The Essential Clive Barker

by Clive Barker

  Five steps to the bottom, Harry saw. Just like Hess.

  The victory had taken its toll. In addition to his lacerated neck and punctured throat Harry had a broken collarbone, four cracked ribs, a fractured right arm, and mild concussion. As for Stevie, who had been the Nomad’s hostage for three days, his traumas were more psychological than physical. They would take some time to heal, if they ever did, but the first step on that journey was made the day after the creature’s death. The family moved out of the house on Wyckoff Street, leaving it to the mercy of gossip. This time there would be no attempt to redeem the house. Untenanted, it would fall into disrepair through the winter months, at what some thought an uncanny speed. Nobody would ever occupy it again.

  One mystery remained unsolved. Why had the creature plotted to bring him back to Wyckoff Street in the first place? Had it begun to doubt its own mythology and arranged a rematch with an old enemy to confirm its sense of itself? Or had it simply been bored one September day and taken it into its head to play the old game of temptation and slaughter for the sheer hell of it?

  The answer to those questions would, Harry assumed, join the long list of things he would never know.

  As for Ted’s magnum opus, after a few days of indecision Harry elected to hang it in the living room. Given that he was presently one-handed, this took him the better part of two hours to accomplish, but once it was up — the canvas nailed directly to the wall—it looked better than it had in the gallery. Unbounded by a frame, Ted’s vision seemed to bleed out across the wall.

  Of the lovely Sabina, who had presumably been obeying the Nomad’s instructions when she’d delivered the painting, there was no further sign. But Harry had two new dead bolts put on the front door anyway, just in case.

  SEVEN

  LOVE

  Love is the engine of several of my novels. Certainly of Galilee, Sacrament, and Imajica; even, in a perverse way, of The Damnation Game. It also fires the narratives of some of my favorite stories: “Jacqueline Ess: Her Last Will and Testament,” “The Life of Death,” “The Forbidden.” It isn’t always a positive force. It sickens into obsession in several tales; it makes people crazy, even suicidal. But it is also, and often, the only source of illumination in an otherwise benighted landscape.

  Some of the most interesting pieces here, I think, are those which deal with unconventional pairings. Jane Beck and the Devil, talking at cross-purposes with each other, testing each other’s feelings, fearful of rejection. Marietta Barbarossa, chatting with her brother Maddox about their father’s priapic excesses, while she combs Maddox’s library to find a poem with which to seduce a woman she’s met. Jacob Steep and Rosa McGee, the Macbeths of Sacrament, coupling in a fine old fury.

  But this is also a chapter that contains its measure of unbridled romanticism. Witness Rachel and Galilee, on board his boat, the Samarkand, falling in love with each other; and more strange, but still I think, sweet, the blossoming romance between Gentle and the ambisexual Pie ‘oh’ pah from Imajica, which ends with one of the most bizarre nuptial scenes I’ve yet committed to paper.

  As Edward Lear, the hero of Subtle Bodies, says, at his marriage to a gorilla: “Of course, it’s all a complete mystery to me … What God can possibly mean, joining us in Roly-Poly Paddle Me”—he’s a nonsense poet: he means to say “matrimony”—”But isn’t that the sweetest thing; mystery?”

  From Galilee

  There was no trace of the day remaining when The Samarkand left the jetty; nor was there a moon. Only the stars, in brilliant array. Rachel sat on deck while the boat glided away from the island. The heavens got brighter the further they sailed, or such was her impression. She’d never seen so many stars, nor seen the Milky Way so clearly; a wide, irregular band of studded sky.

  “What are you thinking about?” Galilee asked her.

  “I used to work in a jewelry store in Boston,” she said. “And we had this necklace that was called the Milky Way. It was supposed to look like that.” She pointed to the sky. “I think it was eight hundred and fifty thousand dollars. You never saw so many diamonds.”

  “Did you want to steal it?” Galilee said.

  “I’m not a thief.”

  “But did you?”

  She grinned sheepishly. “I did try it on when nobody was looking. And it was very pretty. But the real thing’s prettier.”

  “I would have stolen it for you,” Galilee said. “No problem. All you needed to say was—I want that—and it would have been yours.”

  “Suppose you’d got caught?”

  “I never get caught.”

  “So what have you stolen?”

  “Oh my Lord …,” he said. “Where do I start?”

  “Is that a joke?”

  “No. I take theft very seriously.”

  “It is a joke.”

  “I stole this boat.”

  “You did not.”

  “How else was I going to get it?”

  “Buy it?”

  “You know how much vessels like this cost?” he said reasonably. She still wasn’t sure whether he was joking or not. “I either stole the money to buy the boat, or stole the boat itself. It seemed simpler to steal the boat. That cut out the middle man.” Rachel laughed. “Besides, the guy who had the boat didn’t care about her. He left her tied up most of the time. I took her out, showed her the world.”

  “You make it sound like you married her.”

  “I’m not that crazy,” Galilee replied. “I like sailing, but I like fucking better.” An expression of surprise must have crossed her face, because he hurriedly said: “Sorry. That was crude. I mean—”

  “No, if that’s what you meant you should say it.”

  He looked sideways at her, his eyes gleaming by the light of the lamp. Despite his claim not to be crazy, that was exactly how he looked at that moment: sublimely, exquisitely crazy.

  “You realize what you’re inviting?” he said.

  “No.”

  “Giving me permission to say what I mean? That’s a dangerous invitation.”

  “I’ll take the risk.”

  “All right,” he said with a shrug. “But you remember …”

  “I invited it.”

  He kept looking at her: that same gleaming gaze.

  “I brought you on this boat because I want to make love to you.”

  “Make love is it now?”

  “No, fuck. I want to fuck you.”

  “Is that your usual method?” she asked him. “Get the girl out to the sea where she hasn’t got any choice?”

  “You could swim,” he said. He wasn’t smiling. “I suppose I could.”

  “But as they say on the islands: Uliuli kai holo ka mano.”

  “Which means what?”

  “Where the sea is dark, sharks swim.”

  “Oh that’s very reassuring,” she said, glancing down at the waters slopping against the hull of The Samarkand. They were indeed dark.

  “So that may not be the wisest option. You’re safer here. With me. Getting what you want.”

  “I haven’t said—”

  “You don’t need to tell me. You just need to be near me. I can smell what you want.”

  If Mitchell had ever said anything like that as a sexual overture it would have killed his chances stone dead. But she’d invited this man to say what was in his head. It was too late to play the Puritan. Besides, coming from him, right now, the idea was curiously beguiling. He could smell her. Her breath, her sweat; God knows what else. She was near him and he could smell her; she was wasting his time and hers protesting and denying …

  So she said: “I thought we were going to fish?”

  He grinned at her. “You want a lover who keeps his promises, huh?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “I’ll get a fish,” he said, and standing up he stripped off his T-shirt, unbuckled his belt, and stepped out of his pants; all this so swiftly she didn’t comprehend what he was intending to do until he threw himself overboard. It
wasn’t an elegant dive, it was a ragged plunge, and the splash soaked her. But that wasn’t what got her up and shouting at him. It was what he’d said about sharks and dark water.

  “Don’t do this!” she yelled. She could barely see him. “Come out of there!”

  “I’m not going to be long.”

  “Galilee. You said there were sharks.”

  “And the longer I talk to you the more likely they’ll come and eat my ass, so can I please go fish?”

  “I’m not hungry anymore.”

  “You will be,” he said. She could hear the smile in his voice, then saw him throw his arms above his head and dive out of sight.

  “You sonofabitch,” she said to herself, her mind filling with unwelcome questions. How long could he hold his breath? When should she start to be concerned for his safety? And what if she saw a shark: what was she to do then? Lean over the side and beat on the hull of the boat to divert its attention? Not a very pleasant idea, with the water so concealing. The thing would be on her before she knew it; taking off her hand, her arm, dragging her overboard.

  There was no doubt in her mind: when he got back on board she was going to tell him to take her straight back to the jetty; the sonofabitch, the sonofabitch, leaving her here staring down into the darkness with her heart in her mouth —

  She heard a splashing sound on the other side of the boat.

  “Is that you?” she called out. There was no reply. She crossed the deck, stumbling over something in the dark. “Galilee, damn you! Answer me!”

  The splashing came again. She scanned the water, looking for some sign of life. Praying it was a man not a fin.

  “Oh God, don’t let anything happen to him,” she found herself saying, “Please God, please, don’t hurt him.”

  “You sound like a native.”

  She looked in the direction of the voice. There was something that looked like a black ball bobbing in the water. And around it, fish were leaping, their backs silvery in the starlight.

  “Okay,” she said, determined not to sound concerned for fear she encouraged his cavortings. “You got the fish? That’s great.”

  “There was a shark god at Puhi, called Kaholia-Kane—”

  “I don’t want to hear it!” she yelled.

  “But I heard you praying—”

  “No—”

  “Please God, you were saying.”

  “I wasn’t praying to the fucking shark!” she yelled, her fury and fear getting the better of her.

  “Well you should. They listen. At least this one did. The women used to call to him, whenever somebody was lost at sea—”

  “Galilee?”

  “Yes?”

  “It’s not funny anymore. I want you back on board.”

  “I’m coming,” he said. “Let me just—” She saw his arm shoot out of the water and catch one of the leaping fish. “Gotcha! Okay. I’m on my way.” He began to plow through the water toward the boat. She scanned the surface in every direction, superstitiously fearful that the fin would appear just as Galilee came in striking distance of the boat. But he made it to the side without incident.

  “Here,” he said, passing the fish up to her. It was large, and still very much intending to return to its native element, thrashing so violently that she had to use both hands to keep hold of it.

  By the time she’d set the fish down where it couldn’t dance its way back over the side, Galilee had hoisted himself up out of the water and was standing, dripping wet, just a step or two behind her.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, before she could start to tell him how angry she was. “I didn’t realize I was upsetting you. I thought you knew it was all a joke.”

  “You mean there aren’t any sharks?”

  “Oh no. There are sharks out there. And the islanders do say Uliuli kai holo ka mano. But I don’t think they’re talking about real sharks when they say that.”

  “What are they talking about?”

  “Men.”

  “Oh I see,” Rachel said. “When it gets dark, the men come out—”

  “Looking for something to eat.” He nodded.

  “But you could still have got attacked,” she said, “if there are real sharks out there.”

  “They wouldn’t have touched me.”

  “And why’s that? Too tough?”

  He reached out and took hold of her hand, escorting it back toward him, and laying her palm against the middle of his massive chest. His heart was thumping furiously. He felt as though there was just a single layer of skin between hand and heart; as though if she wanted to she could have reached into his chest and taken hold of it. And now it was she who could smell him. His skin like smoke and burned coffee; his breath salty.

  “There’s a lot of tales about sharks, men and gods,” he said.

  “More of your true stories?”

  “Absolutely true,” he replied. “I swear.”

  “Such as?”

  “Well, they come in four varieties. Legends about men who are really shape-changing sharks; that’s the first. These creatures walk the beaches at night, taking souls; sometimes taking children.”

  Rachel made a face. “Doesn’t sound like a lot of fun.”

  “Then there are stories about men who decided to go into the sea and become sharks.”

  “Why would they do that?”

  “For the same reason I got myself a boat and sailed away: they were fed up with pretending. They wanted to be in the water, always moving. Sharks die if they don’t keep moving, did you know that?”

  “No …”

  “Well they do.”

  “So that’s number two.”

  “Then there’s the one you already know. Kaholia-Kane and his brothers and sisters.”

  “Shark gods.”

  “Protectors of sailors and ships. There’s one in Pearl Harbor, watching over the dead. Her name’s Ka’ahupahau. And the greatest of them is called Kuhaimuana. He’s thirty fathoms long …”

  Rachel shook her head. “Sorry. I don’t like any of these stories,” she said.

  “That leaves us with just one category.”

  “Men who are gods?” Rachel said. Galilee nodded. “No, I’m not buying that either,” she told him.

  “Don’t be so quick to judge,” Galilee said. “Maybe you just haven’t met the right man.”

  She laughed. “And maybe it’s all just stories,” she replied. “Look, I’m quite happy to talk about sharks and religion tomorrow. But tonight let’s just be ordinary people.”

  “You make it sound easy,” he said.

  “It is,” she told him. She moved closer to him, her hand still pressed against his chest. His heart seemed to beat more powerfully still. “I don’t understand what’s going on between us,” she said, their faces so close she could feel the heat of his breath. “And to be honest I don’t really care anymore.” She kissed him. He was staring at her, unblinking, and continued to stare as he returned her kiss.

  “What do you want to do?” he said, very quietly.

  She slid her other hand down over the hard shallow dome of his stomach, to his sex. “Whatever you want,” she said, unhooding him. He shuddered.

  “There’s so much I need to tell you,” he said.

  “Later.”

  “Things you have to know about me.”

  “Later.”

  “Don’t say I didn’t try,” he said, staring at her with no little severity.

  “I won’t.”

  “Then let’s go downstairs and be ordinary for a while.”

  She led the way. But before he followed her he walked back across the deck to where the fish lay, and going down on his haunches, picked it up. She watched his body by the lamplight; the muscles of his back and buttocks, the bunching of his thighs as he squatted down, the dark, laden sac hanging between his legs. He was glorious, she thought; perhaps the most glorious man she’d ever seen.

  He stood up again—apparently unaware that she was watching him — and seemed to
murmur a few words to the dead fish before tossing it overboard.

  “What was that about?” she asked him.

  “An offering,” he explained. “To the shark god.”

  From Galilee

  Glancing back over the last several chapters, I realize that I’ve left a thread of my story dangling (actually, I’m certain I’ve left a good many more than one, but the rest will be sewn into the design in due course). I’m speaking of my sister’s adventures. You’ll recall that the last time I saw her she was in flight from Cesaria, who was furious with her for some unspecified crime. If you’ll allow me a moment here I’ll tell you what all that was about. My fear is that if I don’t tell you now, the urgency of what is about to happen in the lives of the Gearys will prevent me from breaking at a later point. In short, this may well be the last real breath I can take. After this, the deluge.

  So; Marietta. She appeared in my chambers three or four days after my encounter with Cesaria, wearing a dreamy smile.

  “What are you on?” I asked her.

  “I’ve had a couple of mushrooms,” she replied.

  I was irritated with her, and I said so. She had too little sense of responsibility, I said: always in pursuit of some altered state or other.

  “Oh, listen to you. So you didn’t take the cocaine and Benedictine?”

  I admitted that I had, but that I’d had a legitimate reason: it was helping me stay alert through the long hours of writing. It was quite a different situation, I said, to indulging day after day, the way she did.

  “You’re exaggerating,” she said.

  In my fine self-righteousness I made a list for her. There was nothing she wouldn’t try. She smoked opium and chewed coca leaves; she ate pharmaceutical painkillers like candies and washed them down with tequila and rum; she liked heroin and cherries in brandy and hashish brownies.

  “Lord, Maddox, you can be so tiresome sometimes. If I play music and the music’s worth a damn, I’m altering my state. If I touch myself, and I give myself pleasure, I’m altering my state.”