by Clive Barker
Nobody—not even Marsha Winthrop—put up any argument against their departure. Whitney had graphically described the girl’s abduction. It was unlikely she had survived.
Even though the snowfall had given way to mist, and the moon when it rose was round and bright, progress was exhausting, and after an hour of travel—with the fringes of forest a safe distance behind them—they made camp for the remainder of the night.
Whitney sang hymns as he lit the fire, raising his unmelodious voice to the glory of God, praising Him for leading them from Hell’s dominion. “The Lord has us in his hands,” Whitney told the company between verses. “Our journey is almost done.”
At his suggestion, Everett Immendorf’s widow, Ninnie, was charged to make a stew, its ingredients culled from the last of everyone’s supply of vittles.
“It will be the last supper we will take along this dark road,” Whitney said, “for tomorrow God will bring us into our promised land.”
The stew was little more than gruel, but it warmed them as they sat huddled about the fire. Drinking it, they dared talk quietly of deliverance. And it was in the midst of this talk they had proof that Whitney had been right. As the flames began to die down, there came a sound from beyond the throw of the light: that of someone politely clearing their throat.
Sturgis—who had not stopped trembling since his return—was first to his feet, his gun drawn.
“No need of that,” came a floating voice. “I’m here as a friend.”
Whitney rose to his feet. “Then show yourself, friend,” he said.
The stranger did as he was invited, and sauntered into view. He was shorter than any man around the fire, but he carried himself with the easy gait of one who was seldom, if ever, crossed. The high collar of his fur coat was turned up, and he smiled out from its luxury as though the faces before him were those of well-fed friends, and he was coming to join them at a feast. Apart from the snow on his boots, there was no sign that he had exerted himself to reach this spot. Every detail was in place and bespoke a man of cultivation: waxed moustache, clipped beard, calf-skin gloves, silver-tipped cane.
There was not one among the group around the fire unmoved by his presence. Sheldon Sturgis felt a deep shame for his cowardice, certain that this man had never shat his pants in his life. Alvin Goodhue’s stomach rebelled at the powerful perfume the man wore, and he summarily threw up his portion of gruel. Its cook, Ninnie Immendorf, didn’t even notice. She was too busy feeling thankful for her widowhood.
“Where’d you come from?” Marsha wanted to know.
“Up the pass,” the stranger replied.
“Where’s your wagon?”
The man was amused by this. “I came on foot,” he said. “It’s no more than a mile or two down into the valley.”
There were murmurs of joy and disbelief around the fire.
“We’re saved!” Cynthia Fisher sobbed. “Oh Lord in Heaven, we’re saved!”
“You were right,” Goodhue said to Whitney, “we were in God’s hands tonight.”
Whitney caught the twitch of a smile on the stranger’s face. “This is indeed welcome news,” he said. “May we know who you are?”
“No secret there,” the man replied. “My name’s Owen Buddenbaum. I came to meet with some friends of mine, but I don’t see them among your company. I hope no harm has befallen them.”
“We’ve lost a lot of good people,” Sturgis said. “Who’re you looking for?”
“Harmon O’Connell and his daughter,” Buddenbaum replied. “Were they not with you?”
The smiles around the fire died. There were several seconds of uneasy silence, then Goodhue simply said: “They’re dead.”
Buddenbaum teased the glove off his left hand as he spoke, his voice betraying nothing. “Is that so?” he said.
“Yes it’s so,” Sturgis replied. “O’Connell—got lost on the mountain.”
“And the child?”
“She went after him. It’s like he says, they’re both dead.”
Buddenbaum’s bare hand went up to his mouth, and he nibbled on the nail of his thumb. There was at least one ring on every finger. On the middle digit, three. “I’m surprised—” he said.
“At what?” Whitney replied.
“At God-fearing men and women leaving an innocent child to freeze to death,” Buddenbaum replied. He shrugged. “Well, we do what we must do.” He pulled his glove back on. “I’ll take my leave of you.”
“Wait,” said Ninnie, “won’t you have something to eat? We ain’t got much, but—”
“Thank you, no.”
“I got a little coffee tucked away,” Sheldon said. “We could brew a cup.”
“You’re very kind,” Buddenbaum said.
“So stay,” said Sheldon.
“Another time perhaps,” Buddenbaum replied. He scanned the group as he spoke. “I’m sure our paths will cross in the future,” he said. “We go our many ways but the roads lead back and back, don’t they? And of course we follow them. We have no choice.”
“You could ride back down with us,” Sheldon said.
“I’m not going back,” came the reply. “I’m going up the mountain.”
“You’re out of you’re mind,” Marsha said with her customary plainness. “You’ll freeze up there.”
“I have my coat and gloves,” Buddenbaum replied, “And if a little child can survive the cold, I surely can.”
“How many times—?” Goodhue began, but Whitney, who had taken a seat on the far side of the fire from Buddenbaum, and was studying the man through the smoke, hushed him.
“If he wants to go, let him,” he said.
“Quite so,” Buddenbaum replied. “Well—goodnight.”
As he turned from the fire, however, Ninnie blurted out: “Trumpets.”
Buddenbaum looked back. “I beg your pardon?”
“We heard trumpets, up on the mountain—” She looked to her fellow travelers for support, but none offered a word. “At least, I did,” she went on hesitantly, “I heard—”
“Trumpets.”
“Yes.”
“Strange.”
“Yes.” She had lost all confidence in her story now. “Of course, it could have been . . . I don’t know—”
“Thunder,” said Whitney.
“Thunder that sounds like trumpets? Well, there’s a thing. I’ll listen out for it.” He directed a little smile at Ninnie. “I’m much obliged,” he said, with such courtesy she thought she’d swoon.
Then, without a further word, he turned his back upon the assembly and strode out of the firelight, and the darkness swallowed him whole.
* * *
II
All those gathered around the fire that night would survive the rest of the journey, and all in their fashion prosper. It was a brave time in the West, and in the years to come they would build and profit and procreate heroically, putting behind them the harm they’d suffered getting there. They would not speak of the dead, despite the promises they’d made. They would not seek out the bones of those ill-buried and see them laid to rest with better care. They would not mourn. They would not regret.
But they would remember. And of the incidents they’d conjure in the privacy of their parlors, this night, and the man who’d come visiting, would prove the most enduring.
Every time Sheldon Sturgis brewed a pot of coffee, he would think of Buddenbaum, and recall his shame. Every time Ninnie Immendorf had a suitor come knocking (and several did, for wives were hard to come by in those years, and Ninnie could cook a mean stew) she would go to the door praying it would not be Franklin or Charlie or Burk but Buddenbaum. Buddenbaum.
And every time the Reverend Whitney mounted his pulpit, and spoke to his parishioners about the workings of the Devil in the world, he would bring the man with the cane to mind, and his voice would fill with feeling and the congregation would shudder in their pews. It was as though the preacher had seen the Evil One face to face, people would say as they filed ou
t, for he spoke not of a monster with the horns of a goat, but of a man fallen on hard times, stripped of his horses and his retinue, and wandering the world in search of children that had strayed from the fold.
SIX
I
By the time Maeve reached the top of the slope she had lost sight of her savior, and as there were no lights around the tent, it was hard to make out much about those who lingered in its vicinity. Part of her hoped not to encounter him, given that she’d cheated on her promise and followed him into the midst of this ceremony, but another part, the part nourished by his honey-blood, was willing to risk his ire if she could know him better. Surely he wouldn’t hurt her, she told herself, however angry he was. What was done was done. She’d seen the secrets.
All except for what lay inside the tent, of course, and she would soon put that to rights. There was a door a few yards from where she stood, but it was sealed, so she headed around to the side of the tent, where there was nobody to see, and pulled the fabric up out of the snow so that she could shimmy underneath.
Inside there was a silence so deep she almost feared to draw breath, and a darkness so profound it seemed to press against her face, like the hands of a blind man reading her flesh. She let it do so, fearing that she’d be removed if she rejected it, and after a few moments of scrutiny its touch became lighter, almost playful, and she felt the darkness coaxing her up from the ground and away from the wall. She was obliged to trust to it, but that was no great hardship. There was no peril here, of that she was certain, and as if in reward for her faith the darkness began to flower before her, bloom upon bloom opening as she approached. The darkness grew no lighter, but as she walked her eyes understood its subtleties better; saw forms and figures that she’d been blind to before. She was one of hundreds here, she realized, members of the families she’d seen in the snow outside, lucky or worthy enough to come into this sacred place. There were tears of bliss on some of their faces; smiles and reverence on others. A few even looked her way as she was led through the throng, but most were watching some sight the black blossoms had not yet shown her. Eager to know what wonder this was, she focused her attentions upon the mysterious air.
And now she began to see. There was a form appearing ahead of her, like the fruit of this blossoming darkness. It resembled nothing she could name, but it had the sinuousness of a serpent, or rather of many serpents, turned upon themselves over and over, a knot of sliding shapes in constant motion. It entered itself, this knot, and emerged remade. It divided and sealed, opened like an eye and broke like water on a rock. Sometimes, in the midst of its cavortings, a spray of darkness would spurt between its surfaces. Oftentimes it would slough off a skin of shadows, which would instantly fly apart, the fragments rising like seeds from a field of dandelions, sowing themselves in the fertile gloom.
She was watching one such seeding when her gaze fell upon the figures sitting beneath this display. A man and a woman, face to face, hand to hand, their heads bowed as if in prayer. Seeing the two of them so close she thought of Abilene Welsh and Billy Baxter, though she did not entirely comprehend the reason. Surely those two had not frozen to death looking for a place to hold hands and bow heads, but to perform that labor she’d witnessed countless times among beasts. And yet, was the getting of children not the purpose of that labor? And did the form hovering above this couple not seem to come from their mingled essences, which rose from their lips like coiling smoke and intertwined between their brows?
“It’s a baby,” she said aloud.
Either the darkness was negligent, and failed to catch her words before they flew, or else the sound her tongue made was too slippery to be seized. Whichever, she saw the words go from her lips like a turquoise and orange flame, the colors strident in such muted circumstances. They instantly flew towards the dark child, and were drawn into its workings, their brilliance streaking its every part.
The woman opened her eyes and raised her head with a look of pain upon her face, and her husband rose from his chair expelling a throatful of ether, then looked up at the creature he had fathered.
It was in turmoil now, its configurations changing even more rapidly, as if Maeve’s colors had given it new fuel for its inventions. Too much, perhaps. In an ecstasy of change, its forms became even more erratic, feeding upon their own invention as they multiplied.
Maeve was in sudden terror. She retreated a couple of stumbling steps then turned and pelted away through the crowd. There was turmoil all around her, the darkness too traumatized to silence the voices of the throng, so that shouts of panic and alarm erupted on every side. She darted this way and that to keep anyone from catching hold of her, though it seemed few understood what had happened, much less recognized the culprit, and she reached the wall of the tent without a hand being laid upon her. As she stooped to duck under the fabric, she glanced back. The child was in decay, she saw, its forms ripened to bursting and rotting in the air. Its parents had separated, and lay in the arms of their respective families, stricken and sickened. Even as Maeve watched, the woman went into a fit so violent it was all her comforters could do to restrain her.
Clamping her hand over her mouth to subdue her sobs, Maeve dug under the tent wall and out into the snow. News of the calamity had already spread among those waiting outside and chaos had ensued. A fight had broken out towards the bottom of the slope, and someone was already sprawled on the ground with a spike in his heart. Elsewhere, people were running towards the tent, even as those within emerged, yelling at the tops of their voices.
Maeve sat down on the snow and pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes, which burned with all she’d seen, and with the tears that were about to come.
“Child.”
She raised her head, and started to look around.
“What did you promise?”
She looked no further.
“It wasn’t my fault,” she said, wiping her nose with the back of her hand. “I just said—”
“It was you?” the beast replied, cutting her short. “Oh Lord, oh Lord, what have I done?”
She felt the beast’s hands on her body, and without warning she was spun around. She finally saw his features plainly—his long, patient face, his golden eyes, his fur, thickening to a mane in the middle of his skull, sleek as a beaver’s pelt on his brow and cheek and chin. His teeth were chattering slightly.
“Are you cold?”
“No, damn you!”
She started to weep softly.
“All right, I’m cold,” he said, “I’m cold.”
“No you’re not. You’re afraid.”
The gold in his eyes flickered. “What’s your name?” he said.
“Maeve O’Connell.”
“I should have killed you, Maeve O’Connell.”
“I’m glad you didn’t,” she said. “Who are you?”
“Coker Ammiano. Soon to be infamous. If I’d killed you, you wouldn’t have done this terrible thing.”
“What was so terrible?”
“You spoke at the marriage. That was forbidden. Now there’ll be war. The families’ll blame each other. There’ll be bloodshed. Then when they realize it wasn’t them, they’ll come looking for the culprit, and they’ll kill us. You for what you did in there, me for bringing you here.”
Maeve pondered this chain of disaster for a moment.
“They can’t kill us if they can’t find us,” she said finally. She glanced back down the slope. Just as Coker had predicted, the fighting had indeed escalated. If it was not yet war it would be very soon. “Is there another way?” she said.
“One,” he replied.
She scrabbled to her feet. “Take us there,” she said.
* * *
II
Over the decades, Buddenbaum had assembled a comprehensive list of fictional works in which he appeared. To date he had knowledge of twenty-three characters he had directly inspired (that is to say a reader of the book in question, or a viewer of the play, if they knew him, in
stantly recognized the source), along with another ten or eleven characters that drew upon aspects of his nature for comic or tragic effect. It was testament to the many facets of his personality that he could step onto the stage as a judge in one piece and as a procurer in another and have both portraits judged accurate.
He took no offense at being exploited in this fashion, however scandalous the work or scurrilous the part. It was flattering to be a seed for so many creations, especially for one as certain to remain childless as he. And it amused him mightily that when these artists, in their cups, confessed to their homage, they invariably spoke of how much raw human truth they had discovered in him. He suspected otherwise. Know it or not (and in his experience artists knew very little) they were inspired by the very opposite of what they claimed. He was not raw. He was not true. And one day, if he was cautious and wise, he would not even be human. He was a fake through and through, a man who had traveled the trails of America in a dozen different guises, and would wear another dozen before his business was done.
He did not blame them for their credulity. Every art but one was a game of delusions. But oh, the road to that Art was hard, and he was glad to have his list of alter egos to divert him as he made his way along it. He even had some of the fruitier dialogue ascribed to him in these works by heart, and it pleased him to recite it aloud when there was nobody within earshot.
As now, for instance, trudging up the forested flank of this damnable mountain. A speech from a pseudo-historical tragedy called Serenissima: “I have nothing but you, my sweet Serenissima. You are my sense, my sanity and my soul. Go from me now, and I am lost in the great dark between the stars, and cannot even perish there, for I must live until you still my heart. Still it now! I beg thee, still it now, and let my suffering cease.”