The Reconciliation

by Clive Barker

“Who?”

  “Haven't you seen the headlines? They're all dead. Lionel, McGann, Bloxham. Even the ladies. Shales was in his bed. Cut up in pieces in his own bed, I ask you, what kind of creature does that?”

  “A quiet one.”

  “How can you joke?”

  “I joke, you sweat. We deal with it the best way we know how.” She sighed. “You're a better man than this, Oscar. You shouldn't be hiding away. There's work to do.”

  “Don't tell me about your damn Goddess, Judith. It's a lost cause. The tower'll be rubble by now.”

  “If there's any help for us,” she said, “it's there. I know it. Come with me, won't you? I've seen you brave. What's happened to you?”

  “I don't know,” he said. “I wish I did. All these years I've been crossing over to Yzordderrex, not giving a damn where I put my nose, not caring whether I was at risk or not, as long as there were new sights to see. It was another world. Maybe another me, too.”

  “And here?”

  He made a baffled face. “This is England,” he said. “Safe, rainy, boring England, where the cricket's bad and the beer's warm. This isn't supposed to be a dangerous place.”

  “But it is, Oscar, whether we like it or not. There's a darkness here worse than anything in Yzordderrex. And it's got your scent. There's no escaping that. It's coming after you. And me, for all I know.”

  “But why?”

  “Maybe it thinks you can do it some harm.”

  “What can I do? I don't know a damn thing.”

  “But we could learn,” she said. “That way, if we're going to die, at least it won't be in ignorance.”

  12

  DESPITE OSCAR'S PREDICTION, the Tabula Rasa's tower was still standing, any trace of distinction it might have once owned eroded by the sun, which blazed with noonday fervor at well past three. Its ferocity had taken its toll on the trees that shielded the tower from the road, leaving their leaves to hang like dishrags from their branches. If there were any birds taking cover in the foliage, they were too exhausted to sing.

  “When were you last here?” Oscar asked Jude as they drove into the empty forecourt.

  She told him about her encounter with Bloxham, squeezing the account for its humorous effect in the hope of distracting Oscar from his anxiety.

  “I never much liked Bloxham,” Oscar replied. “He was so damn full of himself. Mind you, so were we all....” His voice trailed away, and with all the enthusiasm of a man approaching the execution block, he got out of the car and led her to the front door.

  “There's no alarms ringing,” he said. “If there's anybody inside, they got in with a key.”

  He'd pulled a cluster of his own keys out of his pocket and selected one.

  “Are you sure this is wise?” he asked her.

  “Yes, I am.”

  Resigned to this insanity, he unlocked the door and, after a moment's hesitation, headed inside. The foyer was cold and gloomy, but the chill only served to make Jude brisk.

  “How do we get down into the cellar?” she said.

  “You want to go straight down there?” he replied. “Shouldn't we check upstairs first? Somebody could be here.”

  “Somebody is here, Oscar. She's in the cellar. You can check upstairs if you want to, but I'm going down. The less time we waste the sooner we're out of here.”

  It was a persuasive argument, and he conceded to it with a little nod. He dutifully fished through the bunch of keys a second time and, having chosen one, went over to the farthest and smallest of the three closed doors ahead. Having taken his time selecting the right key, he now took even longer to get it into the lock and coax it into turning.

  “How often have you been down there?” she asked him while he worked.

  “Only twice,” he replied. “It's a pretty grim place.”

  “I know,” she reminded him.

  “On the other hand, my father seemed to make quite a habit of exploring down there. There's rules and regulations, you know, about nobody looking through the library on their own, in case they're tempted by something they read. I'm sure he flouted all that. Ah!” The key turned. “That's one of them!” He selected a second key and started on the other lock.

  “Did your father talk to you about the cellar?” she asked him.

  “Once or twice. He knew more about the Dominions than he should have done. I think he even knew a few feits. I can't be sure. He was a cagey bugger. But at the end, when he was delirious, he'd mutter these names. Patashoqua, I remember. He repeated that over and over.”

  “Do you think he ever crossed into the Dominions?”

  “I doubt it.”

  “So you worked out how to do that on your own?”

  “I found a few books down here and smuggled them out. It wasn't difficult to get the circle working. Magic doesn't decay. It's about the only thing”—he paused, grunted, forced the key—“that doesn't.” It began to turn, but not all the way. “I think Papa would have liked Patashoqua,” he went on. “But it was only a name to him, poor sod.”

  “It'll be different after the Reconciliation,” Jude said. “I know it's too late for him—”

  “On the contrary,” Oscar said, grimacing as he bullied the key. “From what I hear, the dead are just as locked up as the rest of us. There's spirits everywhere, according to Peccable, ranting and raving.”

  “Even in here?”

  “Especially in here,” he said.

  With that, the lock gave up its resistance, and the key turned.

  “There,” he said. “Just like magic.”

  “Wonderful.” She patted his back. “You're a genius.”

  He grinned at her. The dour, defeated man she'd found sweating in the pews an hour ago had lightened considerably now there was something to distract him from his death sentence. He withdrew the key from the lock and turned the handle. The door was stout and heavy, but it opened without much resistance. He preceded her into the darkness.

  “If I remember right,” he said, “there's a light here.

  No?” He patted the wall to the side of the door. “Ah! Wait!”

  A switch flipped, and a row of bare bulbs, strung from a cable, illuminated the room. It was large, wood-paneled, and austere.

  “This is the one part of Roxborough's house still intact, besides the cellar.” There was a plain oak table in the middle of the room, with several chairs around it, “This is where they met, apparently: the first Tabula Rasa. And they kept meeting here, over the years, until the house was demolished.”

  “Which was when?”

  “In the late twenties.”

  “So a hundred and fifty years of Godolphin bums sat on one of those seats?”

  “That's right.”

  “Including Joshua.”

  “Presumably.”

  “I wonder how many of them I knew?”

  “Don't you remember?”

  “I wish I did. I'm still waiting for the memories to come back. In fact, I'm begining to wonder if they ever will.”

  “Maybe you're repressing them for a reason?”

  “Why? Because they're so appalling I can't face them? Because I acted like a whore; let myself be passed around the table with the port, left to right? No, I don't think that's it at all. I can't remember because I wasn't really living. I was sleepwalking, and nobody wanted to wake me.”

  She looked up at him, almost defying him to defend his family's ownership of her. He said nothing, of course. Instead, he moved to the vast grate, ducking beneath the mantelpiece, selecting a third key as he went. She heard him slot it in the lock and turn it, heard the motion of cogs and counterweights its turning initiated, and, finally, heard the groan of the concealed door as it opened. He glanced back at her.

  “Are you coming?” he said. “Be careful. The steps are steep.”

  The flight was not only steep but long. What little light spilled from the room above dwindled after hahf a dozen steps, and she descended twice that number in darkness before Oscar found a
switch below, and lights ran off along the labyrinth. A sense of triumph ran through her. She'd put her desire to find a way into this underworld aside many times since the dream of the blue eye had brought her to Celestine's cell, but it had never died. Now, finally, she was going to walk where her dream sight h'ad gone, through this mine of books with its seams to the ceiling, to the place where the Goddess lay.

  “This is the single largest collection of sacred texts since the library at Alexandria,” Oscar said, his museum-guide tone a defense, she suspected, against the sense of moment he shared with her. “There are books here even the Vatican doesn't know exist.” He lowered his voice, as though there might be other browsers here that he'd disturb if he spoke too loudly. “The night he died, Papa told me he found a book here written by the Fourth King.”

  “The what?”

  “There were three kings at Bethlehem, remember? According to the Gospels. But the Gospels lied. There were four. They were looking for the Reconciler.”

  “Christ was a Reconciler?”

  “So Papa said.”

  “And you believe that?”

  “Papa had no reason to lie.”

  “But the book, Oscar; the book could have lied.”

  “So could the Bible. Papa said this Magi wrote his story because he knew he'd been cut out of the Gospels. It was this fellow named the Imajica. Wrote the word down in this book. There it was on the page for the first time in history. Papa said he wept.”

  Jude surveyed the labyrinth that spread from the foot of the stairs with fresh respect. “Have you tried to find the book since?”

  “I didn't need to. When Papa died I went in search of the real thing. I traveled back and forth as though Christos had succeeded and the Fifth was reconciled. And there they were, the Unbeheld's many mansions.”

  And there, too, the most enigmatic player in this interDominional drama: Hapexamendios. If Christos was a Reconciler, did that make the Unbeheld Christos' Father? Was the force in hiding behind the fogs of the First Dominion the Lord of Lords, and, if so, why had He crushed every Goddess across the Imajica, as legend said He had? One question begged another, all from a few claims made by a man who'd knelt at the Nativity. No wonder Roxborough had buried these books alive.

  “Do you know where your mystery woman's lurking?” Oscar said.

  “Not really.”

  “Then we've got a hell of a search on our hands,”

  “I remember there was a couple making love down here, near her cell. One of them was Bloxham.”

  “Dirty little bugger. So we should be looking for some stains on the floor, is that it? I suggest we split up, or we'll be here all summer.”

  They parted at the stairs and made their separate ways. Jude soon discovered how strangely sound carried in the tunnels. Sometimes she could hear Godolphin's footsteps so clearly she thought he must be following her. Then she'd turn a corner (or else he would) and the noise would not simply fade but vanish altogether, leaving only the pad of her own soles on the cold stone to keep her company. They were buried too deeply for even the remotest murmur from the street above to penetrate, nor was there any suspicion of sound from the earth around them: no hum of cables; no sluicing of drains.

  She was several times tempted to pluck one of the tomes from its shelf, thinking perhaps serendipity would put her in reach of the diary of the Fourth King. But she resisted, knowing that even if she had time to browse here, which she didn't, the volumes were written in the great languages of theology and philosophy: Latin, Greek, Hebrew, and Sanskrit, all incomprehensible to her. As ever on this journey, she'd have to beat a track to the truth by instinct and wit alone. Nothing had been given to her to illuminate the way except the blue eye, and that was in Gentle's possession now. She'd reclaim it as soon as she saw him again, give him something else as a talisman: the hair of her sex, if that's what he wanted. But not her egg; not her cool blue egg.

  Maybe it was these thoughts that ushered her to the place where the lovers had stood; maybe it was that same serendipity she'd hoped might lead her hand to the King's book. If so, this was a finer leading. Here was the wall where Bloxham and his mistress had coupled; she knew it without a trace of doubt. Here were the shelves the woman had clung to while her ridiculous beau had labored to fulfill her. Between the books they bore, the mortar was tinged with the faintest trace of blue. She didn't call Oscar but went to the shelves and took down several armfuls of books, then put her fingers to the stains. The wall was bitterly cold, but the mortar crumbled beneath her touch, as though her sweat was sufficient agent to unbind its elements. She was shocked at what she'd caused, and gratified, retreating from the wall as the message of dissolution spread with extraordinary rapidity. The mortar began to run from between the bricks like the finest of sand, its trickle becoming a torrent in seconds.

  “I'm here,” she told the prisoner behind the wall. “God knows, I've taken my time. But I'm here.”

  Oscar didn't catch Jude's words, not even the remotest echo. His attention had been claimed two or three minutes before by a sound from overhead, and he'd climbed the stairs in pursuit of its source. He'd disgraced his manhood enough in the last few days, hiding himself away like a frightened widow, and the thought that he might reclaim some of the respect he'd lost in Jude's eyes by confronting the trespasser above gave purpose to the chase. He'd armed himself with a piece of timber he'd found at the bottom of the stairs and was almost hoping as he went that his ears weren't playing tricks on him, and that there was indeed something tangible up above. He was sick of being in fear of rumors, and of pictures half glimpsed in flying stones. If there was something to see, he wanted to see it and either be damned in the seeing or cured of fear.

  At the top of the stairs he hesitated. The light spilling through the door from Roxborough's room was moving, very slightly. He took his bludgeon in both hands and stepped through the door. The room swung with the lights, the solid table and its solid chairs giddied by the motion. He surveyed the room from corner to corner. Finding every shadow empty, he moved towards the door that led out into the foyer, as delicately as his bulk allowed. The rocking of the lights settled as he went, and they were still by the time he reached the door. As he stepped outside a perfume caught his nostrils, as sweet as the sudden, sharp pain in his side was sour. He tried to turn but his attacker dug a second time. The timber went from his hand, and a shout came from his lips....

  “Oscar?”

  She didn't want to leave the wall of Celestine's cell when it was undoing itself with such gusto—the bricks were dropping onto each other as the mortar between them decayed, and the shelves were creaking, ready to fall—but Oscar's shout demanded her attention. She headed back through the maze, the sound of the wall's capitulation echoing through the passageways, confounding her. But she found her way back to the stairs after a time, yelling for Oscar as she went. There was no reply from the library itself, so she decided to climb back up into the meeting room. That too was silent and empty, as was the foyer when she got to it, the only sign that Oscar had passed through a block of wood lying close to the door. What the hell was he up to? She went out to see if he'd returned to the car for some reason, but there was no sign of him in the sun, which narrowed the options to one: the tower above.

  Irritated, but a little anxious now, she looked towards the open door that led back into the cellar, torn between returning to welcome Celestine and following Oscar up the tower. A man of his bulk was perfectly capable of defending himself, she reasoned, but she couldn't help but feel some residue of responsibility, given that she'd cajoled him into coming here in the first place.

  One of the doors looked to be a lift, but when she appreached she heard the hum of its motor in action, so rather than wait she went to the stairs and began to climb. Though the flight was in darkness, she didn't let that slow her but mounted the stairs three and four at a time until she reached the door that led out onto the top floor. As she groped for the handle she heard a voice from the suite
beyond. The words were indecipherable, but the voice sounded cultivated, almost clipped. Had one of the Tabula Rasa survived after all? Bloxham, perhaps, the Casanova of the cellar?

  She pushed the door open. It was brighter on the other side, though not by that much. All the rooms along the corridor were murky pits, their drapes drawn. But the voice led her on through the gloom towards a pair of doors, one of which was ajar. A light was burning on the other side. She approached with caution, the carpet underfoot lush enough to silence her tread. Even when the speaker broke off from his monologue for a few moments she continued to advance, reaching the suite without a sound. There was little purpose in delay, she thought, once she was at the threshold. Without a word, she pushed open the door.

  There was a table in the room, and on it lay Oscar, in a double pool: one of light, the other of blood. She didn't scream, or even sicken, even though he was laid open like a patient in mid-surgery. Her thoughts flew past the horror to the man and his agonies. He was alive. She could see his heart beating like a fish in a red pool, gasping its last.

  The surgeon's knife had been cast onto the table beside him, and its owner, who was presently concealed by shadow, said, “There you are. Come in, why don't you? Come in.” He put his hands, which were clean, on the table. “It's only me, lovey.”

  “Dowd....”

  “Ah! To be remembered. It seems such a little thing, doesn't it? But it's not. Really, it's not.”

  The old theatricality was still in his manner, but the mellifluous quality had gone from his voice. He sounded, and indeed looked, like a parody of himself, his face a mask carved by a hack.

  “Do join us, lovey,” he said. “We're in this together, after all.”

  Startled as she was to see him (though hadn't Oscar warned her that his type was difficult to kill?) she didn't feel intimidated by him. She'd seen his tricks and deceits and performances; she'd seen him hanging over an abyss, begging for life. He was ridiculous.