by Clive Barker
Jude reached to do so, half turning in the water to stretch for Hoi—Polloi's fingers. But the river had other ideas. As their hands came within inches of clasping, the waters conspired to spin her and snatch her away, their hold on her so tight the breath was momentarily squeezed out of her. She couldn't even yell a word of reassurance but was hauled off by the flood, up through a monolithic archway and out of sight.
Violent as the waters were, pitching her around as it raced through the cloisters and colonnades, she wasn't in fear of them; quite the opposite. The exhilaration was contagious. She was part of their purpose now, even if they didn't know it, and happy to be delivered to their summoner, who was surely also their source. Whether that summoner—be she Tishalulle or Jokalaylau or any other Goddess who might be resident here today—judged her to be a petitioner or simply another piece of trash, only the end of this ride would tell.
If Yzordderrex had become a place of glorious particulars—every color singing, every bubble in its waters crystalline—the Erasure had given itself over to ambiguity. There was no breath of wind to stir the heavy mist that hung over the fallen tents and over the dead, shrouded but unburied, who lay in their folds; nor did the comet have fire enough to pierce a higher fog, the fabric of which left its light dusky and drab. Off to the left of where Gentle's projection stood, the ring of Madonnas that Athanasius and his disciples had sheltered in was visible through the murk. But the man he'd come here to find wasn't in residence there, nor was there any sign of him to the right, though here the fog was so thick it blotted out everything that lay beyond an eight- or ten-yard range. He nevertheless headed into it, loath to try calling Chicka Jackeen's name, even if his voice had possessed sufficient strength. There was a conspiracy of suppression upon the landscape, and he was unwilling to challenge it. Instead he advanced in silence, his body barely displacing the mist, his feet making little or no impression on the ground. He felt more like a phantom here than in any of the other meeting places. It was a landscape for such souls: hushed but haunted.
He didn't have to walk blindly for long. The mist began to thin out after a time, and through its shreds he caught sight of Chicka Jackeen. He'd dug a chair and small table from the wreckage and was sitting with his back to the great wall of the First Dominion, playing a solitary game of cards and talking furiously to himself as he did so. We're all crazies, Gentle thought, catching him like this. Tick Raw half mad on mustard; Scopique become an amateur arsonist; Athanasius marking sacramental sandwiches with his pierced hands; and finally Chicka Jackeen, chattering away to himself like a neurotic monkey. Crazies to a man. And of all of them he, Gentle, was probably the craziest: the lover of a creature that defied the definitions of gender, the maker of a man who had destroyed nations. The only sanity in his life-burning like a clear white light—was that which came from God: the simple purpose of a Reconciler.
“Jackeen?”
The man looked up from his cards, somewhat guiltily. “Oh. Maestro. You're here.”
“Don't say you weren't expecting me?”
“Not so soon. Is it time for us to go to the Ana?”
“Not yet. I came to be sure you were ready.”
“I am, Maestro. Truly.”
“Were you winning?”
“I was playing myself.”
“That doesn't mean you can't win.”
“No? No. As you say. Then yes, I was winning.” He rose from the table, taking off the spectacles he'd been wearing to study his cards.
“Has anything come out of the Erasure while you've been waiting?”
“No, not come out. In fact, yours is the first voice I've heard since Athanasius left.”
“He's part of the Synod now,” Gentle said. “Scopique induced him to join us, to represent the Second.”
“What happened to the Eurhetemec? Not murdered?”
“He died of old age.”
“Will Athanasius be equal to the task?” Jackeen asked; then, thinking his question overstepped the bounds of protocol, he said, “I'm sorry. I've no right to question your judgment in this.”
“You've every right,” Gentle said. “We've got to have complete faith in each other.”
“If you trust Athanasius, then so do I,” Jackeen said simply.
“So we're ready.”
“There is one thing I'd like to report, if I may.”
“What's that?”
“I said nothing's come out of the Erasure, and that's true—”
“But something went in?”
“Yes. Last night, I was sleeping under the table here”— he pointed to his bed of blankets and stone—“and I woke chilled to the marrow. I wasn't sure whether I was dreaming at first, so I was slow to get up. But when I did I saw these figures coming out of the fog. Dozens of them.”
“Who were they?”
“Nullianacs,” Jackeen said. “Are you familiar with them?”
“Certainly.”
“I counted fifty at least, just within sight of me.”
“Did they threaten you?”
“I don't think they even saw me. They had their eyes on their destination—”
“The First?”
“That's right. But before they crossed over, they shed their clothes, and made some fires, and burned every last thing they wore or brought with them.”
“All of them did this?”
“Every one that I saw. It was extraordinary.”
“Can you show me the fires?”
“Easily,” Jackeen said, and led Gentle away from the table, talking as he went. “I'd never seen a Nullianac before, but of course I've heard the stories.”
“They're brutes,” Gentle said. “I killed one in Vanaeph, a few months ago, and then I met one of its brothers in Yzordderrex, and it murdered a child I knew.”
“They like innocence, I've heard. It's meat and drink to them. And they're all related to each other, though nobody's ever seen the female of the species. In fact, some say there isn't one.”
“You seem to know a lot about them.”
“Well, I read a good deal,” Jackeen said, glancing at Gentle. “But you know what they say: Study nothing except in the knowledge—”
"—that you already knew it.”
“That's right.”
Gentle looked at the man with fresh interest, hearing the old saw from his lips. Was it so commonplace a dictum that every student had it by heart, or did Chicka Jackeen know the significance of what he was saying? Gentle stopped walking, and Jackeen stopped beside him, offering a smile that verged on the mischievous. Now it was Gentle who did the studying, his text the other man's face: and, reading, saw the dictum proved.
“My God,” he said. “Lucius?”
“Yes, Maestro. It's me.”
“Lucius! Lucius!”
The years had taken their toll, of course, though not insufferably. While the face in front of him was no longer that of the eager acolyte he had sent from Gamut Street, it was not marked by more than a tenth of the two centuries in between.
“This is extraordinary,” Gentle said,
“I thought maybe you knew who I was, and you were playing a game with me.”
“How could I know?”
“Am I really so different?” the other said, clearly a little deflated. “It took me twenty-three years to master the feit of holding, but I thought I'd caught the last of my youth before it went entirely. A little vanity. Forgive me.”
“When did you come here?”
“It seems like a lifetime, so it probably is. I wandered back and forth through the Dominions first, studying with one evocator after another, but I was never content with any of them. I had you to judge them by, you see. So I was always dissatisfied.”
“I was a lousy teacher,” Gentle said.
“Not at all. You taught me the fundamentals, and I've lived by them and prospered. Maybe not in the world's eyes, but in mine.”
“The only lesson I gave you was on the stairs. Remember, that last night?”
“Of course I remember. The laws of study, workings, and fear. Wonderful.”
“But they weren't mine, Lucius. The mystif taught them to me. I just passed them along.”
“Isn't that what most teachers do?”
“I think the great ones refine wisdom, they don't simply repeat it. I refined nothing. I thought every word I uttered was perfect, because it was falling from my lips.”
“So my idol has feet of clay?”
“I'm afraid so.”
“You think I didn't know that? I saw what happened at the Retreat. I saw you fail, and it's because of that I've waited here.”
“I don't follow.”
“I knew you wouldn't accept failure. You'd wait, and you'd plan, and someday, even if it took a thousand years, you'd come back to try again.”
“One of these days I'll tell you how it really happened, and you won't be so impressed.”
“However it went, you're here,” Lucius said. “And I have my dream at last.”
“Which is what?”
“To work with you. To join you in the Ana, Maestro to Maestro.” He grinned. “God is in His Heaven today,” he said. “If I'm ever happier than this, it'll kill me. Ah! There, Maestro!” He stopped and pointed to the ground a few yards from them. “That's one of the Nullianacs' fires.”
The place was blasted, but there were some remains of the Nullianacs' robes among the ashes. Gentle approached.
“I don't have the wherewithal to sort through them, Lucius. Will you do it for me?”
Lucius obliged, stooping to turn over the cinders and pluck out what remained of the clothes. There were fragments of suits, robes, and coats in a variety of styles, one finely embroidered, after the fashion of Patashoqua, another barely more than sackcloth, a third with medals attached, as if its owner had been a soldier.
“They must have come from all over the Imajica,” Gentle said.
“Summoned,” Lucius replied.
“That seems like a reasonable assumption.”
“But why?”
Gentle mused a moment. “I think the Unbeheld has taken them into His furnace, Lucius. He's burned them away.”
“So He's wiping the Dominions clean?”
“Yes, He is. And the Nullianacs knew it. They threw off their clothes like penitents, because they knew that they were going to their judgment.”
“You see,” Lucius said, “you are wise.”
“When I'm gone, will you burn even these last pieces?”
“Of course.”
“It's His will that we cleanse this place.”
“I'll start right away.”
“And I'll go back to the Fifth and finish my preparations.”
“Is the Retreat still standing?”
“Yes. But that's not where I'll be. I've returned to Gamut Street.”
“That was a fine house.”
“It's still fine in its way. I saw you there on the stairs only a few nights ago.”
“A spirit there and flesh here? What could be more perfect?”
“Being flesh and spirit in the whole of Creation,” Gentle said.
“Yes, That would be finer still.” “And it'll happen. It's all One, Lucius.” “I hadn't forgotten that lesson.” “Good.”
“But if I may ask—”
“Yes?”
“Would you call me Chicka Jackeen from now on? I've lost the bloom of youth, so I may as well lose the name.”
“Maestro Jackeen it is.” “Thank you.”
“I'll see you in a few hours,” Gentle said, and with that put his thoughts to his return.
This time there were no diversions or loiterings, for sentiment's sake or any other. He went at the speed of his intention back through Yzordderrex and along the Lenten Way, over the Cradle and the benighted heights of the Jokalaylau, passing across the Mount of Upper Bayak and Patashoqua (within whose gates he had yet to step), finally returning into the Fifth, to the room he'd left in Gamut Street.
Day was at the window and Clem was at the door, patiently awaiting the return of his Maestro. As soon as he saw a flicker of animation in Gentle's face he began to speak, his message too urgent to be delayed a second longer than it had to be.
“Monday's back,” he said.
Gentle stretched and yawned. His nape and lumbar regions ached, and his bladder was ready to burst, but at least he hadn't returned to discover his bowels had given out, as Tick Raw had predicted.
“Good,” he said. He got to his feet and hobbled to the mantelpiece, clinging to it as he kicked some life back into his deadened legs. “Did he get all the stones?”
“Yes, he did. But I'm afraid Jude didn't come back with him.”
“Where the hell is she?”
“He won't tell me. He's got a message from her, he says, but he won't trust it to anyone but you. Do you want to speak to him? He's downstairs, eating breakfast.”
“Yes, send him up, will you? And if you can, find me something to eat. Anything but sausages.”
Gem headed off down the stairs, leaving Gentle to cross to the window and throw it open. The last morning that the Fifth would see Unreconciled had dawned, and the temperature was already high enough to wilt the leaves on the tree outside. Hearing Monday's feet clattering up the stairs, Gentle turned to greet the messenger, who appeared with a half-eaten hamburger in one hand and a half-smoked cigarette in the other.
“You've got something to tell me?” he said.
“Yes, boss. From Jude.”
“Where did she go?”
“Yzordderrex. That's part of what I'm supposed to tell you. She's gone to Yzordderrex.”
“Did you see her go?”
“Not exactly. She made me stand outside while she went, so that's what I did.”
“And the rest of the message?”
“She told me”—he made a great show of concentration now—“to tell you where she'd gone, and I've done that; then she said to tell you that the Reconciliation isn't safe, and that you weren't to do nothing until she contacted you again.”
“Isn't safe? Those were her words?”
“That's what she said. No kiddinV
“Do you know what she was talking about?”
“Search me, boss.” His eyes had gone from Gentle to the darkest corner of the room. “I didn't know you had a monkey,” he said. “Did you bring it back with you?”
Gentle looked to the corner. Little Ease was there, staring up at the Maestro fretfully, having presumably crept down into the Meditation Room sometime during the night.
“Does it eat hamburgers?” Monday said, going down on his haunches.
“You can try,” Gentle said distractedly. “Monday, is that all Jude said: It isn't safe?” “That's it, boss. I swear.”
“She just arrived at the Retreat and told you she wasn't coming back?”
“Oh, no, she took her time,” Monday said, pulling a face as the creature he'd taken to be an ape skulked from its corner and started towards the proffered hamburger.
He made to stand up, but it bared its teeth in a grin of such ferocity he thought better of doing so and simply extended his arm as far as he could to keep the beast from his face. Little Ease slowed as it came within sniffing distance and, instead of snatching the meal, claimed it from Monday's hand with the greatest delicacy, pinkies raised. “Will you finish the story?” Gentle said. “Oh, yeah. Well, there was this fella in the Retreat when we got there, and she had a long jaw with him.” “This was somebody she knew?” “Oh, yeah.” “Who?”
“I forget his name,” Monday said, but seeing Gentle's brow frown protested, “That wasn't part of the message, boss. If it had been I'd have remembered.”
“Remember anyway,” Gentle said, beginning to suspect conspiracy. “Who was he?”
Monday stood up and drew nervously on his cigarette. “I don't recall. There were all these birds, you know, and bees an' stuff. I wasn't really listening. It was something short, like Cody or Coward or—” “Dowd,”
“Yeah! That's it. It was Dowd. And he was really fucked up, let me tell you.”
“But alive.”
“Oh, yeah, for a while. Like I said, they talked together.”
“And it was after this that she said she was going to Yzordderrex?”
“That's right. She told me to bring the stones back to you, and the message with 'em.”
“Both of which you've done. Thank you.”
“You're the boss, boss,” Monday said. “Is that all? If you want me I'm on the step. It's going to be a scorcher.”
He thundered off downstairs.
“Shall I leave the door open, Liberatore?” Little Ease said, as it nibbled on the hamburger.
“What are you doing here?”
“I got lonely up there,” the creature said.
“You promised obedience,” Gentle reminded it.
“You don't trust her, do you?” Little Ease replied. “You think she's gone off to join Sartori.”
He hadn't until now. But the notion, now that it was floated, didn't seem so improbable. Jude had confessed what she felt for Sartori, in this very house, and clearly believed that he loved her in return. Perhaps she'd simply slipped away from the Retreat while Monday's back was turned and had gone to find the father of her child. If that was the case, it was paradoxical behavior, to seek out the arms of a man whose enemy she'd just helped towards victory. But this was not a day to waste analyzing such conundrums. She'd done what she'd done, and there was an end to it.
Gentle hoisted himself up onto the sill, from which perch he'd often planned his itinerary, and attempted to push all thoughts of her defection out of his head. This was a bad room in which to try and forget her, however. It was, after all, the womb in which she'd been made. The boards most likely still concealed motes of the sand that had marked her circle and stains, deep in their grain, of the liquors he'd anointed her nakedness with. Try as he might to keep the thoughts from coming, one led inevitably to another. Imagining her naked, he pictured his hands upon her, slick with oils. Then his kisses. Then his body. And before a minute had passed he was sitting on the sill with an erection nuzzling against his underwear.
