Weaveworld (75 page)

Authors: Clive Barker

Tags: #Horror, #Britain, #Fiction, #Fantasy, #v.5, #Amazon.com, #Retail

BOOK: Weaveworld

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Disgusted by his condition, he pulled off his bloodied jacket. It was excrement: corrupted and corrupting. In accepting it from the Incantatrix he’d made his first error: from that all subsequent misdirections had sprung. In his repugnance he tried to tear at the lining, but it resisted his strength, so he simply bundled the jacket up and threw it, high into the air. It rose a little way, then fell again, tumbling down a rocky slope, its passage starting a minor avalanche of pebbles, and came to rest spreadeagled like a legless suicide. At last it was where it had belonged from the start: in the dirt.

The Seerkind belonged with it, he thought. But they were survivors. Deception was in their blood. Though their territories had been destroyed, he didn’t put it past them to have another trick or two up their sleeves. As long as they lived, these defilers, he would not rest easy in his bed. They’d made a fool and a butcher of him, and there was no health for him now until every last one of them was laid low.

Standing on the hill, looking down into the valley below, he felt a breath of new purpose. He’d been tricked and humiliated, but he was at least
alive.
The battle was not yet over.

They had an enemy, these monsters. Immacolata had dreamt of it often, and spoken of the wilderness where it resided.

The Scourge, she’d called it.

If he was to destroy the Seerkind he would need an ally,
and what better than that nameless power from which they’d hidden, an age ago?

They could never hide again. They had no land to conceal themselves in. If he could find this Scourge – and wake it from its wilderness – it and he would cleanse them at a stroke.

The Scourge.
He liked the sound of the word mightily.

But he’d like better the silence that would come when his enemies were ash.

A FRAGILE PEACE

al was happy to sleep for a while; happy to be at ease in the embrace of gentle hands and gentle words. The nurses came and went; a doctor too, smiling down at him and telling him all would be well, while de Bono, at the man’s side, nodded and smiled.

A night later, he woke to find Suzanna with him in the room, mouthing words which he was too weary to hear. He slept, happy that she was near, but when he woke again, she’d gone. He asked after her, and after de Bono too, and was told that they’d be back, and that he wasn’t to concern himself. Sleep, the nurse told him. Sleep, and when you wake all will be well. He vaguely knew this advice had failed someone he knew and loved, but his drugged mind couldn’t quite remember who. So he did as he was told.

It was a sleep rich with dreams, in many of which he had a starring role, though not always wearing his own skin. Sometimes he was a bird; sometimes a tree, his branches laden with fruits each of which were like little worlds. Sometimes he was the wind, or like the wind, and ran unseen but strong over landscapes made of upturned faces – rock faces, flower faces – and streams in which he knew every silver fish by name.

And sometimes he dreamt he was dead; was floating in an infinite ocean of black milk, while presences invisible but mighty distressed the stars above him, and threw them down in long arcs that sang as they fell.

Comfortable as it was, this death, he knew he was only
dreaming it, indulging his fatigue. The time would come soon when he’d have to wake again.

When he did. Nimrod was by his bed.

‘You needn’t worry,’ he told Cal. ‘They won’t ask you any questions.’

Cal’s tongue was sluggish, but he managed to say:

‘How did you do that?’

‘A little rapture,’ Nimrod said, unsmiling. ‘I can still manage the occasional deceiving.’

‘How are things?’

‘Bad,’ came the reply. ‘Everyone’s grieving. I’m not a public griever myself, so I’m not very popular.’

‘And Suzanna?’

He made an equivocal look. ‘I like the woman myself,’ he said. ‘But she’s having problems with the Families. When they’re not grieving, they’re arguing amongst themselves. I get sick of the din. Sometimes I think I’ll go find Marguerite. Forget I was ever Seerkind.’

‘You can’t.’

‘You watch me. It’s no use being sentimental, Cal. The Fugue’s gone; once and for all. We may as well make the best of it. Join the Cuckoos; let bygones be bygones. Good God, we won’t even be noticed. There’s stranger things than us in the Kingdom these days.’ He pointed to the television in the corner of the room. ‘Every time I turn it on, something new. Something different. I might even go to America.’ He slipped off his sunglasses. Cal had forgotten how extraordinary his eyes were. ‘Hollywood could use a man with my attributes,’ he said.

Despite Nimrod’s quiet despair, Cal couldn’t help but smile at this. And indeed, perhaps the man was right; perhaps the Seerkind
had
no choice now but to enter the Kingdom, and make whatever peace they could with it.

‘I must go,’ he was saying. ‘There’s a big meeting tonight. Everyone has a right to have their say. We’ll be talking all night, most likely.’ He went to the door.

‘I won’t go to California without saying goodbye,’ he remarked, and left the patient alone.

Two days passed, and nobody came. Cal was getting better quickly; and it seemed that whatever rapture Nimrod had worked on the staff had indeed diverted them from making any report of their patient’s wound to the police.

By the afternoon of the third day Cal knew he was much improved, because he was getting restless. The television – Nimrod’s new love – could provide only soap opera and a bad movie. The latter, the lesser of the two banalities, was playing when the door opened, and a woman dressed in black stepped into the room. It took Cal a moment before he recognized his visitor as Apolline.

Before he could offer a welcome she said:

‘No time to talk, Calhoun –’ and, approaching the bed, thrust a parcel at Cal.

‘Take it!’ she said.

He did so.

‘I have to be away quickly,’ she went on. Her face softened as she gazed at him. ‘You look tired, my boy,’ she said. Take a holiday!’ And with that advice retreated to the door.

‘Wait!’ he called after her.

‘No time! No time!’ she said, and was away.

He took the string and brown paper from around his present, and discovered inside the book of faery-tales which Suzanna had found in Rue Street. With it, there was a scrawled note.

Cal
, it read.

Keep hold of this for me, will you? Never let it out of your sight. Our enemies are still with us. When the time is safe, I’ll find you.

Do this for us all.

I’m kissing you.

Suzanna.

He read the letter over and over, moved beyond telling by the way she’d signed off:
I’m kissing you.

But he was confounded by her instructions: the book seemed an unremarkable volume, its binding torn, its pages yellowed. The text was in German, which he had no command of whatsoever. Even the illustrations were dark, and full of shadows, and he’d had enough shadows to hurt him a lifetime. But if she wanted him to keep it safe, then he’d do so. She was wise, and he knew better than to take her instructions lightly.

After the visit from Apolline, nobody else came. He was not altogether surprised. There’d been an urgency in the woman’s manner, and yet more in the letter from Suzanna.
Our enemies are still with us.
she’d written. If she wrote that, then it was true.

They discharged him after a week, and he made his way back to Liverpool. Little had changed. The grass still refused to grow in the churned earth where Lilia Pellicia had died; the trains still ran North and South; the china dogs on the dining-room sill still looked for their master, their vigil rewarded only with dust.

There was dust too on the note that Geraldine had left on the kitchen table – a brief missive saying that until Cal learned to behave like a reasonable human being he could expect none of her company.

There were several other letters awaiting him – one from his section leader at the firm, asking him where the hell he was, and stating that if he wished to keep his job he’d better make some explanation of his absence post haste. The letter was dated the 11th. It was now the 25th. Cal presumed he was out of a job.

He couldn’t find it in him to be much concerned by
unemployment; nor indeed by Geraldine’s absence. He wanted to be alone; wanted the time to think through all that had happened. More significantly, he found feelings about anything hard to come by. As the days passed, and he made a stab at reassembling his life, he rapidly came to see that his time in the Gyre had left him wounded in more ways than one. It was as though the forces unleashed at the Temple had found their way into him, and left a little wilderness where there’d once been a capacity for tears and regret.

Even the poet was silent. Though Cal could still remember Mad Mooney’s verses by heart they were just sounds to him now; they failed to move.

There was one comfort in this: that perhaps his new-found stoicism suited better the function of solitary librarian. He would be vigilant, but he would anticipate nothing, neither disaster nor revelation.

That was not to say he would give up looking to the future. True, he was just a Cuckoo: scared and weary and alone. But so, in the end, were most of his tribe: it didn’t mean all was lost. As long as they could still be moved by a minor chord, or brought to a crisis of tears by scenes of lovers reunited; as long as there was room in their cautious hearts for games of chance, and laughter in the face of God, that must surely be enough to save them, at the last.

If not, there was no hope for any living thing.