Popolac walked and Popolac sang.
Was there ever a sight in Europe the equal of it?
They watched, Mick and Judd, as it took another step
towards them.
The old man had wet his pants. Blubbering and
begging, he dragged himself away from the ruined cottage into the surrounding trees, dragging his dead legs after him.
The Englishmen remained where they stood, watching
the spectacle as it approached. Neither dread nor horror
touched them now, just an awe that rooted them to the
spot. They knew this was a sight they could never hope to
see again; this was the apex— after this there was only
common experience. Better to stay then, though every
step brought death nearer, better to stay and see the sight
while it was still there to be seen. And if it killed them,
this monster, then at least they would have glimpsed a
miracle, known this terrible majesty for a brief moment.
It seemed a fair exchange.
Popolac was within two steps of the cottage. They
could see the complexities of its structure quite clearly.
The faces of the citizens were becoming detailed: white,
sweat-wet and content in their weariness. Some hung
58
Clive Barker
dead from their harnesses, their legs swinging back and
forth like the hanged. Others, children particularly, had
ceased to obey their training, and had relaxed their
positions, so that the form of the body was degenerating,
beginning to seethe with the boils of rebellious cells.
Yet it still walked, each step an incalculable effort of
coordination and strength.
Boom—
The step that trod the cottage came sooner than they
thought.
Mick saw the leg raised; saw the faces of the people in
the shin and ankle and foot—they were as big as he was
now— all huge men chosen to take the full weight of this
great creation. Many were dead. The bottom of the foot,
he could see, was^a jigsaw of crushed'and bloody bodies,
pressed to death under the weight of their fellow citizens.
The foot descended with a roar.
In a matter of seconds the cottage was reduced to
splinters and dust.
Popolac blotted the sky utterly. It was, for a moment,
the whole world, heaven and earth, its presence filled the
senses to overflowing. At this proximity one look could
not encompass it, the eye had to range backwards and
forwards over its mass to take it all in, and even then the
mind refused to accept the whole truth.
A whirling fragment of stone, flung off from the
cottage as it collapsed, struck Judd full in the face. In his
head he heard the killing stroke like a ball hitting a wall:
a play-yard death. No pain: no remorse. Out like a light,
a tiny, insignificant light; his death-cry lost in the pandemonium, his body hidden in the smoke and darkness.
Mick neither saw nor heard Judd die.
He was too busy staring at the foot as it settled for a
moment in the ruins of the cottage, while the other leg
mustered the will to move.
Mick took his chance. Howling like a banshee, he ran
towards the leg, longing to embrace the monster. He
In The Hills, The Cities
59
stumbled in the wreckage, and stood again, bloodied, to
reach for the foot before it was lifted and he was left
behind. There was a clamour of agonized breath as the
message came to the foot that it must move; Mick saw
the muscles of the shin bunch and marry as the leg began
to lift. He made one last lunge at the limb as it began to
leave the ground, snatching a harness or a rope, or
human hair, or flesh itself—anything to catch this passing miracle and be part of it. Better to go with it wherever it was going, serve it in its purpose, whatever
that might be; better to die with it than live without it.
He caught the foot, and found a safe purchase on its
ankle. Screaming his sheer ecstasy at his success he felt
the great leg raised, and glanced down through the
swirling dust to the spot where he had stood, already
receding as the limb climbed.
The earth was gone from beneath him. He was a
hitchhiker with a god: the mere life he had left was
nothing to him now, or ever. He would live with this
thing, yes, he would live with it— seeing it and seeing it
and eating it with his eyes until he died of sheer gluttony.
He screamed and howled and swung on the ropes,
drinking up his triumph. Below, far below, he glimpsed
Judd’s body, curled up pale on the dark ground, irretrievable. Love and life and sanity were gone, gone like the memory of his name, dr his sex, or his ambition.
It all meant nothing. Nothing at all.
Boom—
Boom—
Popolac walked, the noise of its steps receding to the
east. Popolac walked, the hum of its voice lost in the
night.
After a day, birds came, foxes came, flies, butterflies,
wasps came. Judd moved, Judd shifted, Judd gave birth.
In his belly maggots warmed themselves, in a vixen’s den
the good flesh of his thigh was fought over. After that, it
60
Clive Barker
was quick. The bones yellowing, the bones crumbling:
soon, an empty space which he had once filled with
breath and onions.
Darkness, light, darkness, light. He interrupted neither with his name.
Philip K. Dick (1928-1982)
Paith o r Our Fathers
Philip K. Dick was a prolific American science fiction writer
whose work often strayed into the emotional territory of the
horror field, though the monsters of his stories are most
often science-fictional or technological. His reputation has
grown since his death in 1982 and he is widely regarded as
the most important science fiction writer of his generation.
The nature of reality was a consistent theme in his work: a
recent book on the man and his works is entitled Only
Apparently Real (1986). There is a vigorous international
organization devoted to his writings, The Philip K. Dick
Society, and many of his best novels are now being
reissued, not in genre but in the prestigious Vintage
Contemporaries publishing line. Plays, films (including
Bladerunneri, and an avant garde opera based on his
works have appeared in the last decade. He is something of
a cult figure. "Faith of O ur Fathers" was written in the late
1960s on a commission to produce a novella under the
influence of LSD, since Dick had a reputation for experimentation with drugs. The result is this politically and philosophically complex horror story of a future in Southeast Asia, a totalitarian and religious nightmare characteristic of Dick at his best.
62
Philip K. Dick
On the streets of Hanoi he found himself facing a
legless peddler who rode a little wooden cart and
called shrilly to every passerby. Chien slowed, listened,
but did not stop; business at the Ministry of Cultural
Artifacts cropped into his mind and deflected his attention: it was as if he were alo
ne, and none of those on bicycles and scooters and jet-powered motorcycles remained. And likewise it was as if the legless peddler did not exist.
“Comrade,” the peddler called however, and pursued
him on his cart; a helium battery operated the drive and
sent the car scuttling expertly after Chien. “ I possess a
wide spectrum of time-tested herbal remedies complete
with testimonials from thousands of loyal users; advise
me of your malady and I can assist.”
Chien, pausing, said, “Yes, but I have no malady.”
Except, he thought, for the chronic one of those employed by the Central Committee, that of career opportunism testing constantly the gates of each official position. Including mine.
“ I can cure for example radiation sickness,” the
peddler chanted, still pursuing him. “Or expand, if
necessary, the element of sexual prowess. I can reverse
carcinomatous progressions, even the dreaded melano-
mae, what you would call black cancers.” Lifting a tray
of bottles, small aluminum cans and assorted powders in
plastic jars, the peddler sang, “If a rival persists in trying
to usurp your gainful bureaucratic position, I can purvey
an ointment which, appearing as a dermal balm, is in
actuality a desperately effective toxin. And my prices,
comrade, are low. And as a special favor to one so
distinguished in bearing as yourself I will accept the
postwar inflationary paper dollars reputedly of international exchange But in reality damn near no better than bathroom tissue.”
“Go to hell,” Chien said, and signaled a passing
hovercar taxi; he was already three and one-half minutes
Faith o f Our Fathers
63
late for his first appointment of the day, and his various
fat-assed superiors at the Ministry would be making
quick mental notations— as would, to an even greater
degree, his subordinates.'
The peddler said quietly, “But, comrade; you must
buy from me.”
“Why?” Chien demanded. Indignation.
“Because, comrade, I am a war veteran. I fought in the
Colossal Final War of National Liberation with the
People’s Democratic United Front against the Imperialists; I lost my pedal extremities at the battle of San Francisco.” His tone was triumphant, now, and sly. "It is
the law. If you refuse to buy wares offered by a veteran
you risk a fine and possible jail sentence— and in
addition disgrace.”
Wearily, Chien nodded the hovercab on. “Admittedly,” he said. “Okay, I must buy from you.” He glanced summarily over the meager display of herbal remedies,
seeking one at random. “That,” he decided, pointing to a
paper-wrapped parcel in the rear row.
The peddler laughed. “That, comrade, is a spermato-
cide, bought by women who for political reasons cannot
qualify for The Pill. It would be of shallow use to you, in
fact none at all, since you are a gentleman.”
“The law,” Chien said bitingly, “does not require me
to purchase anything useful from you; only that I purchase something. I’ll take that.” He reached into his padded coat for his billfold, huge with the postwar
inflationary bills in which, four times a week, he as a
government servant was paid.
“Tell me your problems,” the peddler said.
Chien stared at him. Appalled by the invasion of
privacy— and done by someone outside the government.
“All right, comrade,” the peddler said, seeing his
expression. “I will not probe; excuse me. But as a
doctor— an herbal healer— it is fitting that I know as
much as possible.” He pondered, his gaunt features
64
Philip K. Dick
somber. “Do you watch television unusually much?” he
asked abruptly.
Taken by surprise, Chien said, “Every evening. Except
on Friday when I go to my club to practice the esoteric
imported art from the defeated West of steer-roping.” It
was his only indulgence; other than that he had totally
devoted himself to Party activities.
The peddler reached, selected a gray paper packet.
“Sixty trade dollars,” he stated. “With a full guarantee:
if it does not do as promised, return the unused portion
for a full and cheery refund.”
“And what,” Chien said cuttingly, “is it guaranteed to
do?”
“ It will rest eyes fatigued by the countenance of
meaningless official monologues,” the peddler said. “A
soothing preparation; take it as soon as you find yourself
exposed to the usual dry and lengthy sermons which— ”
Chien paid the money, accepted the packet, and strode
off. Balls, he said to himself. It’s a racket, he decided, the
ordinance setting up war vets as a privileged class. They
prey off us— we, the younger ones— like raptors.
Forgotten, the gray packet remained deposited in his
coat pocket, as he entered the imposing postwar Ministry of Cultural Artifacts building, and his own considerable stately office, to begin his workday.
A portly, middle-aged Caucasian male, wearing a brown
Hong Kong silk suit, double-breasted with vest, waited
in his office. With the unfamiliar Caucasian stood his
own immediate superior, Ssu-Ma Tso-pin. Tso-pin introduced the two of them in Cantonese, a dialect which he used badly.
“Mr. Tung Chien, this is Mr. Darius Pethel. Mr. Pethel
will be headmaster at the new ideological and cultural
establishment of didactic character soon to open at San
Fernando, California.” He added, “Mr. Pethel has had a
rich and full lifetime supporting the people’s struggle to
Faith o f Our Fathers
65
unseat imperialist-bloc countries via pedagogic media;
therefore this high post.”
They shook hands.
“Tea?” Chien asked the two of them; he pressed the
switch of his infrared hibachi and in an instant the water
in the highly ornamented ceramic pot— of Japanese
origin— began to burble. As he seated himself at his
desk he saw that trustworthy Miss Hsi had laid out
the information poop-sheet (confidential) on Comrade
Pethel; he glanced over it, meanwhile pretending to be
doing nothing in particular.
“The Absolute Benefactor of the People,” Tso-pin
said, “has personally met Mr. Pethel and trusts him.
This is rare. The school in San Fernando will appear to
teach run-of-the-mill Taoist philosophies but will, of
course, in actuality maintain for us a channel of communication to the liberal and intellectual youth segment of western U.S. There are many of them still alive, from
San Diego to Sacramento; we estimate at least ten
thousand. The school will accept two thousand. Enrollment will be mandatory for those we select. Your relationship to Mr. Pethel’s programing is grave. Ahem; your tea water is boiling.”
“Thank you,” Chien murmured, dropping in the bag
of Lipton’s tea.
Tso-pin continued, “Although Mr. Pethel will supervise the setting up of the courses of instruction presented by the school to its student body, all examination papers
will oddly enough be relayed here to your office for you
r
own expert, careful, ideological study. In other words,
Mr. Chien, you will determine who among the two
thousand students is reliable, which are truly responding
to the programing and who is not.”
“I will now pour my tea,” Chien said, doing so
ceremoniously.
“What we have to realize,” Pethel rumbled in Cantonese even worse than that of Tso-pin, “is that, once having
66
Philip K. Dick
lost the global w,ar to us, the American youth has
developed a talent for dissembling.” He spoke the last
word in English; not understanding it, Chien turned
inquiringly to his superior.
“Lying,” Tso-pin explained.
Pethel said, “Mouthing the proper slogans for surface
appearance, but on the inside believing them false. Test
papers by this group will closely resemble those of
genuine— ”
“You mean that the test papers of two thousand
students will be passing through my office?” Chien
demanded. He could not believe it. “That’s a full-time
job in itself; I don’t have time for anything remotely
resembling that.” He was appalled. “To give critical,
official approval or denial of the astute variety which
you’re envisioning— ” He gestured. “Screw that,” he
said, in English.
Blinking at the strong, Western vulgarity, Tso-pin said,
“You have a staff. Plus also you can requisition several
more from the pool; the Ministry’s budget, augmented
this year, will permit it. And remember: the Absolute
Benefactor of the People has hand-picked Mr. Pethel.”
His tone, now, had become ominous, but only subtly so.
Just enough to penetrate Chien’s hysteria, and to wither
it into submission. At least temporarily. To underline his
point, Tso-pin walked to the far end of the office; he
stood before the full-length 3-D portrait of the Absolute
Benefactor, and after an interval his proximity triggered
the tape-transport mounted behind the portrait; the face
of the Benefactor moved, and from it came a familiar
homily, in more than familiar accents. “Fight for peace,
my sons,” it intoned gently, firmly.
“Ha,” Chien said, still perturbed, but concealing it.
Possibly one of the Ministry’s computers could sort the
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