by Clive Barker
“I thought you was a goner, boss,” he said.
“Almost,” came the reply.
“What do we do about Godolphin?” Clem said as the trio headed down, together.
“We don't need to do anything,” Gentle said. “There's an open window—”
“I don't think he's going to be flying anywhere.”
“No, but the birds can get to him,” Gentle said lightly. “Better to fatten birds than worms.”
“There's a morbid sense in that, I suppose,” Clem said.
“And how's Celestine?” Gentle asked the boy.
“She's in the car, all wrapped up and not saying very much. I don't think she likes the sun.”
“After two hundred years in the dark, I'm not surprised. We'll make her comfortable once we get to Gamut Street. She's a great lady, gentlemen. She's also my mother.”
“So that's where you get your bloody-mindedness from,” Tay remarked.
“How safe is this house we're going to?” Monday asked.
“If you mean how do we stop Sartori getting in, I don't think we can.”
They'd reached the foyer, which was as sun—filled as ever.
“So what do you think the bastard's going to do?” Clem wondered.
“He won't come back here, I'm sure of that,” Gentle said. “I think he'll wander the city for a while. But sooner or later he'll be driven back to where he belongs.”
“Which is where?”
Gentle opened his arms. “Here,” he said.
16
There was surely no more haunted thoroughfare in London that blistering afternoon than Gamut Street. Neither those locations in the city famous for their phantoms, nor those anonymous spots—known only to psychics and children— where reveuants gathered, boasted more souls eager to debate events in the place of their decease as that backwater in Clerkenwell. While few human eyes, even those ready for the marvelous (and the car that turned into Gamut Street at a little past four o'clock contained several such eyes), could see the phantoms as solid entities, their presence was clear enough, marked by the cold, still places in the shimmering haze rising off the road and by the stray dogs that gathered in such numbers at the corners, drawn by the high whistle some of the dead were wont to make. Thus Gamut Street cooked in a heat of its own, its stew potent with spirits.
Gentle had warned them all that there was no comfort to be had at the house. It was without furniture, water, or electricity. But the past was there, he said, and it would be a comfort to them all, after their time in the enemy's tower.
“I remember this house,” Jude said as she emerged from the car.
“We should both be careful,” Gentle warned, as he climbed the steps. “Sartori left one of his Oviates inside, and it nearly drove me crazy. I want to get rid of it before we all go in.”
“I'm coming with you,” Jude said, following him to the door.
“I don't think that's wise,” he said. “Let me deal with Little Ease first.”
“That's Sartori's beast?”
“Yes.”
“Then I'd like to see it. Don't worry, it's not going to hurt me. I've got a little of its Maestro right here, remember?” She laid her hand upon her belly. “I'm safe.”
Gentle made no objection but stood aside to let Monday force the door, which he did with the efficiency of a practiced thief. Before the boy had even retreated down the steps again, Jude was over the threshold, braving the stale, cold air.
“Wait up,” Gentle said, following her into the hallway,
“What does this creature look like?” she wanted to know.
“Like an ape. Or a baby. I don't know. It talks a lot, I'm certain of that much.”
“Little Ease .. — .”
“That's right.”
“Perfect name for a place like this.”
She'd reached the bottom of the stairs and was staring up towards the Meditation Room.
“Be careful,” Gentle said.
“I heard you the first time.”
“I don't think you quite understand how powerful—”
“I was born up there, wasn't I?” she said, her tone as chilly as the air. He didn't reply; not until she swung around and asked him again. “Wasn't I?”
“Yes.”
Nodding, she returned to her study of the stairs. “You said the past was waiting here,” she said.
“Yes.”
“My past too?”
“I don't know. Probably.”
“I don't feel anything. It's like a bloody graveyard. A few vague recollections, that's all.”
“They'll come.”
“You're very certain.”
“We have to be whole, Jude.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“We have to be ... reconciled . . . with everything we ever were before we can go on.”
“Suppose I don't want to be reconciled? Suppose I want to invent myself all over again, starting now?”
“You can't do it,” he said simply. “We have to be whole before we can get home.”
“If that's home,” she said, nodding in the direction of the Meditation Room, “you can keep it.”
“I don't mean the cradle.”
“What then?”
“The place before the cradle. Heaven.”
“Fuck Heaven. I haven't got Earth sorted out yet.”
“You don't need to.”
“Let me be the judge of that. I haven't even had a life I could call my own, and you're ready to slot me into the grand design. Well, I don't think I want to go. I want to be my own design.”
“You can be. As part of—”
“Part of nothing. I want to be me. A law unto myself.”
“That isn't you talking. It's Sartori.”
“What if it is?”
“You know what he's done,” Gentle replied. “The atrocities. What are you doing taking lessons from him?”
“When I should be taking them from you, you mean? Since when were you so damn perfect?” He made no reply, and she took his silence as further sign of his new high-mindedness. “Oh, so you're not going to stoop to mudslinging, is that it?”
“We'll debate it later,” he said.
“Debate it?” she mocked. “What are you going to give us, Maestro, an ethics lesson? I want to know what makes you so damn rare.”
“I'm Celestine's son,” he said quietly.
She stared at him, agog. “You're what?”
“Celestine's son. She was taken from the Fifth—”
“I know where she was taken. Dowd did it. I thought he'd told me the whole story.”
“Not this part?”
“Not this part.”
“There were kinder ways to tell you. I'm sorry I didn't find one.”
“No,” she said. “Where better?”
Her gaze went back up the stairs. When she spoke again, which was not for a little time, it was in a whisper.
“You're lucky,” she said. “Home and Heaven are the same place.”
“Maybe that's true for us all,” he murmured.
“I doubt it.”
A long silence followed, punctuated only by Monday's forlorn attempts to whistle on the step outside.
At last, Jude said, “I can see now why you're so desperate to get all this right. You're... how does it go? ... you're about your Father's business.”
“I hadn't thought of it quite like that....”
“But you are.”
“I suppose I am. I just hope I'm equal to it, that's all. One minute I feel it's all possible. The next...”
He studied her, while outside Monday attempted the tune afresh.
“Tell me what you're thinking,” he said.
“I'm thinking I wish I'd kept your love letters,” she replied.
There was another aching pause; then she turned from him and wandered off towards the back of the house. He lingered at the bottom of the stairs, thinking he should probably go with her, in case Sartori's agent was hiding there,
but he was afraid to bruise her further with his scrutiny. He glanced back towards the open door and the sun— “ light on the step. Safety wasn't far from her, if she needed it.
“How's it going?” he called to Monday.
“Hot,” came the reply. “Clem's gone to fetch some food and beer. Lots of beer. We should have a party, boss. We fuckin' deserve it, don't we?”
“We do. How's Celestine?”
“She's asleep. Is it okay to come in yet?”
“Just a little while longer,” Gentle replied. “But keep up the whistling, will you? There's a tune in there somewhere.”
Monday laughed, and the sound, which was utterly commonplace of course, yet as unlikely as whale song, pleased him. If Little Ease was still in the house, Gentle thought, his malice could do no great harm on a day as miraculous as this. Comforted, he set off up the stairs, wondering as he went if perhaps the daylight had shooed all the memories into hiding. But before he was halfway up the flight, he had proof that they hadn't. The phantom form of Lucius Cobbitt, conjured in his mind's eye, appeared beside him, snotty, tearful, and desperate for wisdom. Moments later, the sound of his own voice, offering the advice he'd given the boy that last, terrible night.
“Study nothing except in the knowledge that you already knew it. Worship nothing...”
But before he'd completed the second dictum, the phrase was taken up by a mellifluous voice from above.
”... except in adoration of your true self. And fear noth—. ing...”
The figment of Lucius Cobbitt faded as Gentle continued to climb, but the voice became louder.
”. . . except in the certainty that you are your enemy's begetter and its only hope of healing.”
And with the voice came the realization that the wisdom he'd bestowed on Lucius had not been his at all. It had originated with the mystif. The door to the Meditation Room was open, and Pie was perched on the sill, smiling out of the past.
“When did you invent that?” the Maestro asked.
“I didn't invent it, I learned it,” the mystif replied. “From my mother. And she learned it from her mother, or t her father, who knows? Now you can pass it on.”
“And what am I?” he asked the mystif. “Your son or ; your daughter?”
— Pie looked almost abashed. “You're my Maestro.”
“Is that all? We're still masters and servants here? Don't
— say that.”
: “What should I say?” “What you feel.”
“Oh.” The mystif smiled. “If I told you what I feel we'd be here all day.”
The gleam of mischief in its eye was so endearing, and the memory so real, it was all Gentle could do to prevent himself crossing the room and embracing the space where his friend had sat. But there was work to be done—his Father's business, as Jude had called it—and it was more pressing than indulging his memories. When Little Ease had been ousted from the house, then he'd return here and search for a profounder lesson: that of the workings of the Reconciliation. He needed that education quickly, and the echoes here were surely rife with exchanges on the subject.
“I'll be back,” he said to the creature on the sill.
“I'll be waiting,” it replied.
He glanced back towards it, and the sun, catching the window behind, momentarily ate into its silhouette, showing him not a whole figure but a fragment. His gut turned, as the image called another back to mind, with appalling force: the Erasure, in roiling chaos, and in the air above his head, the howling rags of his beloved, returned into the Second with some words of warning.
“Undone,” it had said, as it fought the claim of the Erasure. “We are... undone.”
Had he made some placating reply, snatched from his lips by the storm? He didn't remember. But he heard again the mystif telling him to find Sartori, instructing him that his other knew something that he, Gentle, didn't. And then it had gone, been snatched away into the First Dominion and silenced there.
His heart racing, Gentle shook this horror from his head and looked back towards the sill. It was empty now. But — Pie's exhortation to find Sartori was still in his head. Why had that been so important? he wondered. Even if the mystif had somehow discovered the truth of Gentle's origins in the First Dominion and had failed to communicate the fact, it must have known that Sartori was as much in ignorance of the secret as his brother. So what was the knowledge the mystif had believed Sartori possessed, that it had defied the limits of God's Kingdom to spur him into pursuit?
A shout from below had him give up the enigma. Jude was calling out to him. He headed down the stairs at speed, following her voice through the house and into the kitchen, which was targe and chilly. Jude was standing close to the window, which had gone to ruin many years ago, giving access to the convolvulus from the garden behind, which having entered had rotted in a darkness its own abundance had thickened. The sun could only get pencil beams through this snare of foliage and wood, but they were sufficient to illuminate both the woman and the captive whose head she had pinned beneath her foot. It was Little Ease, his oversized mouth drawn down like a tragic mask, his eyes turned up towards Jude.
“Is this it?” she said.
“This is it.”
Little Ease set up a round of thin mewling as Gentle approached, which it turned into words. “I didn't do a thing! You ask her, ask her please, ask her did I do a thing? No, I didn't. Just keeping out of harm's way, I was.”
“Sartori's not very happy with you,” Gentle said.
“Well, I didn't have a hope,” it protested. “Not against the likes of you. Not against a Reconciler.”
“So you know that much.”
“I do now. 'We have to be whole,' “ it quoted, catching Gentle's tone perfectly. “ 'We have to be reconciled with everything we ever were—' ”
“You were listening.”
“I can't help it,” the creature said. “I was born inquisitive. I didn't understand it, though,” it hastened to add. “I'm not spying, I swear.”
“Liar,” Jude said. Then to Gentle, “How do we kill it?”
“We don't have to,” he said. “Are you afraid, Little Ease?”
“What do you think?”
“Would you swear allegiance to me if you were allowed to live?”
“Where do I sign? Show me the place!”
“You'd let this live?” Jude said.
“Yes.”
“What for?” she demanded, grinding her heel upon it. “Look at it.”
“Don't,” Little Ease begged.
“Swear,” said Gentle, going down on his haunches beside it.
“I swear! I swear!”
Gentle looked up at Jude. “Lift your foot,” he said.
“You trust it?”
“I don't want death here,” he said. ''Even this. Let it go, Jude.” She didn't move. “I said, let it go.”
Reluctance in every sinew, she raised her foot half an inch and Little Ease scrabbled free, instantly taking hold of Gentle's hand.
“I'm yours, Liberatore,” it said, touching its clammy brow to Gentle's palm, “My head's in your hands. By Hyo, by Heretea, by Hapexamendios, I commit my heart to you.”
“Accepted,” Gentle said, and stood up.
“What should I do now, Liberatore?”
“There's a room at the top of the stairs. Wait for me there"
“For ever and ever.”
“A few minutes will do.”
It backed off to the door, bowing woozily, then took to its heels.
“How can you trust a thing like that?” Jude said.
“I don't. Not yet.”
“But you're willing to try.”
“You're damned if you can't forgive, Jude.”
“Youcould forgive Sartori, could you?” she said.
“He's me, he's my brother, and he's my child,” Gentle replied. “How could I not?”
With the house made safe, the rest of the company moved in. Monday, ever the scavenger, went off to scour the neighb
oring houses and streets in search of whatever he could find to offer some modicum of comfort. He returned three times with bounty, the third time taking Clem off with him. They returned half an hour later with two mattresses and armfuls of bed linen, all too clean to have been found abandoned,
“I missed my vocation,” Clem said, with Tay's mischief in his features. “Burglary's much more fun than banking.”
At this juncture Monday requested permission to borrow Jude's car and drive back to the South Bank, there to collect the belongings he'd left behind in his haste to follow Gentle. She told him yes, but urged him to return as fast as possible. Though it was still bright on the street outside, they would need as many strong artns and wills as they could muster to defend the house when night fell. Clem had settled Celestine in what had been the dining room, laying the larger of the two mattresses on the floor and sitting with her until she slept. When he emerged Tay's feisty presence was mellowed, and the man who came to join Jude on the step was serene.
“Is she asleep?” Jude asked him.
“I don't know if it's sleep or a coma. Where's Gentle?”
“Upstairs, plotting,”
“You've argued.”
“That's nothing new. Everything else changes, but that remains the same.”
He opened one of the bottles of beer sitting on the step and drank with gusto.
“You know, I catch myself every now and then wondering if this is all some hallucination. You've probably got a better grasp of it than I have—you've seen the Dominions; you know it's all real—but when I went off with Monday to get the mattresses, there were people just a few streets away, walking around in the sun as though it was just another day, and I thought, There's a woman back there who's been buried alive for two hundred years, and her son whose Father's a God I never heard of—”
