by Clive Barker
“Five months, and every day burning brighter,” Bethlynn said.
Out of nowhere, Will heard himself say, “Living and dying we feed the fire.”
Bethlynn frowned, narrowed her eyes as though she was listening to the echo of Will’s words to be certain she’d heard them right. Then she said, “What fire do you mean?” Will was of half a mind to withdraw the remark, but if the man who’d coined it had taught him anything, it was the importance of speaking up for your beliefs. The trouble was, he didn’t really have an answer. This phrase, which had dogged him for three decades, was not readily explicable, which was perhaps why it had proved so tenacious. Bethlynn, however, wanted a reply. She watched Will with her big gray eyes, while he floundered.
“It’s just a phrase,” he said. “I don’t know. I guess it means . . . fire’s fire, isn’t it?”
“You tell me,” she said.
There was a distinct smugness in her scrutiny, which irritated him. Instead of letting the challenge slide, he said, “No, you’re the expert on burning brightly. You’ve probably got a better theory than me.”
“I don’t have theories. I don’t need them,” Bethlynn said. “I have the truth.”
“Oh, my mistake,” Will replied. “I thought you were just flailing around like the rest of us.”
“You’re very cynical, aren’t you?” she said. “Very disappointed.”
“Thanks for the analysis, but—”
“Very hurt. There’s no shame in admitting it.”
“I’m not admitting to anything,” Will replied.
She was getting under his skin, and she knew it. A tide of beatitude had swept over her face. “Why are you so defensive?” she said.
Will threw up his hands. “Anything I say now, you’re going to use against me—”
“It’s not against anyone,” she replied. Patrick had finally snapped out of his saccharine fugue and tried to interject, but Bethlynn ignored him. Moving a little closer to Will, as if to lend him the comfort of her proximity, she said, “You’re going to do yourself some harm if you don’t learn to forgive.” She had laid her hand on his arm. “Who are you so angry at?”
“I’ll tell you,” he said. She smiled in expectation of his unburdening. “There’s this fox—”
“Fox?” she said.
“He’s driving me crazy. I know I should kiss his flea bitten ass and tell him I forgive his trespasses.” She gave a darting glance to Patrick, which he took as a signal to engineer her departure. “But it’s not easy with foxes,” Will went on. “Because I hate the fucking things. I hate ’em.” Bethlynn was retreating now. “Hate ’em, hate ’em, hate ’em—” And she was gone, escorted away into the crowd.
“Nice going,” Adrianna remarked. “Subtle, understated. Nice.”
“I need a drink,” Will said.
“I’m going to find Glenn. If he’s still sick I’ll take him home, so if I don’t see you later, enjoy the rest of the party.”
——
“What the hell did you say to her?” Jack wanted to know, when he caught up with Will and the whiskey bottle.
“It’s all a blur.”
“I just loved that look on her face.”
“You were watching?”
“Everybody was watching.”
“I should apologize.”
“Too late. She just left.”
“Not to her, to Patrick.”
He found Pat in the room at the back of the apartment they had together dubbed the conservatory, a space occupied by out-of-season decorations, old furniture, and several burgeoning marijuana plants. He was smoking a fat reefer in their midst, staring at the wall.
“That was stupid,” Will said. “I fucked up and I’m really sorry.”
“No, you’re not,” Patrick said. “You think she’s a big ol’ fake and you wanted to show her how you felt.” His voice was gravelly. There was no anger in it, not even resentment, only fatigue.
“You want some of this?” he said, glancing back at Will briefly as he proffered the joint. His eyes were red.
“Oh Jesus, Pat—” Will said, wanting to weep himself at the sight of Patrick’s unhappiness.
“Do you want some or not?” Patrick sniffed. Will took the joint and inhaled a solid lungful. “I need Bethlynn right now,” Pat went on. “I can guess what you think about her, and I’d probably be thinking the same thing if I was standing where you are. But I’m not. I’m here. You’re there. It’s fucking miles, Will.” He drew a short, almost panicked breath. “I’m dying. And I don’t like it. I’m not at peace, I’m not reconciled—” He turned to claim the joint back from Will. “I’m not . . . finished with being here. Not. Remotely. Finished.” He took another hit off the joint, then handed it back to Will, who burned it to the nub. They looked at each other, both holding lungsful of smoke, effortlessly meeting one another’s gaze. Then expelling the smoke as he talked, Patrick said, “I’ve never been that interested in what goes on outside these four walls. I’ve been quite happy with a little pot and a great view. You’d come back with your pictures and I’d think, well, fuck it, I don’t want to see the world if it’s like that. I don’t want to know about fucking extinction. It’s depressing. Everybody agrees: Death’s depressing. I’ll just shut it out. But I couldn’t. It was here all the time. Right here. In me. I didn’t lock it out, I locked it in.”
Will stepped toward him, until their faces were no more than a foot apart.
“I want to apologize to Bethlynn,” he said. “Whatever I think about her, I still acted like a prick.”
“Agreed.”
“Will she see me if I grovel sufficiently?”
“Probably not. But you could maybe call at her house.” He smiled. “It would make me very happy.”
“That’s what’s important.”
“You mean that?”
“You know I mean it.”
“So, while you’re in a generous mood, can I ask you to do something else for me? You don’t have to do it right now. It’s more something for the future.”
“Tell me.”
Patrick gave him the cock-eyed look that he always got when he was high, and reaching between them, caught hold of Will’s fingers. “I want you to be here with me,” he said, “when it’s time for me to . . . leave. Permanently, I mean. Rafael’s wonderful, and so’s Jack and so’s Adrianna. But they’re not you. Nobody’s ever come close to you, Will.” His eyes shone with sorrow. “Will you promise me?”
“I promise,” Will replied, letting his own tears fall.
“I love you, Will.”
“I love you, too. That’s not going to change. Ever. You know that.”
“Yeah. But I like hearing it anyway.” He made a valiant attempt to smile. “I think we should go distribute joints among the needy.” He picked up the tin cookie jar on the table. “I rolled about twenty. You think that’ll be enough?”
“Man, you’ve got it all planned out,” Will said.
“I’m a natural celebrant,” Patrick said as he headed out to distribute this bounty. “Hadn’t you heard?”
VII
Just about everyone got high, except for Jack, who had become self-righteously sober the year before (after two decades of chemical excess) and Casper, who was forbidden to smoke the weed because Jack couldn’t. Drew became democratically flirtatious under the influence, then, realizing where his best hopes of gratification lay, followed Will into the kitchen and offered up a graphic description of what he wanted to do when they got back to Sanchez Street.
As it turned out, by the time the party broke up, Drew was so much the worse for weed and beer he said he needed to go home and sleep it off. Will invited him back to the house, but he declined. He didn’t want anyone, especially Will, watching him throw up in the toilet, he said: It was a private ritual. Will drove him home, made sure he got to his apartment safely, and then went home himself. Drew’s verbal foreplay had left him feeling horny, however, and he contemplated a late night cruise dow
n to the Penitent to find some action. But the thought of getting geared up for the hunt at such a late hour dissuaded him. He needed sleep more than a stranger’s hand. And Drew would be sober tomorrow.
——
Again, he seemed to wake, disturbed by sirens on Market or a shout from the street. Seemed to wake, and seemed to sit up and study the shadowy room, just as he had two nights before. This time, however, he was wise to the trick his sleeping mind was playing. Resisting the urge to sleepwalk to the bathroom, he stayed in bed, waiting for the illusion of wakefulness to pass.
But after what seemed to be minutes, he grew bored. There was a ritual here, he realized, that his subconscious demanded he enact, and until he played it out he wouldn’t be allowed to dream something more restful. Resigned to the game, he got up and wandered out onto the landing. There was no shadow on the wall this time to coax him down the stairs, but he went anyway, following the same route as he had when he’d last come into the company of Lord Fox: along the hallway and into the file room.
Tonight, however, there were no lights spilling from the photographs on the ground. Apparently the animal wanted to conduct the dream debate in darkness.
“Can we get this over with as quickly as possible?” Will said, stepping into the murk. “There’s got to be a better dream than—”
He stopped. The air around him shifted, displaced by a motion in the room. Something was moving toward him, and it was a lot larger than a fox. He started to retreat, heard a hiss, saw a vast, gray bulk rise up in front of him, the slab of its head gaping, letting on to a darkness that made the murk seem bright—
A bear! Christ in Heaven! Nor was this just any bear. It was his wounder, coming at him with her own wounds gouting, her breath foul and hot on his face.
Instinctively, he did as he would have done in the wild: He dropped to his knees, lowered his head, and presented as small a target as possible. The boards beneath him reverberated with the weight and fury of the animal; his scars were suddenly burning in homage to their maker. It was all he could do not to cry out, even though he knew this was just some idiot dream; all he could do not to beg it to stop and let him alone. But he kept his silence, his palms against the boards, and waited. After a time, the reverberations ceased. Still he didn’t move, but counted to ten, and only then dared to move his head an inch or two. There was no sign of the bear. But across the room, leaning against the window as nonchalantly as ever was Lord Fox.
“There are probably a plethora of lessons here,” the creature said, “but two in particular come to mind.” Will gingerly got to his feet while the fox shared his wisdom. “That when you’re dealing with animal spirits—and that’s what you’ve got on your hands, Willy, whether you like it or not—it’s best to remember that we’re all one big happy family, and if I’m here then I’ve probably got company. That’s the first lesson.”
“And . . . What’s the second?”
“Show me some respect!” the fox barked. Then, suddenly all reason, “You came in here saying you want to get it over with as quickly as possible. That’s insulting, Willy.”
“Don’t call me Willy.”
“Ask me politely.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake. Please don’t call me Willy.”
“Better.”
“I need something to drink my throat’s completely dry.”
“Go get yourself something,” the fox said, “I’ll come with you.”
Will went into the kitchen, and the fox padded after him, instructing him not to turn on the light. “I much prefer the murk,” the animal said. “It keeps my senses sharp.”
Will opened the fridge and got out a carton of milk. “You want something?”
“I’m not thirsty,” the fox said. “But thank you.”
“Something to eat?”
“You know what I like to eat,” the fox replied, and the image of Thomas Simeon lying dead in the grass entered Will’s head with sickening clarity.
“Jesus,” Will said, letting the fridge door slam closed.
“Come on,” the fox said, “where’s your sense of humor?” He stepped out of the deep shadows into a wash of gray light from the window. He looked, Will thought, more vicious than he had last time they’d met. “You know, I think you should ask yourself,” he said, “in all seriousness, if perhaps you’re not coming apart at the seams. And if you are, what the consequences are going to be for those around you. Particularly your new lover-boy. I mean, he’s not the most stable of characters, is he?”
“Are you talking about Drew?”
“Right. Drew. For some reason, I was thinking his name was Brad. I think in all fairness you should let him go, or you’ll end up dragging him down with you. He’ll go nuts on you, or try to slit his wrists, one of the two. And you’ll be responsible. You don’t want that on your plate. Not with the rest of the shit you’ve got to deal with.”
“Are you going to be more specific?”
“It’s not his war, Will. It’s yours and yours alone. You signed on for it the day you let Steep take you up the hill.” Will set down the carton of milk and put his head in his hands. “I wish I knew what the hell you wanted,” he said.
“In the long view,” the fox said, “I want what every animal wants in its heart—except maybe for the dogs—I want your species gone. To the stars, if you can get there. To rot and ruin, more likely. We don’t care. We just want you out of our fur.”
“And then what?”
“Then nothing,” the fox replied with a shrug. His voice went to a wistful murmur. “The planet keeps going round, and when it’s bright it’s day and when it’s not it’s night, and there’s no end to the simple bliss of things.”
“The simple bliss of things,” Will said.
“It’s a pretty phrase, isn’t it? I think I got it from Steep.”
“You’d miss all of that, if we were gone—”
“Words, you mean? I might, for a day or two. But it’d pass.
In a week I’d have forgotten what good conversation was and I’d be a happy heart again. The way I was when Steep first clapped eyes on me.”
“I know I’m just dreaming this, but while you’re here . . . what do you know about Steep?”
“Nothing you don’t,” the fox said. “There’s a good part of him in you, after all. You take a long look at yourself, one of these days.” The fox approached the table now, lowering his voice to an insinuating whisper. “Do you really think you’d have wasted most of your natural span taking pictures of tormented wildlife if he hadn’t put that knife in your hands? He shaped you, Will. He sowed the hopes and the disappointments, he sowed the guilt and the yearning.”
“And he sowed you at the same time?”
“For better or worse. You see, I’m nothing important. I’m just the innocent fox who ate Thomas Simeon’s private parts.
Steep saw me trotting away and he decided I was a villain.
Which was very unfair of him, by the way. I was just doing what any fox with an empty belly would do, seeing a free meal. I didn’t know I was eating anybody important.”
“Was Simeon important?”
“Well, obviously he was to Steep. I mean Jacob really took this dick-eating business to heart. He came after me, like he was going to tear off my head. So I ran, I ran so far and so fast—” This wasn’t Will’s memory of the event, as he’d witnessed it through Steep’s eyes, but Lord Fox was on a roll, and Will didn’t dare interrupt. “And he kept coming after me. There was no escaping him. I was in his memory, you see? In his mind’s eye. And let me tell you, he’s got a mind like a steel trap. Once he had me there was no tricking my way out. Even death couldn’t spring me from his head.” A raw sigh escaped the animal. “Let me tell you,” he said, “it’s not like being in your head. I mean, you’ve got a messed up psyche, no doubt about it, but it’s nothing compared with his. Nothing.”
Will knew bait when it was being trailed. But he couldn’t help himself, he bit. “Tell me,” he said.
“What’s he like? Well . . . if my head’s a hole in the ground and yours is a shack—no offense intended—then his is a fucking cathedral. I mean, it’s all spires and choirs and flying buttresses. Incredible.”
“So much for the simple bliss of things.”
“You’re quick, aren’t you?” the fox said appreciatively.
“Soon as you see a little weakness in a fellow’s argument, you’re in.”
“So he’s got a mind like a cathedral?”
“That makes it sound too sublime. It isn’t. It’s decaying, year by year, day by day. It’s getting darker and colder in there, and Steep doesn’t know how to stay warm, except by killing things, and that doesn’t work as well as it used to.” Will’s fingers remembered the velvet of the moth’s wings, and the heat of the fire that would soon consume them. Though he didn’t speak the thought, the fox heard it anyway. “You’ve had experience of his methodologies, of course. I was forgetting that. You’ve seen his madness at first hand. That should arm you against him, at least a little.”
“And what happens if he dies?”
“I escape his head,” the fox said. “And I’m free.”
“Is that why you’re haunting me?”
“I’m not haunting you. Haunting’s for ghosts and I’m not a ghost. I’m a . . . what am I? I’m a memory Steep made into a little myth. The Animal That Devoured Men. That’s who I am. I wasn’t really interesting as a common or garden fox. So he gave me a voice. Stood me on my hind legs. Called me Lord Fox. He made me just as he made you.” The admission was bitter. “We’re both his children.”
“And if he lets you go?”
“I told you: I’m away free.”
“But in the real world you’ve been dead for centuries.”
“So? I had children while I was alive. Three litters to my certain knowledge. And they had children, and their children had children. I’m still out there in some form or other. You should sow a few oats yourself, by the way, even if it does go against the grain. It’s not as if you don’t have the equipment.” He glanced down at Will’s groin. “I could feed a family of five on that.”