by Clive Barker
“It’s bad luck,” Tyrwhitt was protesting. “Birds in the house are bad luck!”
“Luck’s for fishermen and gamblers,” Abelove replied.
“One of these days you’ll turn a phrase worth remembering,” Tyrwhitt replied. “Just get the thing out before I wring its neck.” He turned toward Gentle. “Tell him, Sartori.”
Gentle was shocked to see the memory’s eyes fix so acutely upon him. “It does no harm,” he found himself replying. “It’s one of God’s creatures.”
At which point the bird rose flapping from Abelove’s grasp, emptying its bowels as it did so on the man’s wig and face, which brought a hoot of laughter from Tyrwhitt.
“Now don’t wipe it off,” he told Abelove as the magpie fluttered away. “It’s good luck.”
The sound of his laughter brought Joshua Godolphin, imperious as ever, out of the dining room. “What’s the row?”
Abelove was already clattering after the bird, his calls merely alarming it more. It fluttered around the hallway in panic, cawing as it went.
“Open the damned door!” Godolphin said. “Let the bloody thing out!”
“And spoil the sport?” Tyrwhitt said.
“If everyone would but calm their voices,” Abelove said, “it would settle.”
“Why did you bring it in?” Joshua wanted to know.
“It was sitting on the step,” Abelove replied. “I thought it was injured.”
“It looks quite well to me,” Godolphin said, and turned his face, ruddied with brandy, toward Gentle. “Maestro,” he said, inclining his head a little. “I’m afraid we began dinner without you. Come in. Leave these bird brains to play.”
Gentle was crossing to the dining room when there was a thud behind him, and he turned to see the bird dropping to the floor beneath one of the windows, where it had struck the glass. Abelove let out a little moan, and Tyrwhitt’s laughter ceased.
“There now!” he said. “You killed the thing!”
“Not me!” Abelove said.
“You want to resurrect it?” Joshua murmured to Gentle, his tone conspiratorial.
“With a broken neck and wings?” Gentle mourned. “That wouldn’t be very kind.”
“But amusing,” Godolphin replied with mischief in his puffy eyes.
“I think not,” Gentle said, and saw his distaste wipe the humor off Joshua’s face. He’s a little afraid of me, Gentle thought; the power in me makes him nervous.
Joshua headed into the dining room, and Gentle was about to step through the door after him when a young man—eighteen at most, with a plain, long face and chorister’s curls—came to his side.
“Maestro?”’ he said.
Unlike Joshua and the others, these features seemed more familiar to Gentle. Perhaps there was a certain modernity in the languid, lidded gaze and the small, almost effeminate, mouth. He didn’t look that intelligent, in truth, but his words, when they came, were well turned, despite the boy’s nervousness. He barely dared look at Sartori, but with those lids downcast begged the Maestro’s indulgence.
“I wondered, sir, if you had perhaps considered the matter of which we spoke?”
Gentle was about to ask, What matter?, when his tongue replied, his intellect seizing the memory as the words spilled out. “I know how eager you are, Lucius.”
Lucius Cobbitt was the boy’s name. At seventeen he already had the great works by heart, or at least their theses. Ambitious and apt at politics, he’d taken Tyrwhitt as a patron (for what services only his bed knew, but it was surely a hanging offense) and had secured himself a place in the house as a menial. But he wanted more than that, and scarcely an evening went by without his politely plying the Maestro with coy glances and pleas.
“I’m more than eager, sir,” he said. “I’ve studied all the rituals. I’ve mapped the In Ovo, from what I’ve read in Flute’s Visions. They’re just beginnings, I know, but I’ve also copied all the known glyphs, and I have them by heart.”
He had a little skill as an artist, too: something else they shared, besides ambition and dubious morals.
“I can help you, Maestro,” he was saying. “You’re going to need somebody beside you on the night.”
“I commend you on your discipline, Lucius, but the Reconciliation’s a dangerous business. I can’t take the responsibility—”
“I’ll take that, sir.”
“Besides, I have my assistant.”
The boy’s face fell. “You do?” he said.
“Certainly. Pie ‘oh’ pah.”
“You’d trust your life to a familiar?”
“Why shouldn’t I?”
“Well, because … because it’s not even human.”
“That’s why I trust it. Lucius,” Gentle said. “I’m sorry to disappoint you—”
“Could I at least watch, sir? I’ll keep my distance, I swear, I swear. Everybody else is going to be there.”
This was true enough. As the night of the Reconciliation approached, the size of the audience swelled. His patrons, who’d at first taken their oaths of secrecy very seriously, now sensed triumph and had become indiscreet. In hushed and often embarrassed tones they’d admit to having invited a friend or a relation to witness the rites, and who was he, the performer, to forbid his paymasters their moment of reflected glory? Though he never gave them an easy time when they made these confessions, he didn’t much mind. Admiration charged the blood. And when the Reconciliation had been achieved, the more tongues there were to say they’d seen it done, and sanctify the doer, the better.
“I beg you, sir,” Lucius was saying. “I’ll be in your debt forever.”
Gentle nodded, ruffling the youth’s ginger hair. “You may watch,” he said.
Tears started to the boy’s eyes, and he snatched up Gentle’s hand, laying his lips to it. “I am the luckiest man in England,” he said. “Thank you, sir, thank you.”
Quieting the boy’s profusions, Gentle left him at the door and stepped through into the dining room. As he did so he wondered if all these events and conversations had actually dovetailed in this fashion, or whether his memory was collecting fragments from different nights and days, knitting them together so that they appeared seamless. If the latter was the case — and he guessed it was—then there were probably clues in these scenes to mysteries yet to be unveiled, and he should try to remember their every detail. But it was difficult. He was both Gentle and Sartori here, both witness and actor. It was hard to live the moments when he was also observing them, and harder still to dig for the seam of their significance when their surface gleamed so fetchingly, and when he was the brightest jewel that shone there. How they had idolized him! He’d been like a divinity among them, his every belch and fart attended to like a sermon, his cosmological pronouncements—of which he was too fond—greeted with reverence and gratitude, even by the mightiest.
Three of those mighty awaited him in the dining room, gathered at one end of a table, set for four but laden with sufficient food to sate the street for a week. Joshua was one of the trio, of course. Roxborough and his longtime foil Oliver McGann were the others, the latter well in his cups, the former, as ever, keeping his counsel, his ascetic features, dominated by the long hook of his nose, always half masked by his hands. He despised his mouth, Gentle thought, because it betrayed his nature, which despite his incalculable wealth and his pretensions to metaphysics was peevish, penurious, and sullen.
“Religion’s for the faithful,” McGann was loudly opining. “They say their prayers, their prayers aren’t answered, and their faith increases. Whereas magic—” He stopped, laying his inebriated gaze on the Maestro at the door. “Ah! The very man! The very man! Tell him, Sartori! Tell him what magic is.”
Roxborough had made a pyramid of his fingers, the apex at the bridge of his nose. “Yes, Maestro,” he said. “Do tell.”
“My pleasure,” Gentle replied, taking the glass of wine McGann poured for him and wetting his throat before he provided tonight’s profundit
ies. “Magic is the first and last religion of the world,” he said. “It has the power to make us whole. To open our eyes to the Dominions and return us to ourselves.”
“That sounds very fine,” Roxborough said flatly. “But what does it mean?”
“It’s obvious what it means,” McGann protested.
“Not to me it isn’t.”
“It means we’re born divided, Roxborough,” the Maestro replied. “But we long for union.”
“Oh, we do, do we?”
“I believe so.”
“And why should we seek union with ourselves?” Roxborough said. “Tell me that. I would have thought we’re the only company we’re certain we have.”
There was a riling smugness to the man’s tone, but the Maestro had heard these niceties before and had his answers well honed.
“Everything that isn’t us is also ourselves,” he said. He came to the table and set down his glass, peering through the smoky candle flames at Roxborough’s black eyes. “We’re joined to everything that was, is, and will be,” he said. “From one end of the Imajica to another. From the tiniest mote dancing over this flame to the Godhead Itself.”
He took breath, leaving room for a retort from Roxborough. But none came.
“We’ll not be subsumed at our deaths,” he went on. “We’ll be increased: to the size of Creation.”
“Yes …,” McGann said, the word coming long and loud from between teeth clenched in a tigerish smile.
“Magic’s our means to that Revelation,” the Maestro said, “while we’re still in our flesh.”
“And is it your opinion that we are given that Revelation?” Roxborough replied. “Or are we stealing it?”
“We were born to know as much as we can know.”
“We were born to suffer in our flesh,” Roxborough said.
“You may suffer; I don’t.”
The reply won a guffaw from McGann.
“The flesh isn’t punishment,” the Maestro said, “it’s there for joy. But it also marks the place where we end and the rest of Creation begins. Or so we believe. It’s an illusion, of course.”
“Good,” said Godolphin. “I like that.”
“So are we about God’s business or not?” Roxborough wanted to know.
“Are you having second thoughts?”
“Third and fourth, more like,” McGann said.
Roxborough gave the man at his side a sour glance. “Did we swear an oath not to doubt?” he said. “I don’t think so. Why should I be castigated because I ask a simple question?”
“I apologize,” McGann said. “Tell the man. Maestro. We’re doing God’s work, aren’t we?”
“Does God want us to be more than we are?” Gentle said. “Of course. Does God want us to love, which is the desire to be joined and made whole? Of course. Does It want us in Its glory, forever and ever? Yes. It does.”
“You always say It,” McGann observed. “Why’s that?”
“Creation and its maker are one and the same. True or false?”
“True.”
“And Creation’s as full of women as it is of men. True or false?”
“Oh, true, true.”
“Indeed, I give thanks for the fact night and day,” Gentle said, glancing at Godolphin as he spoke. “Beside my bed and in it.” Joshua laughed his Devil’s laugh.
“So the Godhead is both male and female. For convenience, an It.”
“Bravely said!” Joshua announced. “I never tire of hearing you speak, Sartori. My thoughts get muddy, but after I’ve listened to you awhile they’re like spring water, straight from the rock!”
“Not too clean, I hope,” the Maestro said. “We don’t want any Puritan souls spoiling the Reconciliation.”
“You know me better than that,” Joshua said, catching Gentle’s eye.
Even as he did so, Gentle had proof of his suspicion that these encounters, though remembered in one continuous stream, had not occurred sequentially but were fragments his mind was knitting together as the rooms he was walking through evoked them. McGann and Roxborough faded from the table, as did most of the candlelight and the litter of carafes, glasses, and food it had illuminated. Now there was only Joshua and himself, and the house was still above and below. Everyone asleep, but for these conspirators.
“I want to be with you when you perform the working,” Joshua was saying. There was no hint of laughter now. He looked harassed and nervous. “She’s very precious to me, Sartori. If anything were to happen to her I’d lose my mind.”
“She’ll be perfectly safe,” the Maestro said, sitting down at the table.
There was a map of the Imajica laid out in front of him, with the names of the Maestros and their assistants in each Dominion marked beside their places of conjuration. He scanned them and found he knew one or two. Tick Raw was there, as the deputy to Uter Musky; Scopique was there too, marked as an assistant to an assistant to Heratae Hammeryock, the latter a distant relation, perhaps, of the Hammeryock whom Gentle and Pie had encountered in Vanaeph. Names from two pasts, intersecting here on the map.
“Are you listening to me?” Joshua said.
“I told you she’d be perfectly safe,” came the Maestro’s reply. “The workings are delicate, but they’re not dangerous.”
“Then let me be there,” Godolphin said, wringing his hands. “I’ll be your assistant instead of that wretched mystif.”
“I haven’t even told Pie ‘oh’ pah what we’re up to. This is our business and only ours. You just bring Judith here tomorrow evening, and I’ll see to the rest.”
“She’s so vulnerable.”
“She seems very self-possessed to me,” the Maestro observed. “Very heated.”
Godolphin’s fretful expression soured into ice. “Don’t parade it, Sartori,” he said. “It’s not enough that I’ve got Roxborough at my ear all yesterday, telling me he doesn’t trust you; I have to bear you parading your arrogance.”
“Roxborough understands nothing.”
“He says you’re obsessed with women, so he understands that, at least. You watch some girl across the street, he says—”
“What if I do?”
“How can you give yourself to the Reconciliation if you’re so distracted?”
“Are you trying to talk me out of wanting Judith?”
“I thought magic was a religion to you.”
“So’s she.”
“A discipline, a sacred mystery.”
“Again, so’s she.” He laughed. “When I first saw her, it was like my first glimpse of another world. I knew I’d risk my life to be inside her skin. When I’m with her, I feel like an adept again, creeping toward a miracle, step by step. Tentative, excited—”
“Enough!”
“Really? You don’t want to know why I need to be inside her so badly?”
Godolphin eyed him ruefully. “Not really,” he said. “But if you don’t tell me, I’ll only wonder.”
“Because for a little time, I’ll forget who I am. Everything petty and particular will go out of me. My ambition. My history. Everything. I’ll be unmade. And that’s when I’m closest to divinity.”
“Somehow you always manage to bring everything back to that. Even your lust.”
“It’s all One.”
“I don’t like your talk of the One,” Godolphin said. “You sound like Roxborough with his dictums! Simplicity is strength and all the rest.”
“That’s not what I mean and you know it. It’s just that women are where everything begins, and I like—how shall I put it?—to touch the source as often as possible.”
“You think you’re perfect, don’t you?” Godolphin said.
“Why so sour? A week ago you were doting on my every word.”
“I don’t like what we’re doing,” Godolphin replied. “I want Judith for myself.”
“You’ll have her. And so will I. That’s the glory of this.”
“There’ll be no difference between them?”
�
��None. They’ll be identical. To the pucker. To the lash.”
“So why must I have the copy?”
“You know the answer to that. Because the original loves me, not you.”
“I should never have let you set eyes on her.”
“You couldn’t have kept us apart. Don’t look so forlorn. I’m going to make you a Judith that’ll dote on you and your sons, and your son’s sons, until the name Godolphin disappears off the face of the earth. Now where’s the harm in that?”
As he asked the question all the candles but the one he held went out, and the past was extinguished with them. He was suddenly back in the empty house, a police siren whooping nearby. He stepped back into the hallway as the car sped down Gamut Street, its blue light pulsing through the windows. Seconds later, another came howling after. Though the din of the sirens faded and finally disappeared, the flashes did not. They brightened from blue to white, however, and lost their regularity. By their brilliance he saw the house once more restored to glory. It was no longer a place of debate and laughter however. There was sobbing above and below, and the animal smells of fear in every corner. Thunder rattled the roof, but there was no rain to soothe its choler.
I don’t want to be here, he thought. The other memories had entertained him. He’d liked his role in the proceedings. But this darkness was another matter entirely. It was full of death, and he wanted to run from it.
The lightning came again, horribly livid. By it, he saw Lucius Cobbitt standing halfway up the stairs, clutching the banister as though he’d fall if he didn’t. He’d bitten his tongue or lip, or both, and blood dribbled from his mouth and chin, made stringy by the spit with which it was mingled. When Gentle climbed the stairs he smelled excrement. The boy had loosed his bowels in his breeches. Seeing Gentle, he raised his eyes.
“How did it fail. Maestro?” he sobbed. “How?”
Gentle shuddered as the question brought images flooding into his head, more horrendous than all the scenes he’d witnessed at the Erasure. The failure of the Reconciliation had been sudden, and calamitous, and had caught the Maestros representing the five Dominions at such a delicate time in the working that they’d been ill-equipped to prevent it. The spirits of all five had already risen from their circles across Imajica and, carrying the analogues of their worlds, had converged on the Ana, the zone of inviolability that appeared every two centuries in the heart of the In Ovo. There, for a tender time, miracles could be worked, as the Maestros, safe from the In Ovo’s inhabitants but freed and empowered by their immaterial state, unburdened themselves of their similitudes and allowed the genius of the Ana to complete the fusing of the Dominions. It was a precarious time, but they’d been reaching its conclusion when the circle in which the Maestro Sartori’s physical body sat, its stones protecting the outside world from the flux which let on to the In Ovo, broke. Of all the potential places for failure in the ceremonies, this was the unlikeliest: tantamount to transubstantiation failing for want of salt in the bread. But fail it did, and once the breach was opened, there was no way to seal it until the Maestros had returned to their bodies and mustered their feits. In that time the hungry tenants of the In Ovo had free access to the Fifth. Not only to the Fifth, but to the exulted flesh of the Maestros themselves, who vacated the Ana in confusion, leading the hounds of the In Ovo back to their flesh.