by Clive Barker
“Suppose you’re wrong,” Will said. “Suppose God wanted the world to be filled? Ten thousand kinds of buttercup? A million kinds of beetle? No two of anything alike. Just suppose. Suppose you’re the enemy of God, Jacob. Suppose … you’re the Devil and you don’t know it?”
“I’d know. Though I can’t see Him yet. God moves in me.”
“Well,” said Will, “He moves in me too.” And the words, though he’d never thought he’d hear them from his own tongue, were true. God was in him now. Always had been. Steep had the rage of some Judgmental Father in his eye, but the divinity Will had in him was no less a Lord, though He talked through the mouth of a fox and loved life more than Will had supposed life could be loved. A Lord who’d come before him in innumerable shapes over the years. Some pitiful, to be sure, some triumphant. A blind polar bear on a rubbish heap; two children in painted masks; Patrick sleeping. Patrick smiling, Patrick speaking love. Camellias on a windowsill and the skies of Africa. His Lord was there, everywhere, inviting him to see the soul of things.
Sensing the certainty moving in Will, Steep countered in the only way he knew how.
“I put the hunger for death in you,” he said. “That makes you mine. We might both regret it, but it’s the truth.”
How could Will deny it, while that knife was still in his hand? Taking his gaze from Steep’s face, he sought the weapon out, following the form of the man’s shoulder, along his arm to the fist that was still gripping the blade, and down, down to his own hand, which still grasped the hilt.
Then, seeing it, he let it go. It was so simple to do. The sum of the blade’s harms would not be swelled by his wielding of it; not by a single wound.
The consequence of his letting go was instantaneous. The darkness was instantly extinguished, and the solid world sprang up around him: the hallway, the body, the staircase that led up to the open roof, through which straight beams of sun were coming.
And in front of him, Steep; staring at him with a curious look on his face. Then he shuddered, and his fingers opened just enough to allow the blade to slide from his grip. It had opened his palm, deeply, and the wound was seeping. It wasn’t blood that came, however. It was the same stuff that had seeped from Rosa’s body; finer threads from a smaller wound, but the same bright liquor. Fragments of it curled lazily around his fingers, and without thinking what he was doing, Will reached out to touch it. The threads sensed him, and came to meet his hand. He heard Steep tell him no, but it was too late. Contact had been made. Once again, he felt the matter pass into him and through him. This time, however, he was prepared to watch for its revelation, and he wasn’t disappointed. The face before him unveiled itself, its flesh confessing the mystery that lay beneath. He knew it already. The same strange beauty he’d seen lurking in Rosa was here in Steep too: the form of the Nilotic, like something carved from the eternal.
“What did Rukenau do to you two?” Will said softly.
The flesh inside Steep’s flesh stared out at him like a prisoner, despairing of release. “Tell me,” Will pressed. Still it said nothing. Yet it wanted to speak; Will could see the desire to do so in its eyes; how it wanted to tell its story. He leaned a little closer to it. “Try,” he said.
It inclined its head toward him, until their mouths were only three or four inches apart. No sound escaped it; nor could, Will suspected. The prisoner had been mute too long to find its voice again so quickly. But while they were so close, gaze meeting gaze, he could not waste its proximity. He leaned another inch toward it, and the Nilotic, knowing what was coming, smiled. Then Will kissed it, lightly, reverently, on the lips.
The creature returned his kiss, pressing its cool mouth against his.
The next moment, as had happened with Rosa, the thread of light burned itself out in him, and was gone. The veil fell instantly, obscuring what lay beneath, and the face Will was kissing was Steep’s face.
Jacob pushed him away with a shout of disgust, as though he’d momentarily shared Will’s trance and only now realized what the power inside him had sanctioned. Then he fell back against the wall, tightly clenching his wounded hand closed to be certain no more of this traitorous fluid escaped, and with the back of his other hand, wiped his lips clean. He scoured every trace of gentility from his face as he did so. All perplexity, all doubt, were gone. Fixing Will with a rabid gaze, he reached down and picked up the knife that lay between them. There was no room for further exchange, Will knew. Steep wasn’t going to be talking about God or forgiveness any longer. All he wanted to do was kill the man who’d just kissed him.
Even though he knew there was no hope of peace now, Will took his time as he retreated to the door, studying Steep. When next they met, it would be death for one of them; this would most likely be his last opportunity to look at the man whose brotherhood he had so passionately wanted to share. A kiss such as they’d exchanged was nothing to a man who was certain of himself. But Steep was not certain; never had been. Like so many of the men Will had watched and wanted in his life, he lived in fear of his manhood being seen for what it was, a murderous figment; a trick of spit and swagger that concealed a far stranger spirit.
He could watch no longer; another five seconds and the knife would be at his throat. He turned, and took himself off across the threshold, down the path, and out into the street. Steep didn’t follow. He would brood a while, Will guessed, putting his thoughts in murderous order before he began his final pursuit.
And pursue he would. Will had kissed the spirit in him, and that was a crime the figment would never forgive. It would come, knife in hand. Nothing was more certain.
From Imajica
When he got back to the hotel, Gentle’s first instinct was to call Jude. She’d made her feelings toward him abundantly clear, of course, and common sense decreed that he leave this little drama to fizzle out, but he’d glimpsed too many enigmas tonight to be able to shrug off his unease and walk away. Though the streets of this city were solid, their buildings numbered and named, though the avenues were bright enough even at night to banish ambiguity, he still felt as though he was on the margin of some unknown land, in danger of crossing into it without realizing he was even doing so. And if he went, might Jude not also follow? Determined though she was to divide her life from his, the obscure suspicion remained in him that their fates were interwoven.
He had no logical explanation for this. The feeling was a mystery, and mysteries weren’t his specialty. They were the stuff of after-dinner conversation, when—mellowed by brandy and candlelight—people confessed to fascinations they wouldn’t have broached an hour earlier. Under such influence he’d heard rationalists confess their devotion to tabloid astrologies; heard atheists lay claim to heavenly visitations; heard tales of psychic siblings and prophetic deathbed pronouncements. They’d all been amusing enough, in their way. But this was something different. This was happening to him, and it made him afraid.
He finally gave in to his unease. He located Marlin’s number and called the apartment. The lover boy picked up. He sounded agitated and became more so when Gentle identified himself.
“I don’t know what your goddamn game is,” he said.
“It’s no game,” Gentle told him.
“You just keep away from this apartment—”
“I’ve no intention—”
“Because if I see your face. I swear—”
“Can I speak to Jude?”
“Judith’s not—”
“I’m on the other line,” Jude said.
“Judith, put down the phone! You don’t want to be talking with this scum.”
“Calm down, Marlin.”
“You heard her, Mervin. Calm down.”
Marlin slammed down the receiver.
“Suspicious, is he?” Gentle said.
“He thinks this is all your doing.”
“So you told him about Estabrook?”
“No, not yet.”
“You’re just going to blame the hired hand, is that it?”<
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“Look, I’m sorry about some of the things I said. I wasn’t thinking straight. If it hadn’t been for you maybe I’d be dead by now.”
“No maybe about it,” Gentle said. “Our friend Pie meant business.”
“He meant something,” she replied. “But I’m not sure it was murder.”
“He was trying to smother you, Jude.”
“Was he? Or was he just trying to hush me? He had such a strange look—”
“I think we should talk about this face to face,” Gentle said. “Why don’t you slip away from lover boy for a late-night drink? I can pick you up right outside your building. You’ll be quite safe.”
“I don’t think that’s such a good idea. I’ve got packing to do. I’ve decided to go back to London tomorrow.”
“Was that planned?”
“No, I’d just feel more secure if I was at home.”
“Is Mervin going with you?”
“It’s Marlin. And no, he isn’t.”
“More fool him.”
“Look, I’d better go. Thanks for thinking of me.”
“It’s no hardship,” he said. “And if you get lonely between now and tomorrow morning—”
“I won’t.”
“You never know. I’m at the Omni. Room one-oh-three. There’s a double bed.”
“You’ll have plenty of room, then.”
“I’ll be thinking of you,” he said. He paused, then added. “I’m glad I saw you.”
“I’m glad you’re glad.”
“Does that mean you’re not?”
“It means I’ve got packing to do. Good night. Gentle.”
“Good night.”
“Have fun.”
He did what little packing of his own he had to do, then ordered up a small supper: a club sandwich, ice cream, bourbon, and coffee. The warmth of the room after the icy street and its exertions made him feel sluggish. He undressed and ate his supper naked in front of the television, picking the crumbs from his pubic hair like lice. By the time he got to the ice cream he was too weary to eat, so he downed the bourbon—which instantly took its toll—and retired to bed, leaving the television on in the next room, its sound turned down to a soporific burble.
His body and his mind went about their different businesses. The former, freed from conscious instruction, breathed, rolled, sweated, and digested. The latter went dreaming. First, of Manhattan served on a plate, sculpted in perfect detail. Then of a waiter, speaking in a whisper, asking if sir wanted night; and of night coming in the form of a blueberry syrup, poured from high above the plate and falling in viscous folds upon the streets and towers. Then, Gentle walking in those streets, between those towers, hand in hand with a shadow, the company of which he was happy to keep, and which turned when they reached an intersection and laid its feather finger upon the middle of his brow, as though Ash Wednesday were dawning.
He liked the touch and opened his mouth to lightly lick the ball of the shadow’s hand. It stroked the place again. He shuddered with pleasure, wishing he could see into the darkness of this other and know its face. In straining to see, he opened his eyes, body and mind converging once again. He was back in his hotel room, the only light the flicker of the television, reflected in the gloss of a half-open door. Though he was awake the sensation continued, and to it was added sound: a milky sigh that excited him. There was a woman in the room.
“Jude?” he said.
She pressed her cool palm against his open mouth, hushing his inquiry even as she answered it. He couldn’t distinguish her from the darkness, but any lingering doubt that she might belong to the dream from which he’d risen was dispatched as her hand went from his mouth to his bare chest. He reached up in the darkness to take hold of her face and bring it down to his mouth, glad that the murk concealed the satisfaction he wore. She’d come to him. After all the signals of rejection she’d sent out at the apartment—despite Marlin, despite the dangerous streets, despite the hour, despite their bitter history—she’d come, bearing the gift of her body to his bed.
Though he couldn’t see her, the darkness was a black canvas, and he painted her there to perfection, her beauty gazing down on him. His hands found her flawless cheeks. They were cooler than her hands, which were on his belly now, pressing harder as she hoisted herself over him. There was everywhere in their exchange an exquisite synchronicity. He thought of her tongue and tasted it: he imagined her breasts, and she took his hands to them: he wished she would speak, and she spoke (oh, how she spoke), words he hadn’t dared admit he’d wanted to hear.
“I had to do this …” she said.
“I know. I know.”
“Forgive me.”
“What’s to forgive?”
“I can’t be without you, Gentle. We belong to each other, like man and wife.”
With her here, so close after such an absence, the idea of marriage didn’t seem so preposterous. Why not claim her now and forever?
“You want to marry me?” he murmured.
“Ask me again another night,” she replied.
“I’m asking you now.”
She put her hand back upon that anointing place in the middle of his brow. “Hush,” she said. “What you want now you might not want tomorrow …”
He opened his mouth to disagree, but the thought lost its way between his brain and his tongue, distracted by the small circular motions she was making on his forehead. A calm emanated from the place, moving down through his torso and out to his fingertips. With it, the pain of his bruising faded. He raised his hands above his head, stretching to let bliss run through him freely. Released from aches he’d become accustomed to, his body felt new minted: gleaming invisibly.
“I want to be inside you,” he said.
“How far?”
“All the way.”
He tried to divide the darkness and catch some glimpse of her response, but his sight was a poor explorer and returned from the unknown without news. Only a flicker from the television, reflected in the gloss of his eye and thrown up against the blank darkness, lent him the illusion of a luster passing through her body, opaline. He started to sit up, seeking her face, but she was already moving down the bed, and moments later he felt her lips on his stomach, and then upon the head of his cock, which she took into her mouth by degrees, her tongue playing on it as she went, until he thought he would lose control. He warned her with a murmur, was released, and, a breath later, swallowed again.
The absence of sight lent potency to her touch. He felt every motion of tongue and tooth in play upon him, his prick, particularized by her appetite, becoming vast in his mind’s eye until it was his body’s size: a veiny torso and a blind head lying on the bed of his belly wet from end to end, straining and shuddering, while she, the darkness, swallowed him utterly. He was only sensation now, and she its supplier, his body enslaved by bliss, unable to remember its making or conceive of its undoing. God, but she knew how he liked to be pleasured, taking care not to stale his nerves with repetition, but cajoling his juice into cells already brimming, until he was ready to come in blood and be murdered by her work, willingly.
Another skitter of light behind his eye broke the hold of sensation, and he was once again entire—his prick its modest length—and she not darkness but a body through which waves of iridescence seemed to pass. Only seemed, he knew. This was his sight-starved eyes’ invention. Yet it came again, a sinuous light, sleeking her, then going out. Invention or not it made him want her more completely, and he put his arms beneath her shoulders, lifting her up and off him. She rolled over to his side, and he reached across to undress her. Now that she was lying against white sheets her form was visible, albeit vaguely. She moved beneath his hand, raising her body to his touch.
“Inside you …,” he said, rummaging through the damp folds of her clothes.
Her presence beside him had stilled; her breathing lost its irregularity. He bared her breasts, put his tongue to them as his hands went down to the belt of her skirt,
to find that she’d changed for the trip and was wearing jeans. Her hands were on the belt, almost as if to deny him. But he wouldn’t be delaved or denied. He pulled the jeans down around her hips, feeling skin so smooth beneath his hands it was almost fluid; her whole body a slow curve, like a wave about to break over him.
For the first time since she’d appeared she said his name, tentatively, as though in this darkness she’d suddenly doubted he was real.
“I’m here,” he replied. “Always.”
“This is what you want?” she said.
“Of course it is. Of course,” he replied, and put his hand on her sex.
This time the iridescence, when it came, was almost bright, and fixed in his head the image of her crotch, his fingers sliding over and between her labia. As the light went, leaving its afterglow on his blind eyes, he was vaguely distracted by a ringing sound, far off at first but closer with every repetition. The telephone, damn it! He did his best to ignore it, failed, and reached out to the bedside table where it sat, throwing the receiver off its cradle and returning to her in one graceless motion. The body beneath him was once again perfectly still. He climbed on top of her and slid inside. It was like being sheathed in silk. She put her hands up around his neck, her fingers strong, and raised her head a little way off the bed to meet his kisses. Though their mouths were clamped together he could hear her saying his name — “Gentle? Gentle?”—with that same questioning tone she’d had before. He didn’t let memory divert him from his present pleasure, but found his rhythm: long, slow strokes. He remembered her as a woman who liked him to take his time. At the height of their affair they’d made love from dusk to dawn on several occasions, toying and teasing, stopping to bathe so they’d have the bliss of working up a second sweat. But this was an encounter that had none of the froth of those liaisons. Her fingers were digging hard at his back, pulling him onto her with each thrust. And still he heard her voice, dimmed by the veils of his self-consumption: “Gentle? Are you there?”