by Clive Barker
He was not the first Cuckoo to explore the Firmament’s miraculous corridors. Several members of Humankind had found their way into the palace down the years, and wandered there unchallenged by its makers, who had no desire to sour its tranquillity with hard words. Lost in its depths these lucky few had seen sights that they would take to their graves. A chamber in which the tiles on the walls had twice as many sides as a dice, and flipped forever over and over, each facet having its place in a fresco that never came to rest long enough for the eye to entirely comprehend it. Another room in which rain constantly fell, a warm spring night rain, and the floor gave off the smell of cooling pavements; and another which seemed at first quite plain, but was built with such sense-beguiling geometries a man might think his head swelled to fill it one moment, and the next be shrunk to the size of a beetle.
And after an hour, or a day, of trespassing amongst these wonders, some invisible guide would lead them to the door, and they’d emerge as if from a dream. Later they’d try to speak of what they’d seen, but a failure of memory and tongue usually conspired to reduce their attempts to babble. In desperation, many went back in search of that delirium. But the Firmament was a movable feast, and it had always flitted away.
Shadwell was the first Cuckoo, therefore, who walked those rapturous corridors and called them his own. It gave him no pleasure, however. That was perhaps its most elegant revenge on its unwelcome occupant.
2
In the late afternoon, before the light dwindled too much, the Prophet made his way up to the top of the Firmament’s watchtower, to survey his territories. Despite the demands of recent weeks – the masquerading, the rallies, the constant politicking – he didn’t feel weary. All he’d promised his followers and himself had come true. It was as if his performance as a Prophet had lent him prophetic powers. He’d found the Weave, as he’d said he would, and claimed it from its guardians; he’d led his crusaders into the very heart of the Fugue, silencing with almost supernatural speed any and all who’d defied him. From his present elevated status there was no route to rise but towards Godhood, and the means to that advancement was visible from where he now stood.
The Gyre.
Its Mantle roiled and thundered, veiling its secrets from all eyes, even his. No matter. Tomorrow, when Hobart’s battalion had finished its suppression of the natives, they would escort the Prophet to the doorway of the Gyre, the place the Kind called the Narrow Bright, and he would step inside.
Then?; ah, then …
A chill on his nape stirred him from speculation. Immacolata was standing at the viewing-room door. The light did not indulge her. It showed her wounds in all their suppurating glory; showed her frailty too; and her rancour. It repulsed him to look at her.
‘What do you want?’ he demanded.
‘I came to join you,’ she said, ‘I don’t like this place. It stinks of the Old Science.’
He shrugged, and turned his back on her.
‘I know what you’re thinking, Shadwell,’ she said. ‘And believe me, it wouldn’t be wise.’
He hadn’t heard his name uttered in a long while, and he didn’t like the way it sounded. It was a throwback to a biography he’d almost ceased to believe was his.
‘What wouldn’t be wise?’ he said.
‘Trying to breach the Gyre.’
He made no reply.
‘That is what you intend isn’t it?’
She could read him still, all too easily.
‘Maybe,’ he said.
‘That’d be a cataclysmic mistake.’
‘Oh, indeed?’ he said, not taking his eyes off the Mantle.
‘And why’s that?’
‘Even the Families don’t understand what they created when they set the Loom to work,’ she said, it’s unknowable.’
‘Nothing’s unknowable,’ he growled. ‘Not to me. Not any more.’
‘You’re still a man, Shadwell,’ she reminded him. ‘You’re vulnerable.’
‘Shut up,’ he said.
‘Shadwell –’
Shut up!’ he repeated, and turned on her. ‘I don’t want to hear your defeatism any longer. I’m here, aren’t I? I won the Fugue.’
‘We won it.’
‘All right, we. What do you want for that little service?’
‘You know what I want,’ she said. ‘What I’ve always wanted. Slow genocide.’
He smiled. His reply was a long time coming, and when it came was spoken slowly.
‘No,’ he said. ‘No, I don’t think so.’
‘Why did we follow them all those years?’ she asked, it was so you could have profit, and I could be avenged.’
‘Things have changed.’ he said. ‘You must see that.’
‘You want to rule them. That’s it, isn’t it?’
‘I want more than that,’ he said, ‘I want to know what creation tastes like. I want what’s in the Gyre.’
‘It’ll tear you apart.’
‘I doubt that,’ he said, ‘I’ve never been stronger.’
‘At the Shrine,’ she replied, ‘you said we’d destroy them together.’
‘I lied,’ Shadwell said lightly, ‘I told you what you wanted to hear, because I needed you. Now you disgust me. I’ll have new women, when I’m a God.’
‘A God now is it?’ She seemed genuinely amused by the thought. ‘You’re a salesman. Shadwell. You’re a shabby little salesman. I’m the one they worship.’
‘Oh yes,’ Shadwell replied, ‘I’ve seen your Cult. A boneyard, and a handful of eunuchs.’
‘I won’t be cheated, Shadwell,’ she said, moving towards him. ‘Not by you, of all men.’
He’d known for many months that this time would come, when she finally understood how he’d manipulated her. He’d prepared himself for the consequences, quietly and systematically divesting her of her allies, and increasing his own store of defences. But she still had the menstruum – of that she could never be dispossessed – and it was formidable. He saw it burgeoning in her eyes even now, and couldn’t help but want to flinch before it.
He governed the instinct however, and instead walked across to her, and putting his hand to her face, stroked the lesions and the scabs there.
‘Surely …’ he murmured, ‘… you wouldn’t kill me?’
‘I won’t be cheated,’ she said again.
‘But dead is dead,’ he said, his tone soothing, ‘I’m just a Cuckoo. You know how weak we are. No Resurrections for us.’
His touch had become more rhythmic. She hated it, he knew. She, the perfect virgin; she, all ice and regret. In earlier times she might have burned the skin from his fingertips for visiting this indignity upon her. But Mama Pus was dead, the Hag her useless lunatic self. The once mighty Incantatrix was weak and weary, and they both knew it.
‘All these years, sweetheart…’ he said, ‘… all these years you gave me just enough leash, just enough temptation …’
‘We agreed –’ she said, ‘– together –’
‘No,’ said Shadwell, as though correcting a child. ‘You used me, to go amongst the Cuckoos, because if the truth be known they frighten you.’ She made to contradict, but he put his hand across her throat. ‘Don’t interrupt,’ he told her. She obeyed him. ‘You’ve always held me in contempt,’ he went on. ‘I know that. But I was useful, and did as I was told, as long as I wanted to touch you.’
‘Is that what you want now?’ she said.
‘Once …’ he said, almost mourning the loss, ‘… once I would have killed to feel the pulse in your throat. Like this.’ His hand tightened a little. ‘Or to have stroked your flesh …’
He worked the palm of his other hand against her breast.
‘Don’t do that,’ she said.
‘The Magdalene’s dead,’ he reminded her. ‘So who’s going to produce children now? It can’t be the old bitch; she’s sterile. No, lover. No. I think it has to be you. You’ll finally have to offer up that precious cunt of yours.’
At this she
threw him off her, and might have struck him dead but that revulsion at his mauling distracted her from the act. She soon recovered her self-control. The killing power was mustering behind her eyes. He couldn’t with safety delay his revenge any longer. She’d taken him for a fool, but he had ways to make her regret her arrogance. As she raised her head to spit the menstruum at him he called out the names he’d written, mere hours before, on his pack of cigarettes.
‘Sousa! Vessel! Fairchild! Divine! Loss! Hannah!’
The by-blows came at his call, scrabbling up the stairs. They were no longer the wretched, love-lorn things that the Magdalene had suckled. Shadwell had treated them tenderly in the short time he’d owned them; fed them; made them mighty.
The light died in Immacolata’s face as she heard them behind her. She turned as they spilled through the door.
‘You bequeathed them to me,’ he said.
She let out a cry at the sight of them, grown gross and meaty. They stank of the slaughterhouse.
‘I gave them blood instead of milk,’ said Shadwell, it makes them love me.’
He made a clucking sound with his tongue, and the creatures sidled over to him, trailing organs they had yet to find a purpose for.
‘I warn you,’ he said, ‘try to harm me and they’ll take it badly.’
As he spoke he realized that in these last moments Immacolata had summoned the Hag from the cooler regions of the Firmament. She was at the Incantatrix’s shoulder now, a restive shadow.
‘Leave him,’ he heard her sigh in Immacolata’s ear. He didn’t for an instant think she’d take that advice, but she did, first spitting on the floor at Shadwell’s feet, then turning to go. He could scarcely believe the battle had been so easily won. She’d been more demoralized by grief and mutilation than he’d dared hope. The showdown was over before it had even begun.
One of the by-blows at his side uttered a soulful wail of frustration. He took his eyes off the sisters and told it to hush itself. His doing so proved all but fatal, for in the instant his gaze dropped the wraith-sister came flying at him, her jaws wide, her teeth suddenly vast, ready to tear out his cheating heart.
At the door, Immacolata was turning back, the menstruum breaking from her.
He yelled for the beasts to come to his aid, but even as he did so the Hag was upon him. His breath burst from him as he was thrown back against the wall, claws raking at his chest.
The by-blows weren’t about to see their blood-bringer laid low. They were upon the Hag before her nails could rip through Shadwell’s jacket, and she was dragged from him, shrieking. She’d been midwife to these creatures; she’d delivered them into a world of lunacy and darkness. Perhaps for that very reason they showed her no mercy. They tore at her without pause or apology.
‘Stop them,’ Immacolata yelled.
The Salesman was examining the lacerations the Hag had made in his jacket. Another moment and her fingers would have clutched his heart.
‘Call them off, Shadwell! Please!’
‘She’s dead already,’ he said. ‘Let them play.’
Immacolata moved to aid her sister, but as she did so the largest of the by-blows, with the tiny white eyes of a deep-sea fish and a mouth like a wound, came between her and rescue. She spat an arrow of the menstruum into its pulsing chest, but it took the hurt in its stride, and came at her unchecked.
Shadwell had seen these monstrosities murder amongst themselves for the sport of it. He knew they could sustain horrendous injury without slowing. This one, for instance, called Vessel, could take a hundred such wounds and still make merry. Nor was it stupid. It had learned the lessons he’d taught it well enough. Even now it leapt upon the Incantatrix, wrapping its arms around her neck, and its legs about her hips.
Such intimacy would, he knew, drive Immacolata to distraction. Indeed, as it put its face to hers, kissing her as best its malformations would allow, she started to scream, all control and calculation finally lost. The menstruum flew from her in all directions, wasting its potency on the ceiling and the walls. Those few barbs that found her attacker did nothing but arouse it further. Though it had no sexual anatomy to speak of, Shadwell had trained it in the basic moves. It worked itself against her like a dog in heat, howling into her face.
Opening its mouth was a mistake on its part, for a fragment of the menstruum found its way down into its throat, and blew it wide. Its neck erupted, and its head, no longer supported, fell backwards on greasy strings of matter.
Even so, it clung to her, its body moving in ragged spasms against hers. But its grip had loosened sufficiently for her to tear its body from her, the struggle leaving her bloodied from head to foot.
Shadwell called the remaining by-blows from their vengeful play. They withdrew to his side. All that was left of the Hag was a litter that resembled the leavings on a fish-gutter’s tiles.
Seeing the remains, Immacolata, her face slack to the point of imbecility, let out a low moan of loss.
‘Get her out of here,’ said Shadwell. ‘I don’t want to see her filthy face. Take her into the hills. Dump her.’
Two of the by-blows approached the Incantatrix, and took hold of her. There was not so much as a flicker in her eye, nor a finger raised in protest. She seemed no longer even to see them. Either the slaughter of her one remaining sister, or her own violation by the beast, or perhaps both, had undone something inside her. She was suddenly bereft of any power to enchant or terrify. A sack, which they hauled away through the door, and carried off down the stairs. Not once did she even raise her eyes in Shadwell’s direction.
He listened to the slouching gait of the by-blows fade down the stairs, still half expecting her to come back for him, to mount one final attack. But no. It was over.
He crossed to the muck of the Hag. It smelt of something rotten.
‘Have it,’ he said to the remaining beasts, who fell upon the scraps and fought over them. Revolted by their appetite, he turned his gaze back towards the Gyre.
Very soon now night would be upon the Fugue; a last curtain on the events of a busy day. With tomorrow, a new act would begin.
Somewhere beyond the cloud he was watching lay a knowledge that would transform him.
After that, no night would fall, except at his word; nor day dawn.
VII
AN OPEN BOOK
1
he Law had come to Nonesuch.
It had come to root out dissension: it had found none. It had come with truncheons, riot shields and bullets, prepared for armed rebellion: it had found no whisper of that either. All it had found was a warren of shadowy streets, most of them deserted, and a few pedestrians who bowed their heads at the first sign of a uniform.
Hobart had immediately ordered a house to house search. It had been greeted with a few sour looks, but little more than that. He was disappointed; it would have been gratifying to have found something to sharpen his authority upon. All too easy, he knew, to be lulled into a false sense of security, especially when an anticipated confrontation had failed to materialize. Vigilance was the key word now; unending vigilance.
That was why he’d occupied a house with a good view of the township from its upper storeys, where he could take up residence for the night. Tomorrow would bring the big push on the Gyre, which could surely not go unopposed. And yet, who could be certain with these people? They were so docile; like animals, rolling over at the first sign of a greater power.
The house he’d commandeered had little to recommend it, beyond its view. A maze of rooms; a collection of faded murals, which he didn’t care to study too closely; spare and creaking furniture. The discomfort of the place didn’t bother him: he liked spartan living. But the atmosphere did; the sense he had that the ousted tenants were still here, just out of sight. If he’d been a man who believed in ghosts, he’d have said the house was haunted. He wasn’t, so he kept his fears to himself, where they multiplied.
Evening had fallen, and the streets below were dark. He could see little fro
m his high window now, but he could hear laughter drifting up from below. He’d given his men the evening to enjoy themselves, warning them never to forget that the township was enemy territory. The laughter grew more riotous, then faded down the street. Let them indulge themselves, he thought. Tomorrow the crusade would take them onto ground the people here thought of as sacred: if they were going to show any resistance, it would be then. He’d seen the same happen in the world outside: a man who wouldn’t lift a finger if his house were burned down throwing a fit if someone touched a trinket he called holy. Tomorrow promised to be a busy day, and a bloody one too.
Richardson had declined the opportunity to take the night off, preferring to stay in the house, and make a report of the day’s events for his personal records. He kept a ledger of his every move, set down in a tiny, meticulous hand. He worked on it now, as Hobart listened to the laughter disappearing below.
Finally, he put down his pen.
‘Sir?’
‘What is it?’
‘These people, sir. It seems to me –’ Richardson halted, unsure of how best to voice a question that had been vexing him since they’d arrived, ‘– it seems to me they don’t look quite human.’
Hobart studied the man. His hair was immaculately cut, his cheeks immaculately shaved, his uniform immaculately pressed.
‘You may be right,’ he said.
A flicker of distress crossed Richardson’s face.
‘I don’t understand … sir.’
‘While you’re here, you should believe nothing you see.’
‘Nothing, sir?’
‘Nothing at all,’ Hobart said. He put his fingers to the glass. It was cold; his body heat lent the tips misty haloes. The whole place is a mass of illusions. Tricks and traps. None of it’s to be trusted.’
‘It’s not real?’ Richardson said.
Hobart stared across the roofs of this little nowhere, and turned the question over. Real was a word he’d once had no problem using. Real was what made the world go round, what was solid and true. And its flip side, unreal, that was what some lunatic in a cell shouted at four in the morning; unreal was dreams of power without the flesh to give them weight.