Imajica

by Clive Barker

  Her own tears, which she’d been holding back since Celestine had begun to share this horror with her, fell now, flowing a little for the pain she felt and a little for the doubt that still churned in her, but mostly for the smile that came onto Celestine’s face when she heard Jude’s reply, and for the sight of the other woman opening her arms and crossing the room, to embrace her like a loved one who’d been lost and found again before some final fire.

  Twenty-three

  I

  IF COMING TO THE moment of Reconciliation had been for Gentle a series of rememberings, leading him back to himself, then the greatest of those rememberings, and the one he was least prepared for, was the Reconciliation itself.

  Though he’d performed the working before, the circumstances had been radically different. For one, there’d been all the hoopla of a grand event. He’d gone into the circle like a prizefighter, with an air of congratulation hanging around his head before he’d even worked up a sweat, his patrons and admirers a cheering throng at the sidelines. This time he was alone. For another, he’d had his eyes on what the world would shower on him when the work was done: what women would fall to him, what wealth and glory would come. This time, the prize in sight was a different thing entirely, and wouldn’t be counted in stained sheets and coinage. He was the instrument of a higher and wiser power.

  That fact took the fear away. When he opened his mind to the process, he felt a calm come upon him, subduing the unease he’d felt climbing the stairs. He’d told Jude and Clem that forces would run through the house the likes of which its bricks had never known, and it was true. He felt them fuel his weakening mind, ushering his thoughts out of his head to gather the Dominion to the circle.

  That gleaning began with the place he was sitting in. His mind spread to all compass points, and up and down, to have the sum of the room. It was an easy space to grasp. Generations of prison poets had made the analogies for him, and he borrowed them freely. The walls were his body’s limits, the door his mouth, the windows his eyes: commonplace similitudes, taxing his power of comparison not a jot. He dissolved the boards, the plaster, the glass, and all the thousand tiny details in the same lyric of confinement and, having made them part of him, broke their bounds to stray farther afield.

  As his imagination headed down the stairs and up onto the roof, he felt the beginnings of momentum. His intellect, dogged by literalism, was already lagging behind a sensibility more mercurial, which was delivering back to him similitudes for the whole house before his logical faculties had even reached the hallway.

  Once again, his body was the measure of all things: the cellar, his bowels; the roof, his scalp; the stairs, his spine. Their proofs delivered, his thoughts flew out of the house, rising up over the slates and spreading through the streets. He gave passing consideration to Sartori as he went, knowing his other was out here in the night somewhere, skulking. But his mind was quicksilver, and too exhilarated by its speed and capacity to go searching in the shadows for an enemy already defeated.

  With speed came ease. The streets were no more difficult to claim than the house he’d already devoured. His body had its conduits and its intersections, had its places of excrement and its fine, dandified facades; had its rivers, moving from a springing place, and its parliament, and its holy seat.

  The whole city, he began to see, could be analogized to his flesh, bone, and blood. And why should that be so surprising? When an architect turned his mind to the building of a city, where would he look for inspiration? To the flesh where he’d lived since birth. It was the first model for any creator. It was a school and an eating house and an abattoir and a church; it could be a prison and a brothel and Bedlam. There wasn’t an edifice in any street in London that hadn’t begun somewhere in the private city of an architect’s anatomy, and all Gentle had to do was open his mind to that fact and the districts were his, running back to swell the assembly in his head.

  He flew north, through Highbury and Finsbury Park, to Palmer’s Green and Cockfosters. He went east with the river, past Greenwich, where the clock that marked the coming of midnight stood, and on towards Tilbury. West took him through Marylebone and Hammersmith, south through Lambeth and Streatham, where he’d first met Pie ‘oh’ pah, long ago.

  But the names soon became irrelevant. Like the ground seen from a rising plane, the particulars of a street or a district became part of another pattern, even more appetizing to his ambitious spirit. He saw the Wash glittering to the east, and the Channel to the south, becalmed on this humid night. Here was a fine new challenge. Was his body, which had proved the equal of a city, also the measure of this vaster geography? Why not? Water flowed by the same laws everywhere, whether the conduit was a groove in his brow or a rift between the continents. And were his hands not like two countries, laid side by side in his lap, their peninsulas almost touching, their landscapes scarred and grooved?

  There was nothing outside his substance that was not mirrored within: no sea, no city, no street, no roof, no room. He was in the Fifth, and the Fifth in him, gathering to be carried into the Ana as a proof and a map and a poem, written in praise of all things being One.

  In the other Dominions the same pursuit of similitude was under way.

  From his circle on the Mount of Lipper Bayak, Tick Raw had already drawn into his net of dissolution both the city of Patashoqua and the highway that ran from its gates towards the mountains. In the Third, Scopique—his fears that the absence of the Pivot would invalidate his working allayed—was spreading his grasp across the Kwem towards the dust bowls around Mai-ké. In L’Himby, where he was soon to arrive, there were celebrants gathering at the temples, their hopes raised by prophetics who’d appeared from hiding the night before to spread the word that the Reconciliation was imminent.

  No less inspired, Athanasius was presently traveling back along the Lenten Way to the borders of the Third and skimming the ocean to the islands, while a self more tender trod the changed streets of Yzordderrex. He found challenges there unknown to Scopique, Tick Raw, or even Gentle. There were slippery wonders loose on the streets that defied easy analogy. But in inviting Athanasius to join the Synod, Scopique had chosen better than he knew. The man’s obsession with Christos, the bleeding God, gave him a grasp of what the Goddesses had wrought that a man less preoccupied by death and resurrection would never have owned. In Yzordderrex’s ravaged streets he saw a reflection of his own physical ravagement. And in the music of the iconoclastic waters an echo of the blood that ran from his wounds, transformed—by love of the Holy Mother he had worshiped—into a sublime and healing liquor.

  Only Chicka Jackeen, at the borders of the First Dominion, had to work with abstractions, for there was nothing of a physical nature he could win similitudes from. All he had was the blank wall of the Erasure to set his mind on. Of the Dominion that lay beyond—which it fell to him to encapsulate and carry into the Ana—he had no knowledge.

  He hadn’t spent so many years studying the mystery without finding some means to tussle with it, however. Although his body offered no analogy for the enigma that lay on the other side of the divide, there was a place in him just as sealed from sight, and just as open to the inquiries made by dreaming explorers like himself. He let mind—the unbeheld process that empowered every meaningful action, that made the very devotion that kept him in his circle—be his similitude. The blank wall of the Erasure was the white bone of his skull, scoured of every scrap of meat and hair. The force inside, incapable of impartial self-study, was both the God of the First and the thoughts of Chicka Jackeen, bonded by mutual scrutiny.

  After tonight, both would be free of the curse of invisibility. The Erasure would drop and the Godhead come back into view to walk the Imajica. When that happened, when the same Godhead who’d taken the Nullianacs into His furnace and burned their malice away, was no longer divided from His Dominions, there would be a revelation such as had never been known before. The dead, trapped in their condition and unable to find the door, woul
d have a light to lead the way. And the living, no longer afraid to show their minds, would step from their houses like divinities, carrying their private heavens upon their heads for all to see.

  About his own work, Gentle had little grasp of what his fellow Maestros were achieving, but the absence of alarm from the other Dominions reassured him that all was well. All the pains and humiliations he’d endured to reach this place had been repaid in the little hours since he’d stepped into the circle. An ecstasy he’d only known for the duration of a heartbeat suffused him, confounding the conviction he’d had that such feelings only came in glimpses because to know them for longer would burst the heart. It wasn’t so. The ecstasy went on and on, and he was surviving it: more than surviving, burgeoning, his authority over the working stronger with every city and sea he retrieved into the circle where he sat.

  The Fifth was almost there with him now, sharing the space, teaching him with its coming where the true power of a Reconciler lay. It wasn’t a skill with feits and sways, nor was it pneumas, nor resurrections, nor the driving out of demons. It was the strength to call the myriad wonders of an entire Dominion by the names of his body and not be broken by the simile; to allow that he was in the world to its smallest degree, and the world in him, and not be driven to insanity by the intricacies he contained or else so enamored of the panoramas he was spread through that he lost all memory of the man he’d been.

  There was such pleasure in this process that laughter began to shake him as he sat in the circle. His good humor wasn’t a distraction from his purpose but instead made it easier still, his laugh-lightened thoughts running from the circle out to regions both bright and benighted and coming back with their prizes like runners sent with poems to a promised land, and returning with it on their backs, flowering as it came.

  II

  In the room above, Little Ease heard the laughter and capered in sympathy with the Liberatore’s joy. What else could such a sound mean, but that the deed was close to being done? Even if it didn’t see the consequences of this triumph, it thought, its last night in the living world had been immeasurably sweetened by all it had been a party to. And should there be an afterlife for such creatures as itself (although of this it was by no means certain), then its account of this night would be a fine tale to tell when it went into the company of its ancestors.

  Anxious not to disturb the Reconciler, it gave up its dance of celebration and was about to return to the window and its duties as night watchman when it heard a sound its paddings had concealed. Its gaze went from the sill to the ceiling. The wind had got up in the last little while and was skittering across the roof, rattling the slates as it went, or so Ease thought, until it realized the tree outside was as still as the Kwem at equinox.

  Little Ease didn’t come from a tribe of heroes; quite the reverse. The legends of its people concerned famous apologists, humblers, deserters, and cowards. Its instinct, hearing this sound from above, was to be away downstairs as fast as its bandy legs knew how. But it fought what came naturally, for the Reconciler’s sake, and cautiously approached the window in the hope of gaining a glimpse of what was happening above.

  It climbed up onto the sill and, belly up, slid itself out a little way, peering up at the eaves. A mist dirtied the starlight, and the roof was dark. It leaned a little farther out, the sill hard beneath its bony back. From the window below, the sound of the Reconciler’s laughter floated up, its music reassuring. Little Ease had time to smile, hearing it. Then something as dark as the roof and as dirty as the fog that covered the stars reached down and stopped its mouth. The attack came so suddenly Little Ease lost its grip on the window frame and toppled backwards, but its smotherer had too tight a hold on it to let it drop, and hauled it up onto the roof. Seeing the assembly there, Ease knew its errors instantly. One, it had stopped its nostrils and so failed to smell this congregation. Two, it had believed too much in a theology which taught that evil came from below. Not so, not so. While it had watched the street for Sartori and his legion, it had neglected the route along the roofs, which was just as secure for creatures as nimble as these.

  There were not more than six of them, but then there didn’t need to be. The gek-a-gek were feared among the feared; Oviates that only the most overweening of Maestros would have called into the Dominions. As massive as tigers, and as sleek, they had hands the size of a man’s head and heads as flat as a man’s hand. Their flanks were translucent in some lights, but here they had made a pact with darkness, and they lay—all but the smotherer—at the apex of the roof, their silhouettes concealing the Maestro until he rose and murmured that the captive be brought to his feet.

  “Now, Little Ease,” he said, the words too soft to be heard in the rooms below, but loud enough to make the creature evacuate its bowels in terror, “I want you to spill more than your shite for me.”

  III

  It gave Sartori no satisfaction to watch Little Ease’s life go out. The sense of exhilaration he’d felt at dawn when, having summoned the gek-a-gek, he’d contemplated the confrontation that lay a few hours off, had been all but sweated out of him by the heat of the intervening day. The gek-a-gek were powerful beasts and might well have survived the journey from Shiverick Square to Gamut Street, but no Oviate was fond of the light from any heaven, and rather than risk their debilitation, he’d stayed beneath the trees with his pride, counting off the hours. Only once had he ventured from their company and had found the streets deserted. The sight should have heartened him. With the area deserted he and the creatures would be unwitnessed when they moved on the enemy. But sitting in the silent bower with his dozing legion, undistracted by even the sound of a fly, his mind had been preyed upon by fears he’d always put away until now, fears fueled by the sight of these empty streets.

  Was it possible that his revisionist purposes were about to be overwhelmed by some still greater revision? He realized his dreams of a New Yzordderrex were valueless. He’d said as much to his brother in the tower. But even if he wasn’t to be an empire builder here, he still had something to live for. She was in the house in Gamut Street, yearning for him, he hoped, as he yearned for her. He wanted continuance, even if it was as Hell to Gentle’s Heaven. But the desertion of this city made him wonder if even that was a pipe dream.

  As the afternoon had crept on, he’d begun to look forward to reaching Gamut Street, simply for the signs of life it would provide. But he’d arrived to find precious little comfort here. The phantoms that lingered at the perimeters only reminded him of how uncharitable death really was, and the sounds that issued from the house itself (a girl’s giggling from one of the lower rooms, and later full-throated laughter, his brother’s, from the Meditation Room) only seemed to him signs of an idiot optimism.

  He wished he could scour these thoughts from his head, but there was no escape from them except, possibly, in the arms of his Judith. She was in the house, that he knew. But with the currents unleashed inside so strong, he dared not enter. What he wanted, and what he finally got from Little Ease, was intelligence as to her state and whereabouts. He’d assumed, wrongly as it turned out, that Judith was with the Reconciler. She’d taken herself off to Yzordderrex, Little Ease said, and come back with fabulous tales. But the Reconciler had not been much impressed by them. There’d been a fracas, and he’d begun his working alone.

  Why had she gone in the first place? he inquired, but the creature claimed it didn’t know and could not be persuaded to supply an answer even though its limbs were half twisted off and its brain pan opened to the gek-a-gek’s tongue. It had died protesting its ignorance, and Sartori had left the pride to toy with the carcass, taking himself off along the roof to turn over what he’d learned.

  Oh, for a wad of kreauchee, to subdue his impatience, or else make him brave enough to beat on the door and tell her to come out and make love among the phantoms. But he was too tender to face the currents. There’d come a time, very soon, when the Reconciler, his gathering completed, would retire to the A
na. At that juncture the circle, its power no longer needed as a conduit to carry the analogues back into its reservoir, would turn off those currents and turn its attention to conveying the Reconciler through the In Ovo. There, in that window between the Reconciler’s removal to the Ana and the completion of the working, he would act. He’d enter the house and let the gek-a-gek take Gentle (and any who rose to protect him) while he claimed Judith.

  Thinking of her, and of the kreauchee he yearned for, he brought the blue egg out of his pocket and put it to his lips. He’d kissed its cool a thousand times in the last few hours; licked it; sucked it. But he wanted it deeper inside him, locked up in his belly as she would be when they’d mated again. He put it in his mouth, threw back his head, and swallowed. It went down easily, and granted him a few minutes of calm while he waited for the hour of his deliverance.

  Had Clem’s head not had two tenants he might well have forsaken his place at the front door during the hours in which the Reconciler worked above. The currents which that process had unleashed had made his belly ache at the outset, but after a time their effect mellowed, suffusing his system with a serenity so persuasive he’d wanted to find a place to lie down and dream. But Tay had policed such dereliction of duty severely, and whenever Clem’s attention strayed he felt his lover’s presence—which was so subtly wed and interwoven with his thoughts it only became apparent when there was a conflict of interests—rousing him to fresh vigilance. So he kept his post, though by now it was surely an academic exercise.

  The candle he had set beside the door was drowning in its own wax, and he had just stooped to wick the lip and let the excess flow off when he heard something hitting the step outside, the sound like that of a fish being slapped on a slab. He gave up his candle work and put his ear to the door. There was no further sound. Had a fruit fallen from the tree outside the house, he wondered, or was there some stranger rain tonight? He went from the door, through to the room where Monday had been entertaining Hoi-Polloi. They’d left it for some more private place, taking two of the cushions with them. The thought that there were lovers in the house tonight pleased him, and he silently wished them well as he crossed to the window. It was darker outside than he’d expected, and though he had a view of the step he couldn’t distinguish between objects lying upon it and the designs that Monday had drawn there.