by Clive Barker
He screamed and screamed, and Maeve, though she hated the man with a passion, wished he might be saved from his torment, if only to stop his din. She covered her ears but his cries found their way between her fingers, mounting in volume as a terrible rain fell from the branches. First came the rifle, then blood, pattering down. Then one of Pottruck’s arms, followed by a piece of flesh she could not distinguish; and another. And still he screamed, though the patter of the blood had become a downpour, and the snaking part of his innards dropped from the tree in a glistening loop.
Suddenly, Sturgis was rising from his hiding place, and began to fire into the tree. Perhaps he put Pottruck from his misery, perhaps the beast simply took out the man’s throat. Whichever, the terrible sound ceased, and a moment later Pottruck’s body, so mangled it looked barely human, fell from the branches and lay steaming on the ground.
The canopy stilled. Sturgis backed away into the shadows, stifling his sobs. Maeve froze, praying that Whitney would go with him. But he did not. Instead he started towards her father.
“See what you did, calling the Evil One?” he said.
“I—didn’t—call anybody,” Harmon gasped.
“You tell it to go back to the pit, O’Connell. You tell it!”
Maeve looked back in Sturgis’s direction. The man had fled. But her gaze fell on Pottruck’s rifle, which lay beneath the dripping branches a yard from his corpse.
“You repent,” Whitney was saying to Harmon. “You send that devil back where it came from, or I’m going to blow off your hands, then your pecker, till you’re begging to repent.”
With Sturgis gone and Whitney’s back turned, Maeve didn’t need much caution. Eyes cast up towards the branches, where she was certain the beasts still squatted, she started towards the rifle. She could see no sign of the creature—the mesh of branches was too thick—but she could feel its gaze on her.
“Please . . . ” she whispered to it, the syllables too soft to attract Whitney’s attention, “don’t hurt . . . me.”
The squatter made no move. Not a twig shook; not a needle fell.
She glanced down at the ground. Pottruck’s body lay sprawled in front of her, a nonsense now. She’d seen corpses before. Dead in Irish ditches, dead in Liverpool gutters, dead along the trail to the promised land. This one was bloodier than most, but it didn’t move her. She stepped over it and stooped to pick up the rifle.
As she did so she heard the thing above her expel a sighing breath. She froze, heart thumping, waiting for the claws to come and pluck her up. But no. Just another sigh, almost sorrowful. She knew it wasn’t wise to linger here a moment longer than she needed, but she couldn’t keep her curiosity in check. She rose with the rifle, and looked back up into the knot of branches. As she did so a drop of blood hit her cheek, and a second fell between her parted lips. It was not Pottruck’s blood, she knew that the moment it hit her tongue. The drop was not salty, but sweet, like honey, and though she knew it was coming from the beast (Pottruck’s aim had not been so wild after all, it seemed), her hunger overcame any niceties. She opened her mouth a little wider, hoping another drop would come her way, and she was not disappointed. A little shower of drops struck her upturned face, some of them finding her mouth. Her throat ran with spittle, and she could not help but sigh with pleasure at the taste.
The creature in the tree moved now, and she briefly glimpsed its form. Its wings were open wide, as though it was ready to swoop upon her; its head—if she read the shadows right—cocked a little.
And still the blood came, the drops no longer missing her mouth but falling directly upon her tongue. This was no accident, she knew. The beast was feeding her; squeezing its wounded flesh above her face like a honey-soaked sponge.
It was a moan from her father that stirred her from the strange reverie that had overtaken her. She looked away from her nourisher, and back through the trees. Whitney was crouching beside Harmon’s body, his rifle at her father’s head.
She started towards them, lighter and fleeter than she’d been in weeks. Her belly no longer ached. Her head no longer spun.
Whitney did not see her until she was six or seven yards away, Pottruck’s bloodied rifle pointing directly at him. She had never used a weapon like this before, but at such a distance, it would be difficult to discharge it without doing some harm. Plainly the tormentor made the same calculation, because his face grew fretful at the sight of her.
“You should be careful with that, child,” he said.
“You leave Papa alone.”
“I wasn’t touching him.”
“Liar.”
“I wasn’t. I swear.”
“Maeve, my sweet—” Harmon murmured, raising his head with no little difficulty, “go back to the wagon. Please. There’s something—something terrible here.”
“No, there isn’t,” Maeve replied, the blood of the beast still sweet on her tongue. “It’s not going to hurt us.” She looked back at Whitney. “We’ve got to get my Papa fixed up, before he dies. You put down your rifle.” Whitney did so, and Maeve approached, keeping her own weapon pointed in his direction while she looked upon her father. He was a pitiful sight, his jacket and shirt dark with blood from collar to belt.
“Help him up,” she told Whitney. “Which way is it back to the wagons?”
“You go, child,” Harmon said softly. “I got no life left in me.”
“That’s not true. We’ll get you to the wagons and Mrs. Winthrop can bandage you up—”
“No,” Harmon said. “It’s too late.”
Maeve came to her father’s side, and looked directly down into his eyes. “You’ve got to get well,” she said, “or what’ll happen to Everville?”
“It was a fine dream I dreamed,” he murmured, raising his trembling hand towards her. She took it. “But you’re finer, child,” he said. “You’re the finest dream I ever had. And it’s not so hard to die, knowing you’re in the world.”
Then his eyes flickered closed.
“Papa?” she said. “Papa?”
“He’s gone to Hell—” Whitney murmured.
She looked up at him. He was smiling. The tears she’d held back now came in a bitter flood—of sorrow, and of rage—and she went down on her knees beside her father, pressing her face against his cold cheek. “Listen to me—” she said to him.
Did she feel a tremor in his body, as though he were still holding on to a tiny piece of life, listening to his child’s voice in the darkness?
“I’m going to build it, Papa,” she whispered. “I am. I promise. It won’t be just a dream—”
As she finished speaking she felt a feather breath against her cheek, and she knew he had heard her. And having heard, had let go.
The joy of that knowledge was short-lived.
“You’re not going to build anything,” Whitney said.
She looked up at him. He had reclaimed his weapon, and was pointing it at her heart.
“Stand up,” he said. As she did so he knocked Pottruck’s rifle from her hand. “Your tears don’t impress me none,” he went on. “You’re goin’ the way of your Daddy.”
She raised her arms in front of her as though her palms might deflect his bullets.
“Please—” she murmured, stumbling backwards.
“Stand still,” he yelled, and as he yelled he fired, the bullet striking the ground inches from her feet. “You’re coming with me, in case that devil your Daddy raised comes calling again.”
He had no sooner spoken that there was a disturbance in the branches a few yards behind him.
“Oh Lord in Heaven—” Whitney breathed, and rushed at Maeve, spinning her around and pulling her back against his body. She sobbed for him not to hurt her, but he grabbed a fistful of her hair and hauled her on to her tiptoes. Then he started to back away from the spot where the canopy was shaking, with Maeve obliged to match him step for step.
They had taken maybe six paces when the shaking stopped. The wounded beast was not prepared t
o risk another bullet, it seemed. Whitney’s panicked breaths became a little more regular. “It’s going to be all right,” he said. “I got the Lord watching over me.”
He’d no sooner spoken than the beast erupted, moving through the trees overhead with such speed and violence that entire boughs came crashing down. Maeve took her chance. She reached up and stabbed her nails into Whitney’s hand, twisting her body as she did so. Her greasy hair slipped from his fist, and before he could catch hold of her again she was away, seeking the shelter of the nearest tree.
She’d taken three strides, no more, when what she took to be two branches dropped in front of her. As she raised her arms to cover her face, she realized her error. The limbs grabbed hold of her, their fingers long enough to meet around her waist. Her breath went out of her in a rush, and she was hauled off the ground and up into the shelter of the trees.
Whitney fired, and fired again, but her wounded savior was as quick in his retreat as he’d been to snatch her away.
“Hold on,” he told her, his hands hot against her, and even before she’d even found proper purchase went off through the canopy, his wings slicing the branches like twin scythes as they labored to carry the beast and his burden skyward.
FOUR
She had forgotten the trumpets. But now, as her savior bore her up through the trees, the music came again, more splendid than ever.
“The Lady comes,” the creature said, alarm in his voice, and without warning began to descend again with such speed she almost lost her hold on him and was spilled from his arms.
“What lady?” she asked him, studying the shadows that hid his face from her.
“Better you not know,” he said. The ground was in sight now. “Don’t look at me,” he warned her as they cleared the lower branches, “or I’ll have to put out your eyes.”
“You wouldn’t do that.”
“Oh wouldn’t I?” he replied, his hand coming up over her face so swiftly she didn’t have time to catch her breath before mouth, nose, and eyes were sealed. She drew what little air was trapped between her face and his palm. It smelled like his blood had tasted: sweet and appetizing. Opening her mouth, she pressed her tongue against his skin.
“I think you’d eat me alive if you could,” he said. By his tone, it was plain the thought amused him.
She felt solid earth beneath her feet, and again he spoke, his mouth so close to her ear his beard or his moustache tickled her lobe.
“You’re right, child. I can’t blind you. But I beg you, when I take my hand from your face, close your eyes and keep them closed, and I will go from you whistling. When you can no longer hear me, open your eyes. But for your heart’s sake—then and only then. Do you understand?”
She nodded, and he took his hand from her face. Her eyes were closed and stayed that way while he spoke again. “Go back to your family,” he told her.
“My Papa’s dead.”
“Your Mama, then?”
“She’s dead too. And Whitney’ll kill me as soon as he sees me. He thinks I’m the Devil’s child. He thinks you’re a demon that my father conjured up.”
The creature laughed at this out loud.
“You’re not from Hell, are you?” she said.
“No, I’m not.”
“Are you an angel then?”
“No, not that either.”
“What then?”
“I told you: Better you not know.” The trumpets were sounding again. “There. The ceremony’s about to begin. I have to go. I wish I could do more for you, child, but I cannot.” He laid his fingers lightly upon her eyelids. “Eyes closed until I’m gone.”
“Yes.”
“You promise me?”
“I promise.”
His fingers were removed, and he began to whistle some pretty little tune, breaking it only to say: “Say nothing of this, to anyone,” then picking up the melody again to mask his departure.
A promise made with fingers crossed was no promise at all; Maeve had known this from the age of five. Uncrossing her fingers now, she waited until the sound of whistling retreated just a little, then opened her eyes. Their flight had apparently taken them some considerable way up the mountain, because the ground around the rock on which he’d set her was steeply sloped. Far fewer trees grew here; and there was consequently far more light. She could see the sky overhead—the snow had stopped, the parting clouds tinged a delicate pink by the setting sun—and when she cast her eyes up the mountainside in pursuit of the whistler she found him readily enough. At this distance, she could make out almost no detail of his appearance, but she was determined not to be denied it long. Climbing down off the boulder, she started after him.
It was hard going. The dirt and rotted needles slid away beneath her feet and hands as she climbed, and several times she had to scrabble for a root or a stone to keep herself from sliding back down the slope. The distance between herself and the beast grew steadily wider, and just as she began to fear losing sight of him altogether the same roseate light that had tinged the clouds overhead came between the trees, and with it a balmy air the like of which she’d not felt on her face in a month or more. The trees were more widely spread than ever, and between them she could see something of the slope beyond. It rose in a snowy sweep up to the top of the mountain, where the clouds had cleared completely, so that the peak stood against a sky pricked with the first of the stars. Their glimmer, however, could not compete with the lights shed on the snowfield below, the source of which Maeve did not discover until she was a few yards from the edge of the trees.
Several forms of misty light hovered over the slope, shedding their gentle luminescence on a scene of such beauty she stood among the trees rooted with wonder. Though her rescuer had denied he was an angel, surely heaven was here. From what other place could the creatures that inhabited this place have come? Though few of them had wings, all were in some way miraculous. A dozen or more that better resembled birds than men—beaked and shiny-eyed—stood communing beneath one of the spheres of light. Another clan, this at first glance dressed in scarlet silks, descended the slope with much ostentation, only to suddenly draw their brilliance into their bodies and hang in the air like skinned snakes. Yet another group had torsos like fans that opened lavishly, exposing vast, pulsing hearts.
Not every member of this assembly was so strange. Some were near enough men and women but for a color that passed through their skin, or a tail they trailed behind. Others were so tenuous that they were nearly phantoms, their passage leaving no mark upon the snow, while others still—these surely the cousins of her savior—seemed almost too solid in this place of spirit, brooding in the shadows of their wings, reluctant, it seemed, to even keep company with their fellows.
As to the creature that had unwittingly led her here, he was limping his way through the congregation towards a place at the top of the slope where a tent the color of the darkening sky had been pitched. She was of course instantly curious as to what wonder it contained. Did she dare leave the cover of the trees and follow him to find out? Why not? she reasoned. She had nothing to lose. Even if she were able to find her way back down the mountain to the wagons, Whitney would be there, with his rifle and his righteousness. Better to go where the creature and her curiosity led.
And now, another astonishment. Though she took her way out from the trees and up through the hundred or so gathered here, none made a move to question her or block her way. A few heads were turned in her direction, it was true, a few whispers exchanged of which she was surely the subject. But that was all. Among such strangenesses, her size and sickliness were apparently taken to be a glamor of their own.
As she climbed the thought occurred to her that perhaps this was a dream: that she had swooned on her father’s chest, and would wake soon with his body cold beneath her. There were simple proofs against such doubts, however. First she pinched her arm, then she poked her tongue in the bad tooth at the back of her mouth. Both hurt, more than a little. She wasn’t dream
ing. Had she maybe lost her mind then, and was inventing these wonders the way travelers in the desert invented wells and fruit trees? No, that made no sense either. If these were comforts she’d created, where were her mother and her father; where were the tables laden with cake and milk?
Extraordinary as all these visions were, they were real. The lights, the families, the shimmering tent; all as real as Whitney and the wagons and the dead in their graves.
Thinking of what she’d left behind, she paused for a moment and looked back down the mountain. Night was drawing on swiftly, and the forest had receded into a misty darkness. She could see no sign of the wagons, nor were there any fires burning below. Either the snow had buried them all, or—more likely—they had moved on towards the mountain while the blizzard’s fury subsided, assuming she was lost.
So she was. Orphaned and wandering among strangers, countless miles from the place where she was born, she was as lost as any soul could be. But she felt no sadness at that thought (a prick, perhaps, knowing her father lay in the dark below, but no more). Instead she felt a kind of joy. She was of a tribe of one here; and if she was ever asked what manner of magic she carried to this sacred place, she would sit these miraculous folk down and tell them about Everville, street by street, square by square, and they would be astonished. Nor would she be lost, when she’d told her tale, because Everville was her true home, and she was as safe in its heart as it was in hers.
FIVE
I
It wasn’t difficult for Whitney to convince those waiting back at the wagons that they should give up the O’Connell girl as lost and move on. Darkness was falling and Sturgis had already returned from the forest with babbled tales of a terror that had brutally dispatched Pottruck. It was still here, Whitney warned, and though its conjurer was dead, the creature’s appetite for blood and souls would only become stronger as the night deepened. Besides, the storm had abated a little. This was God’s way of thanking them for their part in O’Connell’s dispatch; they should not scorn it.