The Reconciliation

by Clive Barker

  “You're not alone,” Pie said, “You've met Tick Raw and Scopique. They were both members of the last Synod, and they're ready to work the Reconciliation with you.” “They're Maestros?”

  “They are now. They were novices the last time, but they're prepared now. They'll work in their Dominions while you work in the Fifth.”

  “They waited all this time?”

  “They knew you'd come. Or, if not you, somebody in your place.”

  He'd treated them both so badly, he thought, Tick Raw especially.

  “Who'll represent the Second?” he said. “And the First?”

  “There was a Eurhetemec in Yzordderrex, waiting to work for the Second, but he's dead. He was old the last time, and he couldn't wait. I asked Scopique to find a replacement.”

  “And here?”

  “I'd hoped that honor might fall to me, but now you'll need to find someone in my place. Don't look so lost, Maestro, please. You were a great Reconciler—”

  “I failed. How great is that?”

  “You won't fail again.”

  “I don't even know the ceremonies.”

  “You'll remember, after a time.”

  “How?”

  “All that we did and said and felt is still waiting in Gamut Street. All our preparations, all our debates. Even me.”

  “Memory isn't enough, Pie.”

  “I know....”

  “I want you real. I want you ... forever.”

  “Maybe, when the Imajica is whole again and the First Dominion opens, you'll find me.”

  There was some tiny hope in that, he thought, though whether it would be enough to keep him from despair when the mystif had disappeared he didn't know.

  “May I go?” Pie said.

  Gentle had never uttered a harder syllable than his next. “Yes,” he said.

  The mystif raised its hand, which was no more than a five-fingered wisp of smoke, and put it against Gentle's lips.

  He felt no physical contact, but his heart jumped in his chest.

  “We're not lost,” Pie said. “Trust in that.” Then the fingers dropped away, and the mystif started from Gentle's side towards the Erasure. There were perhaps a dozen yards to cover, and as the gap diminished Gentle's heart, already pounding after Pie's touch, beat faster, its drum tolling in his head. Even now, knowing he couldn't rescind the freedom he'd granted, it was all he could do not to pursue the mystif and delay it just another moment: to hear its voice, to stand beside it, to be the shadow of its shadow.

  It didn't glance back, but stepped with cruel ease into the no-man's-land between solidity and nothingness. Gentle refused to look away but stared on with a steadfastness more defiant than heroic. The place was well named. As the mystif walked it was erased, like a sketch that had served its Creator's purpose and was no longer needed on the page. But unlike the sketch, which however fastidiously erased always left some trace to mark the artist's error, when Pie finally disappeared the vanishing was complete, leaving the spot flawless. If Gentle had not had the mystif in his memory—that unreliable book—it might never have existed.

  5

  When he returned inside, it was to meet the stares of fifty or more people gathered at the door, all of whom had obviously witnessed what had just happened, albeit at some distance. Nobody so much as coughed until he'd passed; then he heard the whispers rise like the sound of swarming insects. Did they have nothing better to do than gossip about his grief? he thought. The sooner he was away from here, the better. He'd say his farewells to Estabrook and Floccus and leave immediately.

  He returned to Pie's bed, hoping the mystif might have left some keepsake for him, but the only sign of its presence was the indentation in the pillow on which its beautiful head had lain. He longed to lie there himself for a little time, but it was too public for such an indulgence. He would grieve when he was away from here.

  As he prepared to leave, Floccus appeared, his wiry little body twitching like a boxer anticipating a blow.

  “I'm sorry to interrupt,” he said.

  “I was coming to find you anyway,” Gentle said. “Just to say thank you, and goodbye.”

  “Before you go,” Floccus said, blinking maniacally, “I've a message for you.” He'd sweated all the color from his face and stumbled over every other word.

  “I'm sorry for my behavior,” Gentle said, trying to soothe him. “You did all you could have done, and all you got for it was my foul temper,”

  “No need to apologize.”

  “Pie had to go, and I have to stay. That's the way of it.”

  “It's a pleasure to have you back,” Floccus gushed. “Really, Maestro, really.”

  That Maestro gave Gentle a clue to this performance. “Floccus? Are you afraid of me?” he said. “You are, aren't you?”

  “Afraid? Ah, well—ah, yes. In a manner of speaking. Yes. What happened out there, your getting so close to the Erasure and not being claimed, and the way you've changed”—the dark garb still clung about him, he realized, its slow dispersal draping shreds of smoke around his limbs—“it puts a different complexion on things. I hadn't understood; forgive me, it was stupid; I hadn't understood, you know, that I was in the companyof, well, such a power. If I, you know, caused any offense—”

  “You didn't.”

  “I can be frivolous.”

  “You were fine company, Floccus.”

  “Thank you, Maestro. Thank you. Thank you.”

  “Please stop thanking me.”

  “Yes. I will. Thank you.”

  “You said you had a message.”

  “I did? I did.”

  “Who from?”

  “Athanasius. He'd like very much to see you.”

  Here was the third farewell he owed, Gentle thought. “Then take me to him, if you would,” he said, and Floccus, his face flooded with relief that he'd survived this interview, turned and led him from the empty bed.

  In the few minutes it took for them to thread their way through the body of the tent, the wind, which had dropped almost to nothing at twilight, began to rise with fresh ferocity. By the time Floccus ushered him into the chamber where Athanasius waited, it was beating at the walls wildly, The lamps on the floor flickered with each gust, and by their panicky light Gentle saw what a melancholy place Athanasius had chosen for their parting. The chamber was a mortuary, its floor littered with bodies wrapped in every kind of rag and shroud, some neatly parceled, most barely covered: further proof—as if it were needed—of how poor a place of healing this was. But that argument was academic now. This was neither the time nor the place to bruise the man's faith, not with the night wind thrashing at the walls and the dead everywhere underfoot.

  “Do you want me to stay?” Floccus asked Athanasius, clearly desperate to be shunned.

  “No, no. Go by all means,” the other replied. Floccus turned to Gentle and made a little bow. “It was an honor, sir,” he said, then beat a hasty retreat.

  When Gentle looked back towards Athanasius, the man had wandered to the far end of the mortuary and was staring down at one of the shrouded bodies. He had dressed for this somber place, the loose bright garb he'd been wearing earlier discarded in favor of robes so deep a blue they were practically black.

  “So, Maestro,” he said. “I was looking for a Judas in our midst and I missed you. That was careless, eh?”

  His tone was conversational, which made a statement Gentle already found confusing doubly so.

  “What do you mean?” he said.

  “I mean you tricked your way into our tents, and now you expect to depart without paying a price for your desecration.”

  “There was no trick,” Gentle said. “The mystif was sick, and I thought it could be healed here. If I failed to observe the formalities out there, you'll excuse me. I didn't have time to take a theology lesson.”

  “The mystif was never sick. Or if it was you sickened it yourself, so you could worm your way in here. Don't even bother to protest. I saw what you did out there.
What's the mystif going to do, make some report on us to the Unbeheld?”

  “What are you accusing me of exactly?”

  “Do you even come from the Fifth, I find myself wondering, or is that also part of the plot?”

  “There is no plot.”

  “Only I've heard that revolution and theology are bad bedfellows there, which of course seems strange to us. How can one ever be separated from the other? If you want to change even a little part of your condition, you must expect the consequences to reach the ears of divinities sooner or later, and then you must have your reasons ready.”

  Gentle listened to all of this, wondering if it might not be simplest to quit the room and leave Athanasius to ramble. Clearly none of this really made any sense. But he owed the man a little patience, perhaps, if only for the words of wisdom he'd bestowed at the wedding.

  “You think I'm involved in some conspiracy,” Gentle said. “Is that it?”

  “I think you're a murderer, a liar, and an agent of the Autarch,” Athanasius said,

  “You call me a liar? Who's the one who seduced all these poor fuckers into thinking they could be healed here, you or me? Look at them!” He pointed along the rows. “You call this healing? I don't. And if they had the breath—”

  He reached down and snatched the shroud off the corpse closest to him. The face beneath was that of a pretty woman. Her open eyes were glazed. So was her face: painted and glazed. Carved, painted, and glazed. He tugged the sheet farther back, hearing Athanasius' hard, humorless laugh as he did so. The woman had a painted child perched in the crook of her arm. There was a gilded halo around its head, and its tiny hand was raised in benediction.

  “She may lie very still,” Athanasius said. “But don't be deceived. She's not dead,”

  Gentle went to another of the bodies and drew back its covering. Beneath lay a second Madonna, this one more baroque than the first, its eyes turned up in a beatific swoon. He let the shroud drop from between his fingers.

  “Feeling weak, Maestro?” Athanasius said. “You conceal your fear very well, but you don't deceive me.”

  Gentle looked around the room again. There were at least thirty bodies laid out here. “Are all of them Madonnas?” he said.

  Reading Gentle's bewilderment as anxiety, Athanasius said, “Now I begin to see the fear. This ground is sacred to the Goddess.” “Why?”

  “Because tradition says a great crime was committed against Her sex near this spot. A woman from the Fifth Dominion was raped hereabouts, and the spirit of the Holy Mother calls sacred any ground thus marked.” He went down on his haunches and uncovered another of the statues, touching it reverentially. “She's with us here,” he said. “In every statue. In every stone. In every gust of wind. She blesses us, because we dare to come so close to Her enemy's Dominion.”

  “What enemy?”

  “Are you not allowed to utter his name without dropping to your knees?” Athanasius said. “Hapexamendios. Your Lord, the Unbeheld. You can confess it. Why not? You know my secret now, and I know yours. We're transparent to each other. I do have one question, however, before you leave.” “What's that?”

  “How did you find out we worship the Goddess? Was it Floccus who told you or Nikaetomaas?”

  “Nobody. I didn't know and I don't much care.” He started to walk towards the man. “I'm not afraid of your Virgins, Athanasius.”

  He chose one nearby and unveiled her, from starry crown to cloud-treading toe. Her hands were clasped in prayer. Stooping, just as Athanasius had, Gentle put his hand over the statue's knitted fingers.

  “For what it's worth,” he said, “I think they're beautiful. I was an artist once myself.”

  “You're strong. Maestro, I'll say that for you. I expected you to be brought to your knees by Our Lady.”

  “First I'm supposed to kneel for Hapexamendios; now for the Virgin.”

  “One in fealty, one in fear.”

  “I'm sorry to disappoint you, but my legs are my own. I'll kneel when I choose to. If I choose to.”

  Athanasius looked puzzled. “I think you half believe that,” he said.

  “Damn right I do. I don't know what kind of conspiracy you think I'm guilty of, but I swear there's none.”

  “Maybe you're more His instrument than I thought,” Athanasius said. “Maybe you're ignorant of His purpose.”

  “Oh, no,” Gentle said. “I know what work I'm meant to do, and I see no reason to be ashamed of it. If I can reconcile the Fifth I will. I want the Imajica whole, and I'd have thought you would too. You can visit the Vatican. You'll find it's full of Madonnas.”

  As though inspired to fury by his words, the wind beat at the walls with fresh venom, a gust finding its way into the chamber, raising several of the lighter shrouds into the air and extinguishing one of the lamps.

  “He won't save you,” Athanasius said, clearly believing this wind had come to carry Gentle away. “Nor will your ignorance, if that's what's kept you from harm.”

  He looked back towards the bodies he'd been studying as Floccus departed.

  “Lady, forgive us,” he said, “for doing this in your sight.”

  The words were a signal, it seemed. Four of the figures moved as he spoke, sitting up and pulling the shrouds from their heads. No Madonnas these. They were men and women of the Dearth, carrying blades like crescent moons. Athanasius looked back at Gentle.

  “Will you accept the blessing of Our Lady before you die?” he said.

  Somebody had already begun a prayer behind him, Gentle heard, and he glanced around to see that there were another three assassins there, two of them armed in the same lunatic fashion, the third—a girl no more than Huzzah's age, bare—breasted, doe-faced-darting between the rows uncovering statues as she went. No two were alike. There were Virgins of stone, Virgins of wood, Virgins of plaster. There were Virgins so crudely carved they were barely recognizable, and others so finely hewn and finished they looked ready to draw breath. Though minutes before, Gentle had laid his hand on one of this number without harm, the spectacle faintly sickened him. Did Athanasius know something about the condition of Maestros that he, Gentle, didn't? Might he somehow be subjugated by this image, the way in an earlier life he'd been enthralled by the sight of a woman naked, or promising nakedness?

  Whatever mystery was here, he wasn't about to let Athanasius murder him while he puzzled it out. He drew breath and put his hand to his mouth as Athanasius drew a weapon of his own and started towards him at speed. The breath proved faster than the blade. Gentle unleashed the pneuma, not at Athanasius directly, but at the ground in front of him. The stones it struck flew into pieces, and Athanasius fell back as the fusillade hit him. He dropped his knife and clamped his hands to his face, yelling as much in rage as in pain. If there was a command in his clamor the assassins missed or ignored it. They kept a respectful distance from Gentle as he walked towards their wounded leader, through an air still gray with motes of pulverized stone. Athanasius was lying on his side, propped on his elbow. Gentle went down on his haunches beside the man and carefully drew Athanasius' hands from his face. There was a deep cut beneath his left eye, and another above his right. Both were bleeding copiously, as were a score of littler cuts. None of them, however, would be calamitous for a man who wore wounds the way others wore jewelry. They would heal and add to his sum of scars.

  “Call your assassins off, Athanasius,” Gentle told him. “I didn't come here to hurt anybody, but if you press me to k I'll kill every last one of them. Do you understand me?” He put his arm beneath the man and hauled him to his feet. “Now call them off.”

  Athanasius shrugged himself free of Gentle's hold and scanned his cohorts through a drizzle of blood.

  “Let him pass,” he said. “There'll be another time.”

  The assassins between Gentle and the door parted, though none of them lowered or sheathed their weapons. Gentle stood up and left Athanasius' side, passing only to offer one final observation.

  “I would
n't want to kill the man who married me to Pie 'oh' pah,” he said, “so before you come after me again, examine the evidence against me, whatever it is. And search your heart. I'm not your enemy. All I want to do is to heal Imajica. Isn't that what your Goddess wants too?”

  If Athanasius had wanted to respond, he was too slow. Before he could open his mouth a cry rose from somewhere outside, and a moment later another, then another, then a dozen: all howls of pain and panic, twisted into eardrum—bruising screeches by the gusts that carried them. Gentle turned back to the door, but the wind had hold of the entire chamber, and even as he made to depart, one of the walls rose as if a titanic hand had seized hold of it and lifted it up into the air. The wind, bearing its freight of screams, rushed in, flinging the lamps over, their fuel spilled as they rolled before it. Caught by the very flames it had fed, the oil burst into bright yellow balls, by which light Gentle saw scenes of chaos on all sides. The assassins were being thrown over like the lamps, unable to withstand the power of the wind. One he saw impaled on her own blade. Another was carried into the oil and was instantly consumed by flame.

  “What have you summoned?” Athanasius yelled.

  “This isn't my doing,” Gentle replied.

  Athanasius screeched some further accusation, but it was snatched from his lips as the rampage escalated. Another of the chamber's walls was summarily snatched away, its tatters rising into the air like a curtain to unveil a scene of catastrophe. The storm was at work throughout the length of the tents, disemboweling the glorious and scarlet beast Gentle had entered with such awe. Wall after wall was shredded or wrenched from the ground, the ropes and pegs that had held them lethal as they flew. And visible beyond the turmoil, its cause: the once featureless wall of the Erasure, featureless no longer. It roiled the way the sky Gentle had seen beneath the Pivot had roiled, a maelstrom whose place of origin seemed to be a hole torn in the Erasure's fabric. The sight gave substance to Athanasius' charges. Threatened by assassins and Madonnas, had Gentle unwittingly summoned some entity out of the First Dominion to protect him? If so, he had to find it and subdue it before he had more innocent lives to add to the roster of those who'd perished because of him.