by Clive Barker
“Remember what I said when we left Beatrix?” Gentle said.
“No, to be honest, I don’t.”
“I said we wouldn’t die, and I meant it. We’ll find a way through.”
“I’m not sure I like this messianic conviction,” Pie said. “People with the best intentions die, Gentle. Come to think of it, they’re often the first to go.”
“What are you saying? That you won’t come with me?”
“I said I’d go wherever you go, and I will. But good intentions won’t impress the cold.”
“How much money have we got?”
“Not much.”
“Enough to buy some goatskins off these men? And maybe some meat?”
A complex exchange ensued in three languages—with Pie translating Gentle’s words into the language Kuthuss understood and Kuthuss in turn translating for his fellow herders. A deal was rapidly struck; the herders seemed much persuaded by the prospect of hard cash. Rather than give over their own coats, however, two of them got about the business of slaughtering and skinning four of the animals. The meat, they cooked and shared among the group. It was fatty and underdone, but neither Gentle nor Pie declined, and it was washed down with a beverage they brewed from boiled snow, dried leaves, and a dash of liquor which Pie understood Kuthuss to have called the piss of the goat. They tasted it in spite of this. It was potent, and after a shot of it—downed like vodka—Gentle remarked that if this made him a piss-drinker, so be it.
The next day, having been supplied with skins, meat, and the makings of several pots of the herders’ beverage, plus a pan and two glasses, they made their inarticulate farewells and parted company. The weather closed in soon after, and once again they were lost in a white wilderness. But their spirits had been buoyed up by the meeting, and they made steady progress for the next two and a half days, until, as twilight approached on the third, the animal Gentle was riding started to show signs of exhaustion, its head drooping, its hooves barely able to clear the snow they were trudging through.
“I think we’d better rest him,” Gentle said.
They found a niche between boulders so large they were almost hills in themselves, and lit a fire to brew up some of the herders’ liquor. It, more than the meat, was what had sustained them through the most demanding portions of the journey so far, but try as they might to use it sparingly, they had almost consumed their modest supply. As they drank they talked about what lay ahead. Kuthuss’ predictions were proving correct. The weather was worsening all the time, and the chances of encountering another living soul up here if they were to get into difficulty were surely zero. Pie took a moment to remind Gentle of his conviction that they weren’t going to die; come blizzard, come hurricane, come the echo of Hapexamendios Himself, down from the mountain.
“And I meant what I said,” Gentle replied. “But I can still fret about it, can’t I?” He put his hands closer to the fire. “Any more in the piss pot?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“I tell you, when we come back this way”—Pie made a wry face—“we will, we will. When we come back this way we’ve got to get the recipe. Then we can brew it back on earth.”
They’d left the doeki a little distance away and heard now a lowing sound.
“Chester!” Gentle said, and went to the beasts.
Chester was lying on its side, its flank heaving. Blood streamed from its mouth and nose, melting the snow it poured upon.
“Oh, shit, Chester,” Gentle implored, “don’t die.”
But he’d no sooner put what he hoped was a comforting hand on the doeki’s flank than it turned its glossy brown eye towards him, let out one final moan, and stopped breathing.
“We just lost fifty percent of our transport,” he said to Pie.
“Look on the bright side. We gained ourselves a week of meat.”
Gentle glanced back towards the dead animal, wishing he’d taken Pie’s advice and never named the beast. Now when he sucked its bones he’d be thinking of Klein.
“Will you do it or should I?” he said. “I suppose it should be me. I named him, I should skin him.”
The mystif didn’t argue, only suggested that it should move the other animal out of sight of the scene, in case it too lost all will to live, seeing its comrade disemboweled. Gentle agreed, and watched while Pie led the fretting creature away. Wielding the blade they’d been given as they left Beatrix, he then set about his butchering. He rapidly discovered that neither he nor the knife were equal to the task. The doeki’s hide was thick, its fat rubbery, its meat tough. After an hour of hacking and tearing he’d only managed to strip the hide from the upper half of its back leg and a small portion of its flank. He was sticky with its blood and sweating inside his coat of furs.
“Shall I take over?” Pie suggested.
“No,” Gentle snapped, “I can do it,” and continued to labor in the same inept fashion, the blade dulled by now and the muscles driving it weary.
He waited a decent interval, then got up and went back to the fire where Pie was sitting, gazing into the flames. Disgruntled by his defeat, he tossed the knife down in the melting snow beside the fire.
“I give up,” he said. “It’s all yours.”
Somewhat reluctantly, Pie picked up the knife, proceeded to sharpen it on the rock face, then went to work. Gentle didn’t watch. Repulsed by the blood that had spattered him, he elected to brave the cold and wash it off. He found a place a little way from the fire where the ground was untrammeled, removed his coat and shirt, and knelt down to bathe in the snow. His skin crawled at the chill, but some urge to self-mortification was satisfied by this testing of will and flesh, and when he’d cleaned his hands and face he rubbed the pricking snow into his chest and belly, though the doeki’s fluids hadn’t stained him there. The wind had dropped in the last little while, and the sky visible between the rocks was more gold than green. He was seized by the need to stand unencumbered in its light, and without putting his coat back on he clambered up over the rocks to do so. His hands were numb, and the climb was more arduous than he’d anticipated, but the scene above and below him when he reachedthe top of the rock was worth the effort. No wonder Hapexamendios had come here on His way to His resting place. Even gods might be inspired by such grandeur. The peaks of the Jokalaylau receded in apparently infinite procession, their white slopes faintly gilded by the heavens they reached for. The silence could not have been more utter.
This vantage point served a practical as well as an aesthetic purpose. The High Pass was plainly visible. And so, some distance off to the right, was a sight perplexing enough for him to call the mystif up from its work. A glacier, its surface shimmering, lay a mile or more from the rock. But it wasn’t the spectacle of such frozen enormity that claimed Gentle’s eye, it was the presence within the ice of a litter of darker forms.
“You want to go and find out what they are?” the mystif said, washing its bloodied hands in the snow.
“I think we should,” Gentle replied. “If we’re walking in the Unbeheld’s footsteps, we should make it our business to see what He saw.”
“Or what He caused,” Pie said.
They descended, and Gentle put his shirt and coat back on. The clothes were warm, having been left beside the fire, and he was glad of that comfort, but they also stank of his sweat and of the animals whose backs they’d been stripped from, and he half wished he could go naked, rather than be burdened by another hide.
“Have you finished with the skinning?” Gentle asked Pie as they set off, going by foot rather than waste the energies of their remaining vehicle.
“I’ve done what I can,” Pie replied, “but it’s crude. I’m no butcher.”
“Are you a cook?” Gentle asked.
“Not really. Why’d you ask?”
“I’ve been thinking about food a lot, that’s all. You know, after this trip I may never eat meat again. The fat! The gristle! It turns my stomach thinking about it.”
“You’ve got a sweet
tooth.”
“You noticed. I’d kill for a plate of profiteroles right now, swimming in chocolate sauce.” He laughed. “Listen to me. The glories of Jokalaylau laid before us and I’m obsessing on profiteroles.” Then again, deadly serious. “Do they have chocolate in Yzordderrex?”
“By now, I’m sure they do. But my people eat plainly, so I never got an addiction for sugar. Fish, on the other hand—”
“Fish?” said Gentle. “I’ve no taste for it.”
“You’ll get one in Yzordderrex. There’s restaurants down by the harbor . . .” The mystif’s talk turned into a smile. “Now I’m sounding like you. We must both be sick of doeki meat.”
“Go on,” Gentle said. “I want to see you salivate.”
“There are restaurants down by the harbor where the fish is so fresh it’s still flapping when they take it into the kitchen.”
“That’s a recommendation?”
“There’s nothing in the world as good as fresh fish,” Pie said. “If the catch is good you’ve got a choice of forty, maybe fifty, dishes. From tiny jepas to squeffah my size and bigger.”
“Is there anything I’d recognize?”
“A few species. But why travel all this way for a cod steak when you could have squeffah? Or better, there’s a dish I have to order for you. It’s a fish called an ugichee, which is almost as small as a jepas, and it lives in the belly of another fish.”
“That sounds suicidal.”
“Wait, there’s more. The second fish is often eaten whole by a bloater called a coliacic. They’re ugly, but the meat melts like butter. So if you’re lucky, they’ll grill all three of them together, just the way they were caught—”
“One inside the other?”
“Head, tail, the whole caboodle.”
“That’s disgusting.”
“And if you’re very lucky—”
“Pie—”
“—the ugichee’s a female, and you find, when you cut through all three layers of fish—”
“—her belly’s full of caviar.”
“You guessed it. Doesn’t that sound tempting?”
“I’ll stay with my chocolate mousse and ice cream.”
“How is it you’re not fat?”
“Vanessa used to say I had the palate of a child, the libido of an adolescent, and the—well, you can guess the rest. I sweat it out making love. Or at least I used to.”
They were close to the edge of the glacier now, and their talk of fish and chocolate ceased, replaced by a grim silence, as the identity of the forms encased in the ice became apparent. They were human bodies, a dozen or more. Ice-locked around them, a collection of debris: fragments of blue stone; immense bowls of beaten metal; the remnants of garments, the blood on them still bright. Gentle clambered and skidded across the top of the glacier until the bodies were directly beneath him. Some were buried too deeply to be studied, but those closer to the surface—faces upturned, limbs fixed in attitudes of desperation—were almost too visible. They were all women, the youngest barely out of childhood, the oldest a naked many-breasted hag who’d perished with her eyes still open, her stare preserved for the millennium. Some massacre had occurred here, or farther up the mountain, and the evidence been thrown into this river while it still flowed. Then, apparently, it had frozen around the victims andtheir belongings.
“Who are they?” Gentle asked. “Any idea?” Though they were dead, the past tense didn’t seem appropriate for corpses so perfectly preserved.
“When the Unbeheld passed through the Dominions, He overthrew all the cults He deemed unworthy. Most of them were sacred to Goddesses. Their oracles and devotees were women.”
“So you think Hapexamendios did this?”
“If not him, then His agents, His Righteous. Though on second thought He’s supposed to have walked here alone, so maybe this is His handiwork.”
“Then whoever He is,” Gentle said, looking down at the child in the ice, “He’s a murderer. No better than you or me.”
“I wouldn’t say that too loudly,” Pie advised.
“Why not? He’s not here.”
“If this is His doing, He may have left entities to watch over it.”
Gentle looked around. The air could not have been clearer. There was no sign of motion on the peaks or the snow-fields gleaming below. “If they’re here I don’t see ‘em,” he said.
“The worst are the ones you can’t see,” Pie replied. “Shall we go back to the fire?”
II
They were weighed down by what they’d seen, and the return journey took longer than the outward. By the time they made the safety of their niche in the rocks, to welcoming grunts from the surviving doeki, the sky was losing its golden sheen and dusk was on its way. They debated whether to proceed in darkness and decided against it. Though the air was calm at present, they knew from past experience that conditions on these heights were unpredictable. If they attempted to move by night, and a storm descended from the peaks, they’d be twice blinded and in danger of losing their way. With the High Pass so close, and the journey easier, they hoped, once they were through it, the risk was not worth taking.
Having used up the supply of wood they’d collected below the snow line, they were obliged to fuel the fire with the dead doeki’s saddle and harness. It made for a smoky, pungent, and fitful blaze, but it was better than nothing. They cooked some of the fresh meat, Gentle observing as he chewed that he had less compunction about eating something he’d named than he thought, and brewed up a small serving of the herders’ piss liquor. As they drank, Gentle returned the conversation to the women in the ice.
“Why would a God as powerful as Hapexamendios slaughter defenseless women?”
“Whoever said they were defenseless?” Pie replied. “I think they were probably very powerful. Their oracles must have sensed what was coming, so they had their armies ready—”
“Armies of women?”
“Certainly. Warriors in their tens of thousands. There are places to the north of the Lenten Way where the earth used to move every fifty years or so and uncover one of their war graves.”
“They were all slaughtered? The armies, the oracles—”
“Or driven so deep into hiding they forgot who they were after a few generations. Don’t look so surprised. It happens.”
“One God defeats how many Goddesses? Ten, twenty—”
“Innumerable.”
“How?”
“He was One, and simple. They were many, and diverse.”
“Singularity is strength—”
“At least in the short term. Who told you that?”
“I’m trying to remember. Somebody I didn’t like much: Klein, maybe.”
“Whoever said it, it’s true. Hapexamendios came into the Dominions with a seductive idea: that wherever you went, whatever misfortune attended you, you needed only one name on your lips, one prayer, one altar, and you’d be in His care. And He brought a species to maintain that order once He’d established it. Yours.”
“Those women back there looked human enough to me.”
“So do I,” Pie reminded him. “But I’m not.”
“No . . . you’re pretty diverse, aren’t you?”
“I was once. . . .”
“So that puts you on the side of the Goddesses, doesn’t it?” Gentle whispered.
The mystif put its finger to his lips.
Gentle mouthed one word by way of response: “Heretic.”
It was very dark now, and they both settled to studying the fire. It was steadily diminishing as the last of Chester’s saddle was consumed.
“Maybe we should burn some fur,” Gentle suggested.
“No,” said Pie. “Let it dwindle. But keep looking.”
“At what?”
“Anything.”
“There’s only you to look at.”
“Then look at me.”
He did so. The privations of the last many days had seemingly taken little toll on the mystif. It had
no facial hair to disfigure the symmetry of its features, nor had their spartan diet pinched its cheeks or hollowed its eyes. Studying its face was like returning to a favorite painting in a museum. There it was: a thing of calm and beauty. But, unlike the painting, the face before him, which presently seemed so solid, had the capacity for infinite change. It was months since the night when he’d first seen that phenomenon. But now, as the fire burned itself out and the shadows deepened around them, he realized the same sweet miracle was imminent. The flicker of dying flame made the symmetry swim; the flesh before him seemed to lose its fixedness as he stared and stirred it.
“I want to watch,” he murmured.
“Then watch.”
“But the fire’s going out. . . .”
“We don’t need light to see each other,” the mystif whispered. “Hold on to the sight.”
Gentle concentrated, studying the face before him. His eyes ached as he tried to hold onto it, but they were no competition for the swelling darkness.
“Stop looking,” Pie said, in a voice that seemed to rise from the decay of the embers. “Stop looking, and see.”
Gentle fought for the sense of this, but it was no more susceptible to analysis than the darkness in front of him. Two senses were failing him here—one physical, one linguistic—two ways to embrace the world slipping from him at the same moment. It was like a little death, and a panic seized him, like the fear he’d felt some midnights waking in his bed and body and knowing neither: his bones a cage, his blood a gruel, his dissolution the only certainty. At such times he’d turned on all the lights, for their comfort. But there were no lights here. Only bodies, growing colder as the fire died.