Imajica

by Clive Barker

  Perhaps this was true, but he kept on retreating nevertheless, as much from his mother as from the vapor, until he felt the comfort of his angels at his back.

  “Guard me,” he told them, his voice tremulous.

  Clem wrapped his arms around Gentle’s shoulders. “It’s a woman, Maestro,” he murmured. “Since when were you afraid of women?”

  “Since always,” Gentle replied. “Hold on, for Christ’s sake.”

  Then the rain broke against their faces, and Clem let out a sigh of pleasure as its languor enclosed them. Gentle seized hard hold of his protector’s arms, his fingers digging deep, but if the rain had the sinew to detach him from Clem’s embrace it didn’t attempt to do so. It lingered around their heads for no more than thirty seconds, then simply passed away through the open door.

  As soon as it had gone, Gentle turned to Clem. “Nothing to hide, eh?” he said. “I don’t think She believed you.”

  “Are you hurt?”

  “No. She just got inside my head. Why does every damn thing want to get inside my head?”

  “It must be the view,” Tay remarked, grinning with his lover’s lips.

  “She only wanted to know if your purpose was pure, child,” Celestine said.

  “Pure?” Gentle said, staring at his mother venomously. “What right has She got to judge me?”

  “What you call your Father’s business is the business of every soul in the Imajica.”

  She had not yet claimed her modesty from the floor, and as she approached him he averted his eyes.

  “Cover yourself, Mother,” he said. “For God’s sake, cover yourself.”

  Then he turned and headed out into the hallway, calling after the intruder as he went.

  “Wherever you are,” he yelled, “I want you out of this house! Clem, look downstairs. I’ll go up.”

  He pelted up the flight, his fury mounting at the thought of this spirit invading the Meditation Room. The door stood open. Little Ease was cowering in the corner when he entered.

  “Where is She?” Gentle demanded. “Is She here?”

  “Is who here?”

  Gentle didn’t reply but went from wall to wall like a prisoner, beating his palms against them. There was no sound of running water from the brick, however, nor any drizzle, however fine, in the air. Content that the room was free of the visitor’s taint, he returned to the door.

  “If it starts raining in here,” he said to Little Ease, “yell blue murder.”

  “Any color you like, Liberatore.”

  Gentle slammed the door and headed along the landing, searching all the rooms in the same manner. Finding them empty he climbed the last flight and went through the rooms above. Their air was bone-dry. But as he started back down the stairs he heard laughter from the street. It was Monday, though the sound he was making was lighter than Gentle had ever heard from his lips before. Suspicious of this music, he picked up the speed of his descent, meeting Clem at the bottom of the stairs and telling him the rooms were empty below, then racing across the hallway to the front door.

  Monday had been busy with his chalks since Gentle had last crossed the threshold. The pavement at the bottom of the steps was covered with his designs: not copies of glamour girls this time but elaborate abstractions that spilled over the curb and onto the sun-softened tarmac. The artist had left off his work, however, and was now standing in the middle of the street. Gentle recognized the language of his body instantly. Head thrown back, eyes closed, he was bathing in the air.

  “Monday!”

  But the boy didn’t hear. He continued to luxuriate in this unction, the water running over his close-cropped skull like rippling fingers, and he might have gone on bathing until he drowned in it had Gentle’s approach not driven the Goddess off. The rain went from the air in a heartbeat, and Monday’s eyes opened. He squinted against the sky, his laughter faltering.

  “Where’d the rain go?” he said.

  “There was no rain.”

  “What do you call this, boss?” Monday said, proffering arms from which the last of the waters still ran.

  “Take it from me, it wasn’t rain.”

  “Whatever it was, it was fine by me,” Monday said. He hauled his sodden T-shirt up over his head and used it as a mop to wipe his face. “Are you all right, boss?”

  Gentle was scanning the street, looking for some sign of the Goddess.

  “I will be,” he said. “You go back to work, huh? You haven’t decorated the door yet.”

  “What do you want on it?”

  “You’re the artist,” Gentle said, distracted from the conversation by the state of the street.

  He hadn’t realized until now how full of presences it had become, the revenants not simply occupying the pavement but hovering in the wilted foliage like hanged men or keeping their vigils on the eaves. They were benign enough, he thought. They had good reason to wish him well in this endeavor. Half a year ago, on the night he and Pie had left on their travels, the mystif had given Gentle a grim lesson in the pain that the spirits of this and every other Dominion suffered.

  “No spirit is happy,” Pie had said. “They haunt the doors, waiting to leave, but there’s nowhere for them to go.”

  But hadn’t there been some hope mooted then, that at the end of the journey ahead lay a solution to the anguish of the dead? Pie had known that solution even then, and must have longed to call Gentle Reconciler, to tell him that the wit lay somewhere in his head to open the doors at which the dead stood waiting and let them into Heaven.

  “Be patient,” he murmured, knowing the revenants heard. “It’ll be soon, I swear. It’ll be soon.”

  The sun was drying the Goddess’s rain from his face, and, happy to stay out in the heat until he was dry, he wandered away from the house, while Monday resumed his whistling on the step. What a place this had become, Gentle thought: angels in the house behind him, lascivious rains in the street, ghosts in the trees. And he, the Maestro, wandering among them, ready to do the deed that would change their worlds forever. There would never be such a day again.

  His optimistic mood darkened, however, as he approached the end of the street, for other than the sound of his footsteps, and the shrill noise of Monday’s whistle, the world was absolutely quiet. The alarms that had raised such a din earlier in the day were now hushed. No bell rang, no voice cried out. It was as if all life beyond this thoroughfare had taken a vow of silence. He picked up his pace. Either his agitation was contagious or else the revenants that lingered at the end of the street were more jittery than those closer to the house. They milled around, their numbers, and perhaps their unease, sufficient to disturb the baked dust in the gutter. They made no attempt to impede his progress but parted like a cold curtain, allowing him to step over the invisible boundary of Gamut Street. He looked in both directions. The dogs that had gathered here for a time had gone; the birds had fled every eave and telephone wire. He held his breath and listened through the whine in his head for some evidence of life: an engine, a siren, a shout. But there was nothing. His unease now profound, he glanced back into Gamut Street. Loath though he was to leave it, he supposed it would be safe while the revenants remained at the perimeter. Though they were too insubstantial to protect the street from attackers, it was doubtful that anyone would dare enter while they milled and churned at the corner. Taking that small comfort, he headed towards Gray’s Inn Road, his walk becoming a run as he went. The heat was less welcome now. It made his legs heavy and his lungs burn. But he didn’t slacken his pace until he reached the intersection.

  Gray’s Inn Road and High Holborn were two of the city’s major conduits. Had he stood at this corner on the coldest December midnight, there would have been some traffic upon one or the other. But there was nothing now; nor was there a murmur from any street, square, alleyway, or circus within earshot. The sphere of influence that had left Gamut Street untrammeled for two centuries had apparently spread, and if the citizens of London were still in residence they
were keeping clear of this harrowed terrain.

  And yet, despite the silence, the air was not unfreighted. There was something else upon it, which kept Gentle from turning on his heel and wandering back to Gamut Street: a smell so subtle that the tang of cooking asphalt almost overwhelmed it, but so unmistakable he could not ignore even the traces that came his way. He lingered at the corner, waiting for another gust of wind. It came after a time, confirming his suspicions. There was only one source for this sickly perfume, and only one man in this city—no, in this Dominion—who had access to that source. The In Ovo had been opened again, and this time the beasts that had been called forth were not the nonsense stuff he’d encountered at the tower. These were of another magnitude entirely. He’d seen and smelled their like only once, two hundred years before, and they’d done incalculable mischief. Given that the breeze was so languid, their scent could not be coming all the way from Highgate. Sartori and his legion were considerably closer than that: perhaps ten streets away, perhaps two, perhaps about to turn the corner of Gray’s Inn Road and come in sight.

  There was no time left for prevarication. Whatever danger Jude had discovered, or believed she’d discovered, it was notional. This scent, on the other hand, and the entities that oozed it, were not. He could not afford to delay his final preparations any longer. He forsook his watching place and started back toward the house as though these hordes were already on his heels. The revenants scattered as he rounded the corner and raced down the street. Monday was working on the door, but he dropped his colors as he heard the Maestro’s summons.

  “It’s time, boy!” Gentle yelled, mounting the steps in a single bound. “Start bringing the stones upstairs.”

  “We’re starting?”

  “We’re starting.”

  Monday grinned, whooped, and ducked into the house, leaving Gentle to pause and admire what now adorned the door. It was just a sketch as yet, but the boy’s draftsmanship was sufficient for his purpose. He’d drawn an enormous eye, with beams of light emanating from it in all directions. Gentle stepped into the house, pleased at the thought that this burning gaze would greet anyone, friend or foe, who came to the threshold. Then he closed the door and bolted it. When I next step out, he thought, the work of my Father will be done.

  Twenty-one

  WHATEVER DEBATES AND QUARRELS went on in Uma Umagammagi’s temple while Jude waited on the shore, they brought the procession of postulants to a halt. The tide carried no more women or children to the shore, and after a time the waters became subdued and finally becalmed, as if their inspiring forces were so preoccupied that all other matters had become inconsequential. Without a watch Jude could only guess at how long a time passed while she waited, but occasional glances up at the comet showed her that it was to be measured in hours rather than minutes. Did the Goddesses fully comprehend how urgent a business this was, she wondered, or had the ages they’d spent in captivity and exile so slowed their sensibilities that their debate might last days and they not realize how much time had passed?

  She blamed herself for not making the urgency of this more plain to them. The day would be creeping on in the Fifth, and even if Gentle had been persuaded to postpone his preparations for a time, he would not do so indefinitely. Nor could she blame him. All he had was a message—brought by a less than reliable courier—that things were not safe. That wouldn’t be enough to make him put the Reconciliation in jeopardy. He hadn’t seen the horrors she’d seen in the Boston Bowl, so he had no real comprehension of what was at stake here. He was, in her own words, about his Father’s business, and the possibility that such business might mark the end of the Imajica was surely very far from his mind.

  She was twice distracted from these melancholy thoughts: the first time when a young girl came down to the shore to offer her something to eat and drink, which she gratefully accepted; the second when nature called and she was obliged to scout around the island for a sheltered place to squat and empty her bladder. To be shy about passing water in this place was of course absurd and she knew it, but she was still a woman of the Fifth, however many miracles she’d seen. Maybe she’d learn to become blithe about such functions eventually, but it would take time.

  As she returned from the place she’d found among the rocks, lighter by a bladderful, the song at the temple door, which had dropped away to a murmur and disappeared a long time before, began again. Instead of going back to her place of vigil, she headed around the temple to the door, her stride lent spring by the sight of the waters in the basin, which were stirring from their inertia and once again breaking against the shore. It seemed the Goddesses had made their decision. She wanted to hear the news as soon as possible, of course, but she couldn’t help but feel a little like an accused woman returning into a courtroom.

  There was an air of expectancy among those at the door. Some of the women were smiling; others looked grim. If they had any knowledge of the judgment, they were interpreting it in radically different ways.

  “Should I go in?” Jude asked the woman who’d brought her food.

  The other nodded vigorously, though Jude suspected she simply wanted to expedite a process which had delayed them all. Jude stepped back through the water curtain and into the temple. It had changed. Though the sense that her inner and outer sights were here united was as strong as ever, what they perceived was far less reassuring than it had been. There was no sign of the origami light, nor of the bodies these forms had been derived from. She was, it seemed, the sole representative of the fleshly here, and scrutinized by an incandescence far less tender than Uma Umagammagi’s gaze had been. She squinted against it, but her lids and lashes could do little to mellow a light that burned in her head rather than her corneas. Its blaze intimidated her, and she wanted to retreat before it, but the thought that Uma Umagammagi’s consolation lay somewhere in its midst kept her from doing so.

  “Goddess?” she ventured.

  “We’re here together,” came the reply. “Jokalaylau, Tishalullé, and Myself.”

  As the roll was called, Jude began to distinguish shapes within the brilliance. They were not the inexhaustible glyphs she’d last seen in this place. What she saw suggested not abstractions but sinuous human forms, hovering in the air above her. This was a strange turnabout, she thought. Why, when she’d previously been able to share the essential natures of Jokalaylau and Uma Umagammagi, was she now being presented with lowlier faces? It didn’t augur well for the exchange ahead. Had They clothed Themselves in trivial matter because They’d decided she wasn’t worthy to lay eyes on the truth of Them? She concentrated hard to grasp the details of Their appearance, but either her sight wasn’t sophisticated enough or They were resisting her. Whichever, she could hold only impressions in her head: that They were naked, that Their eyes were incandescent, that Their bodies ran with water.

  “Do you see Us?” Jude heard a voice she didn’t recognize—Tishalullé’s, she presumed—ask.

  “Yes, of course,” she said. “But not . . . not completely.”

  “Didn’t I tell You?” Uma Umagammagi said.

  “Tell me what?” Jude wanted to know, then realized the remark wasn’t directed at her but at the other Goddesses.

  “It’s extraordinary,” said Tishalullé.

  The pliancy of Her voice was seductive, and as Jude attended to it Her nebulous form became more particular, the syllables bringing sight along with them. Her face was Oriental in cast, and without a trace of color in cheek or lip or lash. Yet what should have been bland was instead exquisitely subtle, its symmetry and its curves delineated by the light that flickered in Her eyes. Below its calm, Her body was another matter entirely. Her entire length was covered by what Jude at first took to be tattoos of some kind, following the sweep of Her anatomy. But the more she studied the Goddess—and she did so without embarrassment—the more she saw movement in these marks. They weren’t on Her but in Her, thousands of tiny flaps opening and closing rhythmically. There were several shoals of them, she s
aw, each swept by independent waves of motion. One rose up from Her groin, where the inspiration of them all had its place; others swept down Her limbs, out to Her fingertips and toes, the motion of each shoal converging every ten or fifteen seconds, at which point a second substance seemed to spring from these slits, forming the Goddess afresh in front of Jude’s astonished eyes.

  “I think you should know that I’ve met your Gentle,” Tishalullé said. “I embraced him in the Cradle.”

  “He’s not mine any longer,” Jude replied.

  “Do you care, Judith?”

  “Of course she doesn’t care,” came Jokalaylau’s response. “She’s got his brother to keep her bed warm. The Autarch. The butcher of Yzordderrex.”

  Jude turned her gaze towards the Goddess of the High Snows. The particulars of Her form were more elusive than Tishalullé’s had been, but Jude was determined to know what She looked like, and fixed her gaze on the spiral of cold flame that burned in Her core, watching until it spat bright arcs out against the limits of Jokalaylau’s body. The light of this collision was brief, but by it Jude got her glimpse. An imperious Negress, Her blazing eyes heavy-lidden, hovered there, Her hands crossed at the wrist, then turned back on themselves to knit their fingers. She was not, after all, such a terrifying sight. But sensing that Her face had been found, the Goddess responded with a sudden transformation. Her lush features were mummified in a heartbeat, the eyes sinking away, the lips withering and retracting. Worms devoured the tongue that poked between Her teeth.

  Jude let out a cry of revulsion, and the eyes reignited in Jokalaylau’s sockets, the wormy mouth gaping as hard laughter rose from Her throat and echoed around the temple.

  “She’s not so remarkable, sister,” Jokalaylau said. “Look at her shake.”

  “Let her alone,” Uma Umagammagi replied. “Why must You always be testing people?”

  “We’ve endured because We’ve faced the worse and survived,” Jokalaylau replied. “This one would have died in the snow.”