Everville

by Clive Barker

  The sound of sirens drew his gaze off down the street. Jed Gilholly was getting out of his car, along with two of his officers, Cliff Campbell and Floyd Weeks, neither of whom looked very happy with their lot.

  Erwin didn’t wait to see what the trio made of the forces awaiting them at the crossroads—or indeed what those forces made of them—but instead slipped away while the going was good. He had believed in the law once; valued it, served it, and trusted its power to regulate the world. But those certainties belonged to another life and, like that life, had slipped away.

  EIGHT

  I

  When Telsa opened her eyes, d’Amour was already hauling her to her feet.

  “We’ve got more problems,” he said, nodding down the street.

  She started to follow his direction, but her gaze was distracted by the strange sights surrounding them. The band members, crawling away on all fours like beaten animals. The remnants of the crowd, many of them sobbing uncontrollably, others praying the same way, standing or kneeling in a litter of forsaken belongings: purses, hot dogs, baby carriages. And beyond all this, the police, approaching the crossroads with leveled guns.

  “Stand still!” one of them yelled. “All of you, stand still!”

  “We’d better do it,” Tesla said, glancing back towards Buddenbaum. He had both hands in the ground, up to his elbows, and he was working them in and out, in and out, with a motion she could not help but think of as sexual; easing open this hole in the solid world. The air around them all was as hazy as ever, and its contents as incomprehensible.

  “What the fuck is he doing?” D’Amour murmured to her.

  “He’s after the Art,” Tesla said.

  “You two, shaddup!” the lead officer yelled at them. Then, to Buddenbaum, “You! Get up! I want to see your hands!”

  Buddenbaum showed no sign of even hearing the order, much less obeying it. The order came a second time, with little variation. Again, it was ignored.

  “I’m going to count to three—” Jed warned.

  “Go on,” Tesla muttered. “Shoot the fucker.”

  “One—”

  Jed continued his steady advance as he counted, his officers keeping place with him.

  “Two—”

  “Hey Jed?” Floyd Weeks said.

  “Shaddup.”

  “I don’t feel so good.”

  Jed glanced round at Weeks. The man had gone the color of a urinal, and his eyes were swiveling up into his sockets. “Don’t do this!” Jed ordered him. This order was no more obeyed than that he’d given Buddenbaum. The gun fell from Weeks’s trembling fingers and he let out a gasp that was as much pleasure as it was capitulation. Then he fell to his knees.

  “I never knew . . . ” he murmured. “Oh God, why didn’t . . . why didn’t anybody tell me?”

  “Take no notice of him,” Jed said to Cliff Campbell.

  The man obeyed, but only because he had delusions of his own to deal with. “What’s going on, Jed?” he murmured. “Where’d these women come from?”

  “What women?” Jed said.

  “They’re all around us,” Campbell babbled, turning as he spoke. “Don’t you see them?”

  Gilholly was about to shake his head when he let out a low moan. “Oh my Lord,” he said.

  “Are you ready?” D’Amour murmured to Tesla.

  “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

  Harry went back to watching Gilholly, who was fighting to keep a hold on his senses. “This isn’t happening . . . ” he murmured, glancing over at Campbell for support. He got none. His deputy had fallen to his knees and was laughing to himself like a crazy. In desperation, Jed pointed his gun at the forms drifting in front of him. “Stay out of my way!” he yelled at them. “I mean it! I’ll use this if I have to.”

  “Let’s go,” Harry said, “while he’s distracted,” and he and Tesla started away from the middle of the street.

  Jed saw their escape attempt.

  “You! Stay—” He faltered in the middle of the order, as if he’d forgotten the words. “Oh Jesus,” he said, his voice trembling now, “Jesus, Jesus, Jesus . . . ”

  Then, finally, he too dropped to his knees.

  In the middle of the street, Buddenbaum let out a howl of frustration. Something was wrong here. One moment the crossroads had been melting beneath him, power flowing into its heart, the next the taste he’d had in his tongue had soured, and the dirt was hardening around his arm. He pulled it out. It was like extracting his hand from the bowels of something dead or dying. A shudder of revulsion coursed through him, and stinging tears sprang into his eyes.

  “Owen—?”

  The voice was Seth’s of course. He was standing a yard or two away, looking fretful and afraid. “Has something gone wrong?” Buddenbaum nodded. “Do you know what?”

  “Maybe this,” Owen said, putting his hand up to his wounded head. “Maybe it simply distracted me—”

  “Come away,” Seth said.

  Owen raised his wounded head and studied the air. “What do you see?” he said.

  “The women, you mean?”

  Owen squinted. “I just see bright shapes. Are they women?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then it’s some kind of conspiracy,” he said. He reached up and grabbed hold of Seth’s arm, pulling himself to his feet. “Somebody put them there to block the working.”

  “Who?”

  “I don’t know,” Buddenbaum said. “Somebody who knows—” He halted, turning his gaze in Tesla’s direction. “Bombeck,” he murmured. Then shouted: “Bombeck!”

  “What’s his problem?” Harry said as Buddenbaum started towards them.

  “He thinks I’m here to take the Art.”

  “Are you?”

  Tesla shook her head. “I saw what it did to the Jaff,” she said. “And he was ready for it. Or thought he was.”

  Buddenbaum was closing on them. Harry went for his gun, but Tesla said: “That’s not going to stop him. Let’s just get the hell out of his way.”

  She turned from Buddenbaum only to find that in the seconds she’d been looking back a little girl had stepped into their path and was studying them gravely. She was absurdly perfect: a petite blonde-ringleted five year old in a white dress, white socks, and white shoes. Her face was rose pink, her eyes huge and blue.

  “Hello,” she said, her voice sweet and cool. “You’re Tesla, aren’t you?”

  Tesla wasn’t in any mood to be chatting to kids, however perfect they were. “You should go find your Mommy and Daddy,” she said.

  “I was watching,” the child said.

  “This isn’t a good thing to watch, honey,” D’Amour said. “Where are your Mom and Dad?”

  “They’re not here.”

  “You’re on your own?”

  “No,” she replied. “I’ve got Haheh with me, and Yie.” She glanced back towards the ice cream parlor. There, sitting on the step, was a man with the face of a born comedian—jug-eared, wall-eyed, rubber-mouthed—who had six cones of ice cream in his hands, and was licking from one to another with a look of great concentration. Beside him was another child, this a boy, who looked nearly moronic.

  “Don’t worry about me,” the little girl said. “I’m fine.” She studied Tesla carefully. “Are you dying?” she said.

  Tesla looked at D’Amour. “This is not a conversation I want to have right now.”

  “But I do,” Miss Perfection said. “It’s important.”

  “Well, why don’t you ask somebody else?”

  “Because it’s you we’re interested in,” the little girl replied gravely. She took a step towards Tesla, lifting her hand as she did so. “We saw your face, and we said: She knows about the story tree.”

  “About what?”

  “The story tree,” the child replied.

  “What the fuck is she talking about?” Tesla said to D’Amour.

  “Never mind,” came an
other voice, this from behind them. Tesla didn’t need to look round to know it was Buddenbaum. His voice was curiously hollow, as though he were speaking from an empty chamber. “You should have kept out of my business, woman.”

  “I’ve no interest in your business,” Tesla said. Then, suddenly inquisitive, she turned to him. “But just for the record: What is your business?”

  Buddenbaum looked terrible, his face more bloody than not, his body trembling. “That’s for me to know,” he said.

  At this, the little girl piped up. “You can tell her, Owen,” she said.

  Buddenbaum looked past Tesla at the child. “I’ve no wish to share our secrets with this woman,” he said stiffly.

  “But we do,” the child replied.

  Tesla studied Buddenbaum’s face through the odd exchange, trying to decode its signs. Plainly, he knew the girl well; and equally plainly was somewhat nervous of her. Perhaps wary rather than nervous. Once again, Tesla missed Raul’s incisive grasp of such signals. Had he been with her she was certain he could have armed her with insights for whatever encounter lay ahead.

  “You look sick,” Buddenbaum said.

  “You and me both,” Tesla replied.

  “Ah, but I’ll mend,” Buddenbaum went on. “You, on the other hand, are not long for this world.” He spoke lightly enough, but she couldn’t miss the threat in the words. He was not simply prophesying death, he was promising it. “I suggest you start making your farewells while you can.”

  “Is this all part of it?” the little girl said. Tesla glanced back at her. She was wearing a coy little smile. “Is it, Owen?”

  “Yes,” Buddenbaum said. “It’s all part of it.”

  “Oh good, good.” The child shifted her attention back to Tesla. “We’ll see you later then,” she said, stepping aside to let them pass.

  “I don’t think that’s very likely,” Tesla said.

  “Oh, but we will,” the girl said, “for sure. We’re very interested in you and the story tree.”

  Tesla heard Buddenbaum mutter something behind her. She didn’t hear what, and she was in no state of mind or body to make him repeat it. She simply returned the child’s sweet smile and with Harry at her side left the crossroads, with the sound of the officers’ bewildered worship floating after them on the summer breeze.

  * * *

  II

  Though it was next to impossible that news of what had happened at the crossroads had already reached the ears of every man, woman, and child in Everville, the streets Tesla and Harry walked to get back to Phoebe’s house were preternaturally quiet, as though people had read the trembling air, and judged silence the safest response. Despite the heat, doors were closed and windows shuttered. There were no children playing on the lawns or in the street; not even dogs were showing their twitching noses.

  It was doubly strange because the day was so perfect: the air candied with summer flowers, the sky flawless.

  As they turned the corner onto Phoebe’s street, out of the blue Harry said, “God, I love the world.”

  It was such a simple thing to say, and it was spoken with such easy faith, Tesla could only shake her head.

  “You don’t?” Harry said.

  “There’s so much shit,” she said.

  “Not right this minute. Right this minute it’s as good as it gets.”

  “Look up the mountain,” she said.

  “I’m not up the mountain,” Harry replied. “I’m here.”

  “Good for you,” she said, unable to keep the edge from her voice.

  He looked across at her. She looked, he thought, about as frail and weary as any living soul could look and still be living. He wanted to put his arm around her, just for a little while, but he supposed she wouldn’t thank him for the gesture. She was in a space all of her own, sealed off from comfort.

  It took her a little time fumbling with the spare keys Phoebe had given her before they gained access to the house. Once inside, she said, “I’m going to go get some sleep. I can’t even think straight.”

  “Sure.”

  She started up the stairs, but turned back a couple of seconds later, staring down at D’Amour with those empty eyes of hers. “By the way,” she said, “thank you.”

  “For what?”

  “For what you did on the mountain. I wouldn’t be here—Lord . . . you know what I’m saying.”

  “I know. And there’s no need. We’re in this together.”

  “No,” she said softly. “I don’t think that’s how it’s working out.”

  “If you’re thinking about what the kid said to you—”

  “It’s not the first time I’ve thought about it,” Tesla said, “I’ve been pushing myself to the limits for five years, Harry, and it’s taken its toll.” He started to say something, but she raised her hand to hush him. “Let’s not waste time lying to each other,” she said. “I’ve done what I can do, and I’m used up. Simple as that. I guess as long as I had Raul in my head I could pretend I was making sense of things, but now . . . now he’s gone”—she shrugged—“I don’t want to carry on any longer.” She tried a tiny smile, but it was misbegotten. She let it drop, and turning her back on Harry traipsed up to bed.

  * * *

  Harry brewed himself some coffee, and sat down in the living room among the out-of-date copies of TV Guide and the overfilled ashtrays, to think things through. The coffee did its job. He was wide awake, despite the exhaustion in his limbs. He sat staring up at the ceiling and turned over the events that had brought him to this confounded state.

  He’d gone up the mountain under the cover of mist and Voight’s tattoos to search for Kissoon, but he’d not found the man: at least not in any form he recognized. Children, yes; the Brothers Grimm, yes; a Blessedm’n, three crucified souls, and Tesla Bombeck, yes. But the man who’d murdered Ted Dusseldorf and Maria Nazareno had evaded him.

  He thought back to Morningside Heights—to that squalid room where his enemy had slept—wondering if perhaps there’d been some clue to Kissoon’s present form that had seemed inconsequential at the time. He recalled nothing useful. But he did remember the deck of cards he’d found there. He dug in his jacket pocket and brought them to light. Was there a clue here, he wondered, in these images? He cleared the coffee table and laid them out. Ape, moon, fetus, lightning—

  Potent symbols, every one.

  Lighting, hand, torso, hole—

  But if it was a game, then he didn’t know the rules. And if it wasn’t a game, then what the hell was it?

  Barely conscious of what he was doing he arranged and rearranged the cards in front of him, hoping some solution would appear. Nothing did. Despite the power of the symbols, or perhaps because of it, there was no clarity; just a sense that his mind was too lightweight to deal with such issues.

  He was in the midst of these musings when the telephone rang. The Cobb household did not believe in answering machines, it seemed, because the ringing went on uninterrupted until Harry picked up.

  There was a well-worn voice at the other end of the line. “Is Tesla there?” the man said. Harry paused before replying, during which time the man said, “It’s urgent. I have to talk to her.”

  This time Harry recognized the speaker. “Grillo?” he said.

  “Who is this?”

  “It’s Harry.”

  “Jesus, Harry. What are you doing there?”

  “Same thing Tesla’s doing.”

  “Is she around?”

  “She’s asleep.”

  “I have to talk to her. I’ve been calling all day.”

  “Where are you?”

  “About five miles outside town.”

  “Which town?”

  “Everville, for God’s sake! Now can I talk to her?”

  “Can’t you call back in an hour or so—”

  “No!” Grillo yelled. Then, more quietly, “No. I need to talk to her now.”

  “Wait a minute,” Harry said, and putting down the phone he went up to wake
Tesla. She was slumped on the double bed fully dressed, a look of such exhaustion on her sleeping face he couldn’t bring himself to deny her the slumber she so plainly needed. It was a good thing. By the time he got back down into the hallway the line was dead. Grillo had gone.

  * * *

  III

  In sleep, Tesla found herself walking on an unearthly shore. Snow had lately fallen there, but she felt none of its chill. Light-footed, she wandered down to the sea. It was thick and dark, its turbulent waters scummy, and here and there she saw bodies in the surf, turning their stricken faces her way as if to warn her against entering.

  She had no choice. The sea wanted her, and would not be denied. Nor, in truth, did she want to resist it. The shore was drear and desolate. The sea, for all its freight of corpses, was a place of mystery.

  It was only once she was wading into the surf, the waves breaking against her breasts and her belly, that her dreaming mind put words to what place this was. Or rather, one word.

  Quiddity.

  The dream-sea leapt up against her face when she spoke its name, and its undertow pulled at her legs. She didn’t attempt to fight it, but let it lift her off her feet and carry her away like an eager lover. The waves, which were substantial enough at the shore, soon grew titanic. When they raised her up on their shoulders she could see a wall of darkness at the horizon, the likes of which she remembered from her last moments in Kissoon’s Loop. The Iad, of course. Mountains and fleas; fleas and mountains. When they dropped her into their troughs, and she plunged below the surface, she glimpsed another spectacle entirely: vast shoals of fish, moving like thunderheads below her. And weaving between the shoals, luminous forms that were, she guessed, human spirits like herself. She seemed to see vestigial faces in their light; hints of the infants, lovers, and dying souls who were dreaming themselves here.