by Clive Barker
A sickening suspicion rose up in her.
“Answer me, Raul,” she said. She was again met with silence, so she crossed over into the space he occupied.
She knew the instant she did so that he’d gone. When she’d trespassed here on previous occasions his presence had been all-pervasive, even when she hadn’t been able to make him speak to her. She’d felt his essence, as something utterly unlike her, occupying a space which most people lived and died believing theirs and only theirs: Their minds. Now there was nothing. No challenge, no complaint, no wit, no sob.
“What’s wrong?” D’Amour said, studying her face.
“Raul,” she said. “He’s gone.”
She knew when it had happened. That moment of agony and temporary madness at the threshold had marked his departure, her mind convulsing as he was ripped out of it.
She opened her eyes. The world around her—the trees, the sky, D’Amour, the sound of creek and crowd and band—were almost overwhelming after the emptiness where Raul had been.
“Are you sure?” D’Amour said.
“I’m sure.”
“Where the hell did he go?”
She shook her head. “He warned me, when we were close to the shore. He said he was losing his grip. I thought he meant—”
“He was going crazy?”
“Yes.” She growled at her own stupidity. “Christ! I let him go. How could I have let that happen?”
“Don’t beat yourself up because you didn’t think of everything. Only God thinks of everything.”
“Don’t get Christian on me,” Tesla said, her voice thick. “That’s the last fucking thing I want right now.”
“We’re going to need help from somewhere,” D’Amour said, casting his eyes back up the mountain. “You know what they’re doing up there, don’t you?”
“Waiting for the Iad.”
“Right.”
“And Kissoon’s head of the welcoming committee.”
“You know about Kissoon?” D’Amour said, plainly surprised.
So was Tesla. “You know about him too?”
“I’ve been following him across the country for the last two months.”
“How did you find out he was here?”
“A woman you know. Maria Nazareno.”
“How’d you come to find her?”
“She found me, the way she found you.”
Tesla put her hand to her face, wiping away some of the sweat and dirt. “She’s dead, isn’t she?”
“I’m afraid she is. Kissoon traced her.”
“We’re a lethal pair, D’Amour. Everybody we touch—” She let the thought go unfinished. Simply turned from him and continued her descent through the trees.
“What are you going to do now?”
“Sit. Think.”
“Mind if I come with you?”
“Have you got some last-minute maneuver up your sleeve?”
“No.”
“Good. Because I’m sick of believing there’s a damn thing we can do about any of this.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“No, but I did,” Tesla said, marching on down the slope. “They’re coming, D’Amour, whether we like it or not. The door’s open and they’re coming through it. I think it’s about time we made our peace with that.”
Harry was about to argue the point, but before he could find the words he remembered the conversation he’d had with Norma. The world could change, she’d said, but it can’t end. And where was the harm in change? Was it so dandy the way it was?
He looked up through the swaying branches at the gleaming blue sky, while the music of the town band came to him on a balmy breeze, and he had his answer.
“The world’s just fine the way it is,” he said, loud enough for Tesla to hear it. She didn’t answer him. Just marched on down to the creek and waded over. “Just fine,” he said to himself, asserting with that his inalienable right to defend it. “Just fine.”
FIVE
I
After her literal fashion, Phoebe had expected to find a door awaiting her at the end of her trek. It would more than likely be fancier than any door she’d seen, and she wasn’t so naïve as to expect a bell and a welcome mat, but to all intents and purposes it would be a door. She would stand before it, turn the handle, and with a majestic sigh it would open before her.
How wrong she’d been. Passing between worlds had been like having ether at the dentist’s in the bad old days: her mind fighting to hold on to consciousness, and losing, losing, losing—
She didn’t remember falling, but when she opened her eyes again she was face-down on snow-dusted rocks. She lifted herself up, her body chilled to the bone. There were drops of blood among the snowflakes, and more falling from her face. She put her hand up and cautiously touched her mouth and nose. It was the latter that was bleeding, but there was very little pain, so she assumed she hadn’t broken it.
She dug for a handkerchief in the pocket of her dress (which she’d chosen for its skimpiness, in expectation of Joe seeing her in it; a decision she now regretted) and found a balled-up tissue to clamp to her nose. Only then did she start to take much notice of her surroundings.
Off to her right was the crack through which she’d come, the day on the other side brighter (and warmer) than the purplish gloom in which she found herself. Off to her left, partially surrounded in mist, was the sea, its dark waves almost viscous. And on the shore between, squatting in countless numbers, were birds that vaguely resembled cormorants. The largest perhaps two feet tall, their bodies mottled and almost waxen, their heads—some of which were decorated with crests of green feathers, others of which were completely bald—tiny. The closest of them were perhaps two yards from her, but none showed the slightest interest in her. She got to her feet, her teeth chattering with the cold, and cast a glance back the way she’d come. Was it worth risking a return journey, just to find herself some more adequate clothing? Without something to cover her up she was going to be dead from the cold in a very short time.
She only contemplated this for a moment. Then she caught sight of one of the Blessedm’n’s children on the other side, apparently staring in her direction, and the horror of all that she’d experienced to get here came flooding back. Better the cold than the crosses, she thought, and before the child could summon someone to come after her she retreated down the shore towards the water, the veil of mist between her and the doorway thickening with every step, until she could no longer see it; nor, she prayed, be seen.
It was still colder by the water’s edge, a chilling spray rising off every breaking wave. But there was compensation. Off to her right the mist was patchy, and she caught sight of lights twinkling some distance along the shore, and the vague silhouettes of roofs and spires. Thank God, she thought, civilization. Without delay, she started towards it, staying within sight of the water at all times, so as not to get lost in the mist. As it turned out, it thinned and disappeared after she’d been walking for five minutes, and she finally had an uninterrupted view of the landscape before her. It was not a reassuring sight. The city lights seemed to be no nearer than they’d been when she’d first spotted them, and the rest of the scene—the shore, the rocky terrain beyond it, and the dream-sea itself—was desolation, or near enough. The only color was in the sky, and that was a fretful stew of bruisy purples and iron grays. There were no stars to light her way, nor any moon, but the spattering of snow upon the scene lent it an eerie luminescence, as though the ground had stolen what little light the sky had owned. As for life, there were the birds, whose numbers were now very considerably thinned, but were still dotted along the shore, like an army awaiting orders from some absentee general. A few had left their stations and were diving after fish in the shallows. It was not a difficult task. The waves were fairly brimming with tiny silver fish, and she saw a few of the divers emerging from the water with their beaks and gullets so stuffed with thrashing fish she wondered they didn’t choke.
The sight r
eminded her of her own hunger. It was six hours or more since the breakfast she and Tesla had snatched before setting out. By now, even on a diet day, she’d have snacked twice and eaten lunch. Instead, she’d climbed a mountain, viewed a crucifixion, and crossed into another world. It was enough to make anybody’s stomach grumble.
One of the birds waddled past her, and as it flung itself into the water in search of nourishment her gaze went up the beach a yard or two to the place where it had been squatting. Was that an egg, nestling between the stones? She strode to the spot and picked it up. It was indeed an egg, twice the size of a hen’s egg, and subtly striped. The notion of eating it raw was less than appetizing, but she was too hungry to fret. She cracked it open and poured the contents into her mouth. It tasted more pungent than she’d anticipated; almost meaty, in fact, with the texture of phlegm. She swallowed it down, to the last drop, and was just casting her eyes around for another when she heard a vehement squawking sound and swung round to see the irate egg layer charging up the shore towards her, its head down, its ruff of feathers raised.
Phoebe was in no mood to indulge its tantrum.
“Shoo, birdie!” she told it. “Go on, damn you! Shoo!”
The bird was not so easily driven off. Its din rousing similar squawkings from all the birds in the vicinity, it kept coming at Phoebe, and its darting beak caught her shin. The wound stung. She yelped and hopped back from the bird to keep out of its range, her advice to it less gentle now.
“Piss off, will you?” she yelled at it. “Damn thing!” She glanced down at her stinging leg as she retreated, and her heel slipped on the snow-slickened stones. Down she went for the second time in half an hour, for once glad her buttocks were well padded. Her fall had landed her in more trouble, however, not just from the egg layer but from several of its fellows, who plainly viewed her fall and the howl of rage that accompanied it as a threat. Crests and ruffs erected on all sides, and two or three dozen throats gave up the same shrill squawk.
This was no longer a little inconvenience. Ludicrous though it seemed, she was in trouble. The birds were coming at her from all directions, their attacks capable of doing no little damage. She went on yelling in the hope of keeping them at bay while attempting to scramble to her feet. Twice she almost did so, but her heels slid over the rocks. The closest of the birds were in pecking distance now. Beaks stabbed at her arms and shoulders and at her back.
She started to flail wildly, catching birds with her hands and even knocking a few of them over, but there were too many to floor. Sooner or later, one of the beaks would puncture an artery, or stab her eye. She had to get to her feet, and quickly.
Shielding her face with her arms she got onto her knees. The birds didn’t have much room in their skulls for brains, but they sensed her vulnerability, and escalated their assault, pecking at her back and buttocks and legs as she struggled to rise.
Suddenly, a shot. Then another, and a third, this accompanied by a hot spray against Phoebe’s left arm. The tone of the squawking instantly changed from mob mania to panic, and parting her arms Phoebe saw the birds retreating in disarray, leaving three of their flock dead on the ground. Not just dead in fact, almost blown apart. One was missing its head, another half its torso, while the third—which was the sprayer—still twitched beside her, with a hole the size of her fist in its abdomen.
She looked for their slaughterer.
“Over here,” said a faintly bemused voice, and a little way along the shore stood a man wearing a coat of furs, his cap fashioned from an animal pelt, with the snout as a peak. In his arms, a rifle. It was still smoking.
“You’re not one of Zury’s mob,” he observed.
“No, I’m not,” Phoebe replied.
The man pushed back the peak of his hat. To judge by his features he was of the same tribe as the hammerer, his head flat and wide, his lower lip bulbous, his eyes tiny. But whereas the cross maker had been unadorned, this creature’s face was decorated from brow to chin, his cheeks pierced with rings perhaps fifty times, from which tiny ornaments dangled, his eyes ringed with scarlet and yellow paint, his hair teased into ringlets, which softened his beetling brow.
“Where are you from?” he said.
“The other side,” Phoebe said, the correct vocabulary momentarily deserting her.
“You mean the Cosm?”
“That’s right.”
The man shook his head, and his decorations danced. “Oh,” he sighed, “I hope that’s the truth.”
“You think I’d dress this way if I was a local?” Phoebe said.
“No, I don’t suppose you would,” the man replied. “I’m Hoppo Musnakaff. And you?”
“Phoebe Cobb.”
Musnakaff had unbuttoned his coat, and now shrugged it off. “We’re well met, Phoebe Cobb,” he said. “Here, put this on.” He tossed the coat to Phoebe. “And let me escort you back to Liverpool.”
“Liverpool?” That sounded like a mundane destination after such a journey.
“It’s a glorious city,” Musnakaff said, pointing towards the lights along the shore. “You’ll see.”
Phoebe put on his coat. It was warm, and smelled of a sweet perfume tinged with oranges. She plunged her hands into the deep, fur-lined pockets.
“You’ll soon warm up,” Musnakaff said. “I’ll attend to those wounds of yours while we go. I want you to be presentable for the Mistress.”
“The Mistress?”
“My—employer,” he replied. “She sent me along here to see what Zury was up to, but I think she’d be happier if I forsook the spying, and brought you home instead. She’ll be eager to hear what you have to tell her.”
“About what?”
“About the Cosm, of course.” Musnakaff replied. “Now will you let me give you a hand?”
“Please.”
He came to her (the perfume on the coat was his, she discovered: He reeked of it) and putting his arm through hers escorted her over the slithery rocks.
“That’s our transport,” he said. There was a many-colored horse, as bright as a peacock’s tail, a little way ahead of them, grazing on the coarse grass that spurted between the slabs of what had once been a fine road.
“King Texas had this highway laid, when he was wanting to impress the Mistress. Of course it’s gone to ruin since.”
“Who’s King Texas?”
“He’s the rock,” Musnakaff replied, slamming his foot down. “Crazy now, since she left him. He loved her beyond love, you see; rock can do that.”
“You know I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about, don’t you?” Phoebe said.
“Let’s get you up on the nag, eh?” Musnakaff said. “That’s it. Right foot in the stirrup. And up! Good! Good!” He flipped the reins over the horse’s head, so as to lead it. “Are you secure?” he asked.
“I think so.”
“Take hold of her mane. Go on, she’s not going to complain.” Phoebe did as she was instructed. “Now,” said Musnakaff, gently coaxing the animal into a walk. “Let me tell you about the Mistress and King Texas, so you’ll understand her insanities better when you meet her face to face.”
* * *
II
It was the sound of panicked shouts that roused Joe from his stupor. He lifted his head up off the fine red sand of Mem-é b’Kether Sabbat’s shore and turned it back towards the sea that had delivered him here. Two or three hundred yards from the beach was the good ship Fanacapan, loaded down with passengers. They squatted on the wheelhouse roof; they clung to the mast and ladders; one even hung on the anchor. But their weight and agitation was proving too much for the vessel. Even as Joe watched, The Fanacapan tipped over sideways, pitching two dozen of its passengers into the water, where their shouts were redoubled.
Joe got to his feet, watching the disaster unfold with sickened fascination. The people in the water were now scrabbling to climb back on the boat, their efforts assisted by some of their fellow passengers, and violently opposed by others. Whatever
the intention, the effect was the same. The Fanacapan tipped over completely, clearing decks, wheelhouse, mast, and ladders in two seconds, and as it did so its timbers cracked and with startling suddenness it proceeded to sink.
It was a pitiful sight. Small though the vessel was, its descent threw the dream-sea into a fair frenzy. The waters churned and spumed, seeming to seize many of the people in the water and pluck them down. They went shrieking and cursing, as though to their deaths, though Joe supposed it could not be by drowning. After all, he’d lingered under water for several minutes with Phoebe, and had not lacked for air. Perhaps these panicky souls would discover the same; but he suspected not. Something about the way the waters circled these flailing souls made him think there was sentience there; that the dream-sea would be as cruel to these failed voyagers as it had been kind to him.
He turned his back on the sight, and scanned the shore. It was far from deserted. There were people along the beach in both directions as far as his eyes could see, which was a long way. The gloomy sky had given way to an exquisite luminescence, the source of which was not a heavenly body but objects themselves. Everything was shining with its own light, some of it steady, some of it glittering, but glorious in its sum.
Joe looked down at his body, at his blood-stained clothes and his wounded flesh, and saw that even he was shining here, as though every pore and crease and thread wanted to make itself known. The sight exhilarated him. He was not unmiraculous in this miraculous place, but came with glories of his own.
He started up the shore now, towards the groves of titanic trees that lined it, so vast he could see nothing of the island itself. This was, he was certain, Mem-é b’Kether Sabbat. On the voyage Noah had rhapsodized about the color of its sand. There was no shore so red, he’d boasted; nor any other island so fine. Beyond that Joe had little sense of what to expect. The Ephemeris was not one island but many, he knew that, an archipelago formed—so tradition had it—around pieces of debris from the Cosm. Some of that debris was alive: the tissue of trespassers, which the dream-sea had transformed and fantasticated, using the minds of those men and women as inspiration. Most of the debris was dead stuff, however, fragments of the Helter Incendo that had slipped through a crack. With time, and with Quiddity’s attentions, these became the lesser, plainer islands in the group. Though they numbered in their thousands, Noah had said, most of them were deserted.