by Clive Barker
Gentle went on tiptoe, attempting to orient himself.
“Trouble is, I haven’t a bloody clue where Vanaeph is,” he said.
He collared the nearest passerby and asked him how to get to the Mount. The fellow pointed over the heads of the crowd, leaving the boss and his boy to burrow their way to the edge of the market, where they had a view not of Vanaeph but of the walled city that stood between them and the Mount of Lipper Bayak. The grin reappeared on Monday’s face, broader than ever, and on his lips the name he’d so often breathed like an enchantment.
“Patashoqua?”
“Yes.”
“We painted it on the wall together, d’you remember?”
“I remember.”
“What’s it like inside?”
Gentle was peering at the bottle in his hand, wondering if the peculiar exhilaration he felt was going to pass with the headache that accompanied it.
“Boss?”
“What?”
“I said, what’s it like inside?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never been.”
“Well, shouldn’t we?”
Gentle thrust the bottle at Monday and sighed, a lazy, easy sigh that ended in a smile. “Yes, my friend,” he said. “I think maybe we should.”
III
Thus began the last pilgrimage of the Maestro Sartori—called John Furie Zacharias, or Gentle, the Reconciler of Dominions—across the Imajica.
He hadn’t intended it to be a pilgrimage at all, but having promised Monday that they would find the woman of his dreams, he couldn’t bring himself to desert the boy and return to the Fifth. They began their search, of course, in Patashoqua, which was more prosperous than ever these days, with its proximity to the newly reconciled Dominion creating businesses every day. After almost a year of wondering what the city would be like, Gentle was inevitably somewhat disappointed once he got inside its walls, but Monday’s enthusiasm was a sight in itself, and a poignant reminder of his own astonishment when he and Pie had first entered the Fourth.
Unable to trace the women in the city, they went on to Vanaeph, hoping to find Tick. He was off traveling, they were told, but one sharp-sighted individual claimed to have seen two women who fitted the description of Jude and Hoi-Polloi hitching a ride at the edge of the highway. An hour later, Gentle and Monday were doing the same thing, and the pursuit that was to take them across the Dominions began in earnest.
For the Maestro the journey was very different from those that had preceded it. The first time he’d made this trek he’d traveled in ignorance of himself, failing to comprehend the significance of the people he’d met and the places he’d seen. The second time he’d been a phantom, flying at the speed of thought between members of the Synod, his business too urgent to allow him to appreciate the myriad wonders he was passing through. But now, finally, he had both the time and the comprehension to make sense of his pilgrimage, and, having begun the journey reluctantly, he soon had as much taste for it as his companion.
Word of the changes in Yzordderrex had spread even to the tiniest villages, and the demise of the Autarch’s Empire was everywhere cause for jubilation. Rumors of the Imajica’s healing had also spread, and when Monday told people where he and his quiet companion came from (which he was wont to do at the vaguest cue) they were plied with drinks and grilled for news of the paradisiacal Fifth. Many of their questioners, knowing that the door into that mystery finally stood open, were planning to visit the Fifth and wanted to know what gifts they should take with them into a Dominion that was already so full of marvels. When this question was put, Gentle, who usually let Monday do the talking during these interviews, invariably spoke up.
“Take your family histories,” he’d say. “Take your poems. Take your jokes. Take your lullabies. Make them understand in the Fifth what glories there are here.”
People tended to look at him askance when he answered in this fashion, and told him that their jokes and their family histories didn’t seem particularly glorious. Gentle would simply say, “They’re you. And you’re the best gift the Fifth could be given.”
“You know, we could have made a fortune if we’d brought a few maps of England with us,” Monday remarked one day.
“Do we care about fortunes?” Gentle said.
“You might not, boss,” Monday replied. “Personally, I’m much in favor.”
He was right, Gentle thought. They could have sold a thousand maps already, and they were only just entering the Third: maps which would have been copied, and the copies copied, each transcriber inevitably adding their own felicities to the design. The thought of such proliferation led Gentle back to his own hand, which had seldom worked for any purpose other than profit, and which for all its labor had never produced anything of lasting value. But unlike the paintings he’d forged, maps weren’t cursed by the notion of a definitive original. They grew in the copying, as their inaccuracies were corrected, their empty spaces filled, their legends redevised. And even when all the corrections had been made, to the finest detail, they could still never be cursed with the word finished, because their subject continued to change. Rivers widened and meandered, or dried up altogether; islands rose and sank again; even mountains moved. By their very nature, maps were always works in progress, and Gentle—his resolve strengthened by thinking of them that way—decided after many months of delay to turn his hand to making one.
Occasionally along the road they’d meet an individual who, in ignorance of his audience, would boast some association with the Fifth’s most celebrated son, the Maestro Sartori, and would proceed to tell Gentle and Monday about the great man. The accounts varied, especially when it came to talk of his companion. Some said he’d had a beautiful woman at his side; some his brother, called Pie; others still (these the least numerous) told of a mystif. At first it was all Monday could do not to blurt the truth, but Gentle had insisted from the outset that he wanted to travel incognito, and having been sworn to secrecy the boy was as good as his word. He kept his silence while wild tales of the Maestro’s doings were told: marriages celebrated on the ceiling; copses springing up overnight where he’d slept; women made pregnant drinking from his cup. The fact that he’d become a figment of the popular imagination amused Gentle at first, but after a time it began to weigh on him. He felt like a ghost among these living versions of himself, invisible among the listeners who gathered to hear tales of his exploits, the details of which were embroidered and embellished with every telling.
There was some comfort in the fact that he was not the only character around whom such parables occurred. There were other fables alive in the air between the ears and tongues of the populace, which the pilgrims were usually told when they asked after Jude and Hoi-Polloi: tales of miraculous women. A whole new nomadic tribe had appeared in the Dominions since the fall of Yzordderrex. Women of power were abroad, rising to the occasion of their liberation, and rites they’d only practiced at the hearth and cot were now performed in the open air for all to see. But unlike the stories of the Maestro Sartori, most of which were pure invention, Gentle and Monday saw ample evidence that the stories concerning these women were rooted in truth. In the province around Mai-ké, for instance, which had been a dust bowl during Gentle’s first pilgrimage, they found fields green with the first crop in six seasons, courtesy of a woman who’d sniffed out the course of an underground river and coaxed it to the surface with sways and supplications. In the temples of L’Himby a sibyl had carved from a solid slab—using only her finger and her spittle—a representation of the city as she prophesied it would be in a year’s time, her prophecy so mesmeric that her audience had gone out of the temple that very hour and had torn down the trash that had disfigured their city. In the Kwem—where Gentle took Monday in the hope of finding Scopique—they found instead that the once shallow pit where the Pivot had stood was now a lake, its waters crystalline but its bottom hidden by the congregation of life that was forming in it: birds, mostly, which rose in sudden excited flocks
, fully feathered and ready for the sky.
Here they had a chance to meet the miracle worker, for the woman who’d made these waters (literally, her acolytes said; it was the pissing of a single night) had taken up residence in the blackened husk of the Kwem Palace. In the hope of gleaning some clue to Jude and Hoi-Polloi’s whereabouts, Gentle ventured into the shadows to find the lake maker, and though she refused to show herself she answered his inquiry. No, she hadn’t seen a pair of travelers such as he described, but yes, she could tell him where they’d gone. There were only two directions for wandering women these days, she explained: out of Yzordderrex and into it.
He thanked her for this information and asked her if there was anything he could do for her in return. She told him that there was nothing she wanted from him personally, but she’d be very glad of the company of his boy for an hour or two. Somewhat chagrined, Gentle went out and asked Monday if he was willing to chance the woman’s embrace for a while. He said he was and left the Maestro to find himself a seat by the bird-breeding lake while he ventured into its maker’s boudoir. It was the first time in Gentle’s life that any woman in search of sexual attentions had passed him over for another. If ever he’d needed proof that his day was done, it was here.
When, after two hours, Monday reappeared (with a flushed face and ringing ears), it was to find Gentle sitting at the lakeside, long ago tired of working on his map, surrounded by several small cairns of pebbles.
“What are these?” the boy said.
“I’ve been counting my romances,” Gentle replied. “Each one of them is a hundred women.”
There were seven cairns.
“Is that them all?” Monday said.
“It’s all that I remember.”
Monday squatted down beside the stones. “I bet you’d like to love them all over again,” he said.
Gentle thought about this for a little time and finally said, “No. I don’t think so. I’ve done my best work. It’s time to leave it to the younger men.”
He tossed the stone he had in hand out into the middle of the teeming lake.
“Before you ask,” he said. “That was Jude.”
There were no diversions after that, nor any need to pursue rumors of women hither and thither. They knew where Jude and Hoi-Polloi had gone. Having left the lake, they were on the Lenten Way within a matter of hours. Unlike so much else, the Way hadn’t changed. It was as busy and as wide as ever: an arrow, driving its straight way into the hot heart of Yzordderrex.
Twenty-six
I
IN THE FIFTH, WINTER came: not suddenly but certainly. Hallowe’en was the last time people chanced the night air without coats, hats, and gloves, and it saw the first substantial visitation of Londoners to Gamut Street—revelers who’d taken the spirit of All Hallow’s Eve to heart and come to see if there was any truth in the bizarre rumors they’d heard about the neighborhood. Some retreated after a very short time, but the braver among them stayed to explore, a few lingering outside number 28, where they puzzled over the designs on the door and peered up at the carbonized tree that shaded the house from the stars.
After that evening the cold’s nip became a bite, and the bite a gnaw, until by late November the temperatures were low enough to keep even the most ardent tomcat at the fire. But the flow of visitors—in both directions—didn’t cease. Night after night ordinary citizens appeared in Gamut Street to brush shoulders with the excursionists who were coming in the opposite direction. Some of the former became such regular visitors that Clem began to recognize them and was able to watch their investigations grow less tentative as they realized that the sensations they felt were not the first signs of lunacy. There were wonders to be found here, and one by one these men and women must have discovered the source, because they invariably disappeared. Others, perhaps too afraid to venture into the passing places alone, came with trusted friends, showing them the street as though it were a secret vice, talking in whispers, then laughing out loud when they found their loved ones could see the apparitions too.
Word was spreading. But that fact was the only pleasure those bitter days and nights provided. Though Tick Raw spent more and more time in the house and was lively company, Clem missed Gentle badly. He hadn’t been altogether surprised at his abrupt departure (he’d known, even if Gentle hadn’t, that sooner or later the Maestro would leave the Dominion), but now his truest company was the man with whom he shared his skull, and as the first anniversary of Tay’s death approached the mood of both grew steadily darker. The presence of so many living souls on the street only served to make the revenants who’d occupied it through the summer months feel further disenfranchised, and their distress was contagious. Though Tay had been happy to stay with Clem through the preparations for the Great Work, their time as angels was over, and Tay felt the same need as those ghosts who roamed outside the house: to be gone.
As December came, Clem began to wonder how many more weeks he could keep his post, when it seemed every hour the despair of the ghost in him grew. After much debate with himself he decided that Christmas would mark the last day of his service in Gamut Street. After that he’d leave number 28 to be tramped around by Tick’s excursionists and go back to the house where a year before he and Tay had celebrated the Return of the Unvanquished Sun.
II
Jude and Hoi-Polloi had taken their time crossing the Dominions, but with so many roads to choose between, and so many incidental joys along the way, going quickly seemed almost criminal. They had no reason to hurry. There was nothing behind them to drive them on, and nothing in front summoning them. At least, so Jude pretended. Time and time again, when the issue of their ultimate destination cropped up in conversation, she avoided talking about the place she knew in her heart of hearts they would eventually reach. But if the name of that city wasn’t on her lips, it was on the lips of almost every other woman they met, and when Hoi-Polloi mentioned that it was her birthplace questions from fellow travelers would invariably flow thick and fast. Was it true that the harbor was now filled at every tide with fish that had swum up from the depths of the ocean, ancient creatures that knew the secret of the origins of women and swam up the rivered streets at night to worship the Goddesses on the hill? Was it true that the women there could have children without any need of men whatsoever, and that some could even dream babies into being? And were there fountains in that city that made the old young, and trees on which every fruit was new to the world? And so on, and so forth.
Though Jude was willing, if pressed, to supply descriptions of what she’d seen in Yzordderrex, her accounts of how the palace had been refashioned by water, and of streams that defied gravity, were not particularly remarkable in the face of what rumor was claiming about Yzordderrex. After a few conversations in which she was urged to describe marvels she had no knowledge of—as though the questioners were willing her to invent prodigies rather than disappoint them—she told Hoi-Polloi she’d not be drawn into any further debates on the subject. But her imagination refused to ignore the tales it heard, however preposterous, and with every mile they traveled along the Lenten Way, the idea of the city awaiting them at the end of their journey grew more intimidating. She fretted that perhaps the blessings bestowed on her there would be valueless after all the time she’d spent away from the place. Or that the Goddesses knew that she’d told Sartori—in all truth—that she loved him, and that Jokalaylau’s condemnation of her would carry the day if she ever went back into their temple.
Once they were on the Lenten Way, however, such fears became academic. They were not going to turn back now, especially as both of them were becoming steadily more exhausted. The city called them out of the fogs that lay between Dominions, and they would go into it together and face whatever judgments, prodigies, and deep-sea fish were waiting there.
Oh, but it was changed. A warmer season was on the Second than when Jude had last been here, and with so much water running in the streets the air was tropical. But more breathtaking
than the humidity was the growth it had engendered. Seeds and spores had been carried up from the seams and caverns beneath the city in vast numbers, and under the influence of the Goddesses’ feits had matured with preternatural speed. Ancient forms of vegetation, most long believed extinct, had greened the rubble, turning the Kesparates into luxuriant jungle. In the space of half a year Yzordderrex had come to resemble a lost city, sacred to women and children, its desolation salved by flora. The smell of ripeness was everywhere, its source the fruits that glistened on vine and bough and bush, the abundance of which had in turn attracted animals that would never have dared Yzordderrex under its previous regime. And running through this cornucopia, feeding the seeds it had raised from the underworld, the eternal waters, still flowing up the hillsides in their riotous way but no longer carrying their fleets of prayers. Either the requests of those who lived here had been answered, or else their baptisms had made them their own healers and restorers.
Jude and Hoi-Polloi didn’t go up to the palace the day they arrived. Nor the day after, nor the day after that. Instead, they searched for the Peccable house and there made themselves comfortable, though the tulips on the dining room table had been replaced by a throng of blossoms that had erupted through the floor, and the roof had become an aviary. After so long a journey, in which they’d not known from night to night where they were going to lay their heads, these were minor inconveniences, and they were grateful to be at rest, lulled to sleep by cooings and chatterings in beds that were more like bowers. When they woke, there was plenty to eat: fruit that could be picked off the trees, water that ran clear and cold in the street outside, and, in some of the larger streams, fish, which formed the staple diet of the clans that lived in the vicinity.
There were men as well as women among these extended families, some of whom must have been members of the mobs and armies that had run so brutally riot on the night the Autarch fell. But either gratitude at having survived the revolution or the calming influence of the growth and plenitude around them had persuaded them to better purpose. Hands that had maimed and murdered were now employed rebuilding a few of the houses, raising their walls not in defiance of the jungle, or the waters that fed it, but in league with both. This time, the architects were women, who’d come down from their baptisms inspired to use the wreckage of the old city to create a new one, and everywhere Jude saw echoes of the serene and elegant aesthetic that marked the Goddesses’ handiwork.
