by Clive Barker
“Will he?” said Tick Raw. “I’m not so sure. He’s got the look of a man who’d be happier dead than alive.”
“Don’t say that.”
“Very well. I didn’t say it. But he has, Clement. And we all know it.”
The vigor and noise Tick Raw brought into the house only served to emphasize the truth of that observation. As the days passed and turned to weeks, there was little or no improvement in Gentle’s mood. He was, as Tick Raw had said, languishing, and Clem began to feel the way he had during Tay’s final decline. A loved one was slipping away, and he could do nothing to prevent it. There weren’t even those moments of levity that there’d been with Tay, when good times had been remembered and the pain superseded. Gentle wanted no false comforts, no laughter, no sympathy. He simply wanted to lie in his bed and steadily become as bland as the sheets he lay upon. Sometimes, in his sleep, the angels would hear him speaking in tongues, the way Tay had heard him talk before. But it was nonsense that he muttered: reports from a mind that was rambling without map or destination.
Tick Raw stayed in the house a month, leaving with Monday at dawn and returning late, having had another day seeing the sights and acquiring the appetites of this new Dominion. His sense of wonder was boundless, his capacity for pleasure prodigal. He found he had a taste for eel pie and Elgar, for Speaker’s Corner at Sunday noon and the Ripper’s haunts at midnight; for dog races, for jazz, for waistcoats made in Saville Row and women hired behind King’s Cross Station. As for Monday, it was clear from the face he wore whenever he returned that the hurt of Hoi-Polloi’s desertion was being kissed away. When Tick Raw finally announced that it was time to return to the Fourth, the boy was crestfallen.
“Don’t worry,” Tick told him. “I’ll be back. And I won’t be alone.”
Before he departed, he presented himself at Gentle’s bedside with a proposal.
“Come to the Fourth with me,” he said. “It’s time you saw Patashoqua.”
Gentle shook his head.
“But you haven’t seen the Merrow Ti’ Ti’,” Tick protested.
“I know what you’re trying to do, Tick,” Gentle said. “And I thank you for it, really I do, but I don’t want to see the Fourth again.”
“Well, what do you want to see?”
The answer was simple: “Nothing.”
“Oh, now stop this, Gentle,” Tick Raw said. “It’s getting damn boring. You’re behaving as though we lost everything. We didn’t.”
“I did.”
“She’ll come back. You’ll see.”
“Who will?”
“Judith.”
Gentle almost laughed at this. “It’s not Judith I’ve lost,” he said.
Tick Raw realized his error then, and came as near to dumbfounded as he ever got. All he could manage was: “Ah. . . .”
For the first time since Tick Raw had appeared at his bedside the month before, Gentle actually looked at his guest. “Tick,” he said. “I’m going to tell you something I’ve told nobody else.”
“What’s that?”
“When I was in my Father’s city . . .” He paused, as though the will to tell was going from him already, then began again. “When I was in my Father’s city I saw Pie ‘oh’ pah.”
“Alive?”
“For a time.”
“Oh, Jesu. How did it die?”
“The ground opened up beneath it.”
“That’s terrible; terrible.”
“Do you see now why it doesn’t feel like a victory?”
“Yes, I see. But Gentle—”
“No more persuasions, Tick.”
“—there are such changes in the air. Maybe there are the miracles in the First, the way there are in Yzordderrex. It’s not out of the question.”
Gentle studied his tormentor, eyes narrowed.
“The Eurhetemecs were in the First long before Hapexamendios, remember,” Tick went on. “And they worked wonders there. Maybe those times have returned. The land doesn’t forget. Men forget; Maestros forget. But the land? Never.”
He stood up.
“Come with me to a passing place,” he said. “Let’s look for ourselves. Where’s the harm? I’ll carry you on my back if your legs don’t work.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Gentle said, and throwing off the sheets got out of bed.
Though the month of August had yet to begin, the early months of summer had been marked by such excesses that the season had burned itself out prematurely, and when Gentle, accompanied by Tick and Clem, stepped out into Gamut Street, he met the first chills of autumn on the step. Clem had found the fog that let onto the First Dominion within forty-eight hours of the Reconciliation, but had not entered it. After all that he’d heard about the state of the Unbeheld’s city, he’d had no wish to see its horrors. He led the Maestros to the place readily enough, however. It was little more than half a mile from the house, hidden in a cloister behind an empty office building: a bank of gray fog, no more than twice the height of a man, which rolled upon itself in the shadowed corner of the empty yard.
“Let me go first,” Clem said to Gentle. “We’re still your guardians.”
“You’ve done more than enough,” Gentle said. “Stay here. This won’t take long.”
Clem didn’t contradict the instruction but stepped aside to let the Maestros enter the fog. Gentle had passed between Dominions many times now and was used to the brief disorientation that always accompanied such passage. But nothing, not even the abattoir nightmares that had haunted him after the Reconciliation, could have prepared him for what was waiting on the other side. Tick Raw, ever a man of instant responses, vomited as the stench of putrescence came to meet them through the fog, and though he stumbled after Gentle, determined not to leave his friend to face the First alone, he covered his eyes after a single glance.
The Dominion was decayed from horizon to horizon. Everywhere rot, and more rot: suppurating lakes of it, and festering hills. Overhead, in skies Gentle had barely seen as he passed through his Father’s city, clouds the color of old bruises half hid two yellowish moons, their light falling on a filth so atrocious the hungriest kite in the Kwem would have starved rather than feed here.
“This was the City of God, Tick,” Gentle said. “This was my Father. This was the Unbeheld.”
In a sudden fury he tore at Tick’s hands, which were clamped to the man’s face.
“Look, damn you, look! I want to hear you tell me about the wonders, Tick! Go on! Tell me! Tell me!”
Tick didn’t go back to the house when he and Gentle emerged from the passing place, but with some murmured words of apology headed off into the dusk, saying he needed to be on his home turf for a while and that he’d come back when he’d regained his composure. Sure enough, three days later he reappeared at number 28, still a little queasy, still a little shamefaced, to find that Gentle had not returned to his bed but was up and about. The Reconciler’s mood was brisk rather than blithe. His bed, he explained to Tick, was not the refuge it had previously been. As soon as he closed his eyes he saw the slaughterhouse of the First in every atrocious detail and could now only sleep when he’d driven himself to such exhaustion that there was no time between his head striking the pillow and oblivion for his mind to dwell on what he’d witnessed.
Luckily, Tick had brought distractions, in the form of a party of eight tourists (he preferred excursionists) from Vanaeph who were relying upon him to introduce them to the rites and rarities of the Fifth Dominion. Before the tour began, however, they were eager to pay their respects to the great Reconciler, and did so with a succession of painfully overworked speeches, which they read aloud before presenting Gentle with the gifts they’d brought: smoked meats, perfumes, a small picture of Patashoqua rendered in zarzi wings, a pamphlet of erotic poems by Pluthero Quexos’ sister.
The group was the first of many Tick brought in the next few weeks, freely admitting to Gentle that he was turning a handsome profit from his new role. “Have a Holy Day in the City of S
artori” was his pitch, and the more satisfied customers who returned to Vanaeph with tales of eel pies and Jack the Ripper, the more who signed on to take the excursion. He knew the boom time couldn’t last, of course. In a short while the professional tour operators in Patashoqua would start trading, and he’d be unable to compete with their slick packages, except in one particular regard. Only he could guarantee an audience, however brief, with the Maestro Sartori himself.
The time was coming, Gentle realized, when the Fifth would have to face the fact that it was Reconciled, whether it liked it or not. The first few sightseers from Vanaeph and Patashoqua might be ignored; but when their families came, and their families’ families—creatures in shapes, size, and assemblies that demanded attention—the people of this Dominion would be able to overlook them no longer. It would not be long before Gamut Street became a sacred highway, with travelers passing down it in not one but both directions. When it did, living in the house would become untenable. He, Clem, and Monday would have to vacate number 28 and leave it to become a shrine.
When that day arrived—and it would be soon—he would be forced to make a momentous decision. Should he seek out some sanctuary here in Britain or leave the island for a country where none of his lives had ever taken him? Of one thing he was certain: he would not return to the Fourth, or any Dominion beyond it. Though it was true that he’d never seen Patashoqua, there had only ever been one soul he’d wanted to see it with, and that soul was gone.
II
Times were no less strange or demanding for Jude. She’d decided to leave the company in Gamut Street on the spur of the moment, expecting that she’d return there in due course. But the longer she stayed away, the harder it became to return. She hadn’t realized, until Sartori was gone, how much she’d mourn. Whatever the source of the feelings she had for him, she felt no regrets. All she felt was loss. Night after night she’d wake up in the little flat she and Hoi-Polloi had rented together (the old place was too full of memories), shaken to tears by the same terrible dream. She was climbing those damn stairs in Gamut Street, trying to reach Sartori as he lay burning at the top, but for all her toil never managing to advance a single step. And always the same words on her lips when Hoi-Polloi woke her.
“Stay with me. Stay with me.”
Though he’d gone forever, and she would have to make her peace with that eventually, he’d left a living keepsake, and as the autumn months came it began to make its presence felt in no uncertain fashion, its kicking keeping her awake when the nightmares didn’t. She didn’t like the way she looked in the mirror, her stomach a glossy dome, her breasts swelling and tender, but Hoi-Polloi was there to lend comfort and companionship whenever it was needed. She was all Jude could have asked for during those months: loyal, practical, and eager to learn. Though the customs of the Fifth were a mystery to her at first, she soon became familiar with its eccentricities and even fond of them. This was not, however, a situation that could continue indefinitely. If they stayed in the Fifth, and Jude had the child there, what could she promise it? A rearing and an education in a Dominion that might come to appreciate the miracles in its midst some distant day, but would in the meantime ignore or reject whatever extraordinary qualities the child was blessed with.
By the middle of October she’d made up her mind. She’d leave the Fifth, with or without Hoi-Polloi, and find some country in the Imajica where the child, whether it was a prophetic, a melancholic, or simply priapic, would be allowed to flourish. In order to take that journey, of course, she would have to return to Gamut Street or its environs, and though that was not a particularly attractive prospect, it was better to do so soon, she reasoned, before many more sleepless nights took their toll and she felt too weak. She shared her plans with Hoi-Polloi, who declared herself happy to go wherever Jude wished to lead. They made swift preparations and four days later left the flat for the last time, with a small collection of valuables to pawn when they got to the Fourth.
The evening was cold, and the moon, when it rose, had a misty halo. By its light the thoroughfares around Gamut Street were iridescent with the first etchings of frost. At Jude’s request they went first to Shiverick Square, so that she could pay her last respects to Sartori. Both his grave and those of the Oviates had been well disguised by Monday and Clem, and it took her quite a while to find the place where he was buried. But find it she did and spent twenty minutes there while Hoi-Polloi waited at the railings. Though there were revenants in the nearby streets, she knew he would never join their ranks. He’d not been born, but made, the stuff of his life stolen. The only existence he had after his decease was in her memory and in the child. She didn’t weep for that fact, or even for his absence. She’d done all she could, weeping and begging him to stay. But she did tell the earth that she’d loved what it was heaped upon and charged it to give Sartori comfort in his dreamless sleep.
Then she quit the graveside, and together she and Hoi-Polloi went looking for the passing place into the Fourth. It would be day there, bright day, and she’d call herself by another name.
Number 28 was noisy that night, the cause a celebration in honor of Irish, who’d that afternoon been released from prison, having served a three-month sentence for petty theft, and had arrived on the doorstep—with Carol, Benedict, and several cases of stolen whisky—to toast his release. The house was by now a trove of treasures—all gifts to the Maestro from Tick Raw’s excursionists—and there was no end to the drunken fooling these artifacts, many of them total enigmas, inspired. Gentle was feeling as facetious as Irish, if not more so. After so many weeks of abstinence the substantial amounts of whisky he’d imbibed had his head spinning, and he resisted Clem’s attempts to engage him in serious conversation, despite the latter’s insistence that the matter was urgent. Only after some persuading did he follow Clem to a quieter place in the house, where his angels told him that Judith was in the vicinity. He was somewhat sobered by the news.
“Is she coming here?” he asked.
“I don’t think so,” Clem said, his tongue passing back and forth over his lips as though her taste was upon them. “But she’s close.”
Gentle didn’t need further prompting. With Monday in tow he went out into the street. There were no living creatures in sight. Only the revenants, listless as ever, their joylessness made all the more apparent by the sound of merrymaking that emanated from the house.
“I don’t see her,” Gentle said to Clem, who had followed them out as far as the step. “Are you sure she’s here?”
It was Tay who replied. “You think I wouldn’t know when Judy was near? Of course I’m certain.”
“Which direction?” Monday wanted to know.
Now Clem again, cautioning: “Perhaps she doesn’t want to see us.”
“Well, I want to see her,” Gentle replied. “At least a drink, for old time’s sake. Which direction, Tay?”
The angels pointed, and Gentle headed off down the street, with Monday, bottle in hand, close on his heels.
The fog that let onto the Fourth looked inviting: a slow wave of pale mist that turned and turned on itself, but never broke. Before she and Hoi-Polloi stepped into it, Jude took a few moments to look up. The Plow was overhead. She wouldn’t be seeing it again. Then she said, “That’s enough goodbyes,” and together they took a step into the mist.
As they did so Jude heard the sound of running feet in the alleyway behind them and Gentle, calling her name. She’d been aware that their presence might be detected and had schooled them both in how best to respond. Neither woman turned. They simply picked up their pace and headed on through the mist. It thickened as they went, but after a dozen steps daylight began to filter through from the other side, and the fog’s clammy cold gave way to balm. Again, Gentle called after her, but there was a commotion up ahead, and it all but drowned out his call.
Back in the Fifth, Gentle came to a halt at the edge of the fog. He’d sworn to himself that he’d never leave the Dominion again, but the drin
k swilling in his system had weakened his resolve. His feet itched to go after her into the fog.
“Well, boss,” Monday said. “Are we going or aren’t we?”
“Do you care either way?”
“Yes, as it happens.”
“You’d still like to get your hands on Hoi-Polloi, huh?”
“I dream about her, boss. Cross-eyed girls, every night.”
“Ah, well,” Gentle said. “If we’re chasing dreams, then I think that’s good reason to go.”
“Yeah?”
“In fact it’s the only reason.”
He grabbed hold of Monday’s bottle and took a healthy swig from it.
“Let’s do it,” he said, and together they plunged into the fog, running over ground that softened and brightened as they went, paving stones becoming sand, night becoming day.
They caught sight of the women briefly, gray silhouettes against the peacock sky ahead, then lost them again as they gave chase. The gleam of day grew, however, and so did the sound of voices, which rose to the din of an excited crowd as they emerged from the passing place. There were buyers, sellers, and thieves on every side, and, disappearing into the throng, the women. They followed with renewed fervor, but the tide of people conspired to keep them from their quarry, and after half an hour of fruitless pursuit, which finally brought them back to the fog and the commercial hubbub which surrounded it, they had to admit that they’d been outmaneuvered.
Gentle was tetchy now, his head no longer buzzing but aching. “They’re away,” he said. “Let’s give up on it.”
“Shit.”
“People come, people go. You can’t afford to get attached to anyone.”
“It’s too late,” Monday said dolefully. “I am.”
Gentle squinted at the fog, his lips pursed. It was a cold October on the other side.
“I tell you what,” he said after a little time. “We’ll wander over to Vanaeph and see if we can find Tick Raw. Maybe he can help us.”
Monday beamed. “You’re a hero, boss. Lead the way.”
