by Clive Barker
If these were, as he guessed, the remains of meals he’d had up here, then he’d been resident a goodly span. He put his hand to his chin, and found what was probably a week’s growth of beard.
Then he cleared the gum of sleep from his eyes and got to his feet. His left leg was numb, and it took a little while to shake it back into life. While he did so, he looked up through the bare branches at the sky.
There were birds up there already, circling over the fells. He knew how fine it felt to have wings. He’d been in the heads of eagles, lately, and in hummingbirds as they siphoned the blossom. The time for such bliss was past, however. He had taken the journey—or rather his spirit had—and now he was returned into himself to be in the world as a man. There was sorrow here, of course. Patrick was gone; so was Sherwood. But there was also the work the fox had called him to; sacred work.
He put his full weight on his leg to test its reliability and, finding it strong enough to bear him up, hobbled away from his littered nest under the tree and out to the edge of the wood.
There had been a light frost the night before, and though the sun was showing itself between the clouds, it had too little warmth to melt the glaze; it glistened on the slopes and fields, roads and roofs. The scene before him, both above and below, looked like a picture made by a miniaturist of such genius that every part of it may be scrutinized, down to the smallest spiral of a fern or the flimsiest nuance of a cloud, and would be found to be perfectly delineated, just waiting for the eye and soul to see it.
How long did he linger at the edge of the wood, drinking all this down? Long enough to watch a dozen little ceremonies below: cows brought to a trough; washing hung on a line; the postman on his early rounds. And then, after a time, the four black cars winding in slow procession from Samson Street toward St Luke’s.
“Sherwood . . .” Will murmured, and limping still, started the slope, leaving a track of sharper green in the frosted grass.
The church bell had begun to toll, and its echo came off the fells, filling the valley with its news: A man is dead. Take notice that a good soul has gone on his way; and we’re the poorer for it.
He was only halfway down the hillside by the time the funeral convoy reached the gates of the church, which was on the far side of the valley. It would take him another half hour at least, given his limp and his fatigue, to reach the place, and even if it did he suspected he would not be welcome there in his present condition. Perhaps Frannie would be happy to see him, though he couldn’t be certain. For the rest of the mourners, however, his filthy figure stumbling to the graveside would only be a distraction from the business of the hour, which was to pay their respects to the dead. Later, when the coffin was in the ground, he’d find a quiet time to visit the churchyard and say goodbye. For now, he would pay better service to Sherwood’s memory by keeping his distance.
The coffin had been lifted from the back of the hearse and was now being carried into the church, the mourners filing in behind. The first figure to come after it was, he assumed, Frannie, though he could not make out her face at this distance.
He watched while the congregation entered the church, and disappeared, leaving the drivers to lounge against the church wall and chat among themselves.
Only now did he continue on down the slope. He would go back to Hugo’s house, he decided: There he could bathe, shave, and change his clothes, so that by the time Adele came back from the funeral (where she’d surely be) he’d be looking more presentable.
But as he got to the bottom of the hill, he was waylaid by the sight of the village streets, which were as far as he could see completely deserted. He could afford to put off going back to the house for a few minutes, he thought, and took himself over the bridge.
The bell had long since ceased tolling; the valley was hushed from end to end. But as he wandered down the street, enraptured by the stillness of the scene, he heard the sound of something behind him. He looked back. There on the bridge stood a fox, ears pricked, tail flicking, watching him. There was nothing about its appearance that made him think that this was Lord Fox, or even one of his innumerable descendants, except for the fact of its presence here, defying him to question it. He’d seen better kempt creatures, to be sure, but then the fox could have made the same observation in reply. They’d both had wild lives of late, both lost some of their early glory; grown ragged, grown a little crazed. But they still had their wiles, they had their appetites. They were alive, and ready for another day.
“Where are you off to?” he asked the fox.
The sound of his voice breaking the quiet of the street was enough to startle the animal, and on the instant it turned and briskly departed back over the bridge and up the pale slope, gathering speed as it ascended, though it had no reason to run except for pleasure’s sake. He watched it until it gained the ridge of the fell. There it trotted for a little way, then disappeared from sight.
The question he’d asked it was here answered. Where am I off to? Why, I’m away, somewhere I can be close to the sky.
Will watched the hillside and the track upon it for a little while longer, hearing in his head what Lord Fox had demanded when the animal had first appeared at his bedside. Wake up, it had said. Do it for the dogs, if you must. But wake up.
Well, he had, finally. The season of visions was at an end, at least for now, and its inciter had departed, leaving Will to take his wisdom back to the tribe. To tell what he’d seen and felt in the heart of the Domus Mundi. To celebrate what he knew, and turn it to its healing purpose.
He looked off toward his father’s house, picturing as he did so the empty study, where that last undelivered lecture lay yellowing on the desk; then he let his eyes wander to the church, and to the bleak churchyard where Sherwood’s remains would presently be laid; finally returning his gaze to the village streets.
It would be in him always, the spirit of this place. Wherever his pilgrimage took him he would carry these sights, along with the sorrows and the ambitions that had moved in him here. But for all their significance, he would not let them keep him from his ministry another moment. Just as the fox had taken its way off where it could be true to its nature, so would he.
Turning from the deserted village, and from the church and the house, he walked down to. The river and, following the track that wound beside it, began his journey back to his only true and certain home, the world.
About the Author
Clive Barker is the bestselling author of eighteen books, as well as an acclaimed artist, film producer, and director. He lives in Beverly Hills, California with his lover and life-partner, the photographer David Armstrong.
Credits
Cover illustration © 1996 by Phil Heffernan from photographs:
© 1996 The Stock Market / Pete Soloutos
© 1996 Comstock, Inc. / Bryan Denver
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Table of Contents
Epigraph
PART I He Stands Before An Unopened Door
PART II He Dreams He Is Loved
; PART III He Is Lost; He Is Found
PART IV He Meets The Stranger In His Skin
PART V He Names The Mystery
PART VI He Enters The House Of The World
About the Author
Credits
About Perfectbound e-Books
Front Cover