs had already disappeared. Gentle drew a defensive breath, took hold of the handle, and put his shoulder to the door. It wasn’t locked but swung open smoothly, delivering him inside. The room was ill-lit, the drooping, mildewed curtains still heavy enough to keep the sun to a few dusty beams. They fell on the empty mattress in the middle of the floor. Its sometime occupant, whom Gentle had not expected to see standing again, was at the other end of the room, her tears subsided to whimpers. She had brought one of the sheets from her bed with her and, seeing her son enter, drew it up to her breastbone. Then she turned her attention back towards the wall she was standing close to and studied it. A pipe had burst somewhere behind the brick, Gentle supposed. He could hear water running freely.
“It’s all right, Mama,” he said. “Nothing’s going to hurt you.”
Celestine didn’t reply. She’d raised her left hand in front of her face and was looking at the palm, as if into a mirror.
“It’s still here,” Clem said.
“Where?” Gentle asked him.
He nodded in the direction of Celestine, and Gentle instantly left his side, opening his arms as he went to offer the haunted air a fresh target.
“Come on,” he said. “Wherever you are. Come on.”
Halfway between the door and his mother he felt a cool drizzle strike his face, so fine it was invisible. Its touch was not unpleasant. In fact it was refreshing, and he let out an appreciative gasp.
“It’s raining in here,” he said.
“It’s the Goddess,” Celestine replied.
She looked up from studying her hand, which Gentle now saw was running with water, as though a spring had appeared in her palm.
“What Goddess?” Gentle asked her.
“Uma Umagammagi,” his mother replied.
“Why were you crying, Mama?”
“I thought I was dying. I thought She’d come to take me.”
“But She hasn’t.”
“I’m still here, child.”
“Then what does She want?”
Celestine extended her arm to Gentle. “She wants us to make peace,” she said. “Join me in the waters, child.”
Gentle took hold of his mother’s hand, and she drew him towards her, turning her face up to the rain as she did so. The last traces of her tears were being washed away, and a look of ecstasy appeared where there had been grief. Gentle felt it too. His eyes wanted to flicker closed; his body wanted to swoon. But he resisted the rain’s blandishments, tempting as they were. If it carried some message for him, he needed to know it quickly and end these delays before they cost the Reconciliation dearly.
“Tell me,” he said, as he came to his mother’s side, “whether you’re here to stay; tell me. . . .”
But the rain made no reply, at least none that he could grasp. Perhaps his mother heard more than he did, however, because there were smiles on her glistening face, and her grip on Gentle’s hand became more possessive. She let the sheet she’d held to her bosom drop, so that the rains could stroke her breasts and belly, and Gentle’s gaze took full account of her nakedness. The wounds she’d sustained in her struggles with Dowd and Sartori still marked her body, but they only served to prove her perfection, and although he knew the felony here, he couldn’t stem his feelings.
She put her free hand up to her face and with thumb and forefingers emptied the shallow pools of her sockets, then once again opened her eyes. They found Gentle too quickly for him to conceal himself, and he felt a shock as their looks met, not just because she read his desire, but because he found the same in her face.
He wrested his hand from hers and backed away, his tongue fumbling with denials. She was far less abashed than he. Her eyes remained fixed on him, and she called him back into the rain with words of invitation so soft they were barely more than sighs. When he continued to retreat, she turned to more specific exhortations.
“The Goddess wants to know you,” she said. “She needs to understand your purpose.”
“My . . . Father’s . . . business,” Gentle replied, the words as much defense as explanation, shielding him from this seduction with the weight of his purpose.
But the Goddess, if that was what this rain really was, wouldn’t be shaken off so easily. He saw a look of distress cross his mother’s face as the vapors deserted her to move in pursuit of him. They passed through a spear of sun as they came, and threw out rainbows.
“Don’t be afraid of Her,” Gentle heard Clem say behind him. “You’ve got nothing to hide.”
