by Clive Barker
“By enemy you mean the Autarch?”
“He’s one, certainly. But I think he’s just a sign of some greater corruption. The Imajica’s sick, Gentle, from end to end. Coming here and seeing the way L’Himby’s changed makes me want to despair.”
“You know, you should have forced me to sit down and talk with Tick Raw. He might have given us a few clues.”
“It’s not my place to force you to do anything. Besides, I’m not sure he’d have been any wiser than Scopique.”
“Maybe he’ll know more by the time we speak with him.”
“Let’s hope so.”
“And this time I won’t take umbrage and waltz off like an idiot.”
“If we get to the island, there’ll be nowhere to waltz to.”
“True enough. So now we need a means of transport.”
“Something anonymous.”
“Something fast.”
“Something easy to steal.”
“Do you know how to get to the Cradle?” Gentle asked.
“No, but I can inquire around while you steal the car.”
“Good enough. Oh, and Pie? Buy some booze and cigarettes while you’re at it, will you?”
“You’ll make a decadent of me yet.”
“My mistake. I thought it was the other way round.”
III
They left L’Himby well before dawn, in a car that Gentle chose for its color (gray) and its total lack of distinction. It served them well. For two days they traveled without incident, on roads that were less trafficked the farther from the temple city and its spreading suburbs they went. There was some military presence beyond the city perimeters, but it was discreet, and no attempt was made to stop them. Only once did they glimpse a contingent at work in a distant field, vehicles maneuvering heavy artillery into position behind barricades, pointing back towards L’Himby, the work just public enough to let the citizens know whose clemency their lives were conditional upon.
By the middle of the third day, however, the road they were traveling was almost entirely deserted, and the flatlands in which L’Himby was set had given way to rolling hills. Along with this change of landscape came a change of weather. The skies clouded; and with no wind to press them on, the clouds thickened. A landscape that might have been enlivened by sun and shadow became drear, almost dank. Signs of habitation dwindled. Once in a while they’d pass a homestead, long since fallen into ruin; more infrequently still they’d catch sight of a living soul, usually unkempt, always alone, as though the territory had been given over to the lost.
And then, the Cradle. It appeared suddenly, the road taking them up over a headland which presented them with a sudden panorama of gray shore and silver sea. Gentle had not realized how oppressed he’d been by the hills until this vista opened in front of them. He felt his spirits rise at the sight.
There were peculiarities, however, most particularly the thousands of silent birds on the stony beach below, all sitting like an audience awaiting some spectacle to appear from the arena of the sea, not one in the air or on the water. It wasn’t until Pie and Gentle reached the perimeter of this roosting multitude and got out of the car that the reason for their inactivity became apparent. Not only were they and the sky above them immobile, so was the Cradle itself. Gentle made his way through the mingled nations of birds—a close relation of the gull predominated, but there were also geese, oyster catchers, and a smattering of parrots—to the edge, testing it first with his foot, then with his fingers. It wasn’t frozen—he knew what ice felt like from bitter experience—it was simply solidified, the last wave still plainly visible, every curl and eddy fixed as it broke against the shore.
“At least we won’t have to swim,” the mystif said.
It was already scanning the horizon, looking for Scopique’s prison. The far shore wasn’t visible, but the island was, a sharp gray rock rising from the sea several miles from where they stood, the maison de santé, as Scopique had called it, a cluster of buildings teetering on its heights.
“Do we go now or wait until dark?” Gentle asked.
“We’ll never find it after dark,” Pie said. “We have to go now.”
They returned to the car and drove down through the birds, who were no more inclined to move for wheels than they’d been for feet. A few took to the air briefly, only to flutter down again; many more stood their ground and died for their stoicism.
The sea made the best road they’d traveled since the Patashoquan Highway; it had apparently been as calm as a millpond when it had solidified. They passed the corpses of several birds who’d been caught in the process, and there was still meat and feathers on their bones, suggesting that the solidification had occurred recently.
“I’ve heard of walking on water,” Gentle said as they drove. “But driving . . . that’s a whole other miracle.”
“Have you any idea of what we’re going to do when we get to the island?” Pie said.
“We ask to see Scopique, and when we’ve found him we leave with him. If they refuse to let us see him, we use force. It’s simple as that.”
“They may have armed guards.”
“See these hands?” Gentle said, taking them off the wheel and thrusting them at Pie. “These hands are lethal.” He laughed at the expression on the mystif’s face. “Don’t worry, I won’t be indiscriminate.” He seized the wheel again. “I like having the power, though. I really like it. The idea of using it sort of arouses me. Hey, will you look at that? The suns are coming out.”
The parting clouds allowed a few beams through, and they lit the island, which was within half a mile of them now. The visitors’ approach had been noticed. Guards had appeared on the cliff top and along the prison’s parapet. Figures could be seen hurrying down the steps that wound down the cliff face, heading for the boats moored at its base. From the shore behind them rose the clamor of birds.
“They finally woke up,” Gentle said.
Pie looked around. Sunlight was lighting the beach, and the wings of the birds as they rose in a squalling cloud.
“Oh, Jesu,” Pie said.
“What’s wrong?”
“The sea—”
Pie didn’t need to explain, for the same phenomenon that was crossing the Cradle’s surface behind them was now coming to meet them from the island: a slow shock wave, changing the nature of the matter it passed through. Gentle picked up speed, closing the gap between the vehicle and solid ground, but the road had already liquified completely at the island’s shore, and the message of transformation was spreading at speed.
“Stop the car!” Pie yelled. “If we don’t get out we’ll go down in it.”
Gentle brought the car to a skidding halt, and they flung themselves out. The ground beneath them was still solid enough to run on, but they could feel tremors in it as they went, prophesying dissolution.
“Can you swim?” Gentle called to Pie.
“If I have to,” the mystif replied, its eyes on the approaching tide. The water looked mercurial, and seemed to be full of thrashing fish. “But I don’t think this is something we want to bathe in, Gentle.”
“I don’t think we’re going to have any choice.”
There was at least some hope of rescue. Boats were being launched off the island’s shore, the sound of the oars and the rhythmical shouts of the oarsmen rising above the churning of the silver water. The mystif wasn’t looking for hope from that source, however. Its eyes had found a narrow causeway, like a path of softening ice, between where they stood and the land. Grabbing Gentle’s arm, it pointed the way.
“I see it!” Gentle replied, and they headed off along this zigzag route, checking on the position of the two boats as they went. The oarsmen had comprehended their strategy and changed direction to intercept them. Though the flood was eating at their causeway from either side, the possibility of escape had just seemed plausible when the sound of the car upending and slipping into the waters distracted Gentle from his dash. He turned and collided with Pie as
he did so. The mystif went down, falling on its face. Gentle hauled it back onto its feet, but it was momentarily too dazed to know their jeopardy.
There were shouts of alarm coming from the boats now, and the frenzy of water yards from their heels. Gentle half hoisted Pie onto his shoulders and picked up the race again. Precious seconds had been lost, however. The lead boat was within twenty yards of them, but the tide was half that distance behind, and half again between his feet and the bow. If he stood still, the floe beneath him would go before the boat reached them. If he tried to run, burdened with the semiconscious mystif, he’d miss his rendezvous with his rescuers.
As it was, the choice was taken from him. The ground beneath the combined weight of man and mystif fractured, and the silver waters of the Chzercemit bubbled up between his feet. He heard a shout of alarm from the creature in the nearest boat—an Oethac, huge-headed and scarred—then felt his right leg lose six inches as his foot plunged through the brittle floe. It was Pie’s turn to haul him up now, but it was a lost cause: the ground would support neither of them.
In desperation he looked down at the waters that he was going to have to swim in. The creatures he’d seen thrashing were not in the sea but of the sea. The wavelets had backs and necks; the glitter of the spume was the glitter of countless tiny eyes. The boat was still speeding in their direction, and for an instant it seemed they might bridge the gap with a lunge.
“Go!” he yelled to Pie, pushing as he did so.
Though the mystif flailed, there was sufficient power in its legs to turn the fall into a jump. Its fingers caught the edge of the boat, but the violence of its leap threw Gentle from his precarious perch. He had time to see the mystif being hauled onto the rocking boat, and time too to think he might reach the hands outstretched in his direction. But the sea was not about to be denied both its morsels. As he dropped into the silver spume, which pressed around him like a living thing, he threw his hands up above his head in the hope that the Oethac would catch hold of him. All in vain. Consciousness went from him, and, uncaptained, he sank.
Twenty-six
I
GENTLE WOKE TO THE sound of a prayer. He knew before sight came to join the sound that the words were a beseechment, though the language was foreign to him. The voices rose and fell in the same unmelodious fashion as did earth congregations, one or two of the half dozen speakers lagging a syllable behind, leaving the verses ragged. But it was
nevertheless a welcome sound. He’d gone down thinking he’d never rise again.
Light touched his eyes, but whatever lay in front of him was murky. There was a vague texture to the gloom, however, and he tried to focus upon it. It wasn’t until his brow, cheeks, and chin reported their irritation to his brain that he realized why his eyes couldn’t make sense of the scene. He was lying on his back, and there was a cloth over his face. He told his arm to rise and pluck it away, but the limb just lay stupid at his side. He concentrated, demanding it obey, his irritation growing as the timber of the supplications changed and a distressing urgency came into them. He felt the bed he was lying on jostled, and tried to call out in alarm, but there was something in his throat that prevented him from making a sound. Irritation became unease. What was wrong with him? Be calm, he told himself. It’ll come clear; just be calm. But damn it, the bed was being lifted up! Where was he being taken? To hell with calm. He couldn’t just lie still while he was paradedaround. He wasn’tdead, for God’s sake!
Or was he? The thought shredded every hope of equilibrium. He was being lifted up, and carried, lying inert on a hard board with his face beneath a shroud. What was that, if it wasn’t dead? They were saying prayers for his soul, hoping to waft it heavenward, meanwhile carrying his remains to what dispatch? A hole in the ground? A pyre? He had to stop them: raise a hand, a moan, anything to signal that this leave-taking was premature. As he was concentrating on making a sign, however primitive, a voice cut through the prayers. Both prayers and bier bearers stumbled to a halt and the same voice—it was Pie!—came again.
“Not yet!” it said.
Somebody off to Gentle’s right murmured something in a language Gentle didn’t recognize: words of consolation, perhaps. The mystif responded in the same tongue, its voice fractured with grief.
A third speaker now entered the exchange, his purpose undoubtedly the same as his compatriot’s: coaxing Pie to leave the body alone. What were they saying? That the corpse was just a husk; an empty shadow of a man whose spirit was gone into a better place? Gentle willed Pie not to listen. The spirit was here! Here!
Then—joy of joys!—the shroud was pulled back from his face, and Pie appeared in his field of vision, staring down at him. The mystif looked half dead itself, its eyes raw, its beauty bruised with sorrow.
I’m saved, Gentle thought. Pie sees that my eyes are open, and there’s more than putrefaction going on in my skull. But no such comprehension came into Pie’s face. The sight simply brought a new burst of tears. A man came to Pie’s side, his head a cluster of crystalline growths, and laid his hands on the mystif’s shoulders, whispering something in its ear and gently tugging it away. Pie’s fingers went to Gentle’s face and lay for a few seconds close to his lips. But his breath—which he’d used to shatter the wall between Dominions—was so piffling now it went unfelt, and the fingers were withdrawn by the hand of Pie’s consoler, who then reached down and drew the shroud back over Gentle’s face.
The prayer sayers picked up their dirge, and the bearers their burden. Blinded again, Gentle felt the spark of hope extinguished, replaced with panic and anger. Pie had always claimed such sensitivity. How was it possible that now, when empathy was essential, the mystif could be immune to the jeopardy of the man it claimed as a friend? More than that: a soul mate; someone it had reconfigured its flesh for.
Gentle’s panic slowed for an instant. Was there some half hope buried amid these rebukes? He scoured them for a clue. Soul mate? Reconfigured flesh? Yes, of course: as long as he had thought he had desire, and desire could touch the mystif; change the mystif. If he could put death from his mind and turn his thoughts to sex he might still touch Pie’s protean core: bring about some metamorphosis, however small, that would signal his sentience.
As if to confound him, a remark of Klein’s drifted into his head, recalled from another world. “All that time wasted,” Klein had said, “meditating on death to keep yourself from coming too soon. . . .”
The memory seemed mere distraction, until he realized that it was precisely the mirror of his present plight. Desire was now his only defense against premature extinction. He turned his thoughts to the little details that were always a stimulus to his erotic imagination: a nape bared by lifted curls, lips rewetted by a slow tongue, looks, touches, dares. But thanatos had eros by the neck. His terror drove arousal away. How could he hold a sexual thought in his head long enough to influence Pie when either the flame or the grave was waiting at his feet? He was ready for neither. One was too hot, the other too cold; one bright, the other so very dark. What he wanted was a few more weeks, days—hours, even; he’d be grateful for hours—in the space between such poles. Where flesh was; where love was.
Knowing the death thoughts couldn’t be mastered, he attempted one final gambit: to embrace them, to fold them into the texture of his sexual imaginings. Flame? Let that be the heat of the mystif’s body as it was pressed against him, and cold the sweat on his back as they coupled. Let the darkness be a night that concealed their excesses, and the pyre blaze like their mutual consumption. He could feel the trick working as he thought this through. Why should death be so unerotic? If they blistered or rotted together, mightn’t their dissolution show them new ways to love, uncovering them layer by layer and joining their moistures and their marrows until they were utterly mingled?
He’d proposed marriage to Pie and been accepted. The creature was his to have and hold, to make over and over, in the image of his fondness and most forbidden desires. He did so now. He saw the creatur
e naked and astride him, changing even as he touched it, throwing off skins like clothes. Jude was one of those skins, and Vanessa another, and Martine another still. They were all riding him high: the beauty of the world impaled on his prick.
Lost in this fantasy, he wasn’t even aware that the prayers had stopped until the bier was halted once again. There were whispers all around him, and in the middle of the whispers soft and astonished laughter. The shroud was snatched away, and his beloved was looking down at him, grinning through features blurred by tears and Gentle’s influence.
“He’s alive! Jesu, he’s alive!”
There were doubting voices raised, but the mystif laughed them down.
“I feel him in me!” it said. “I swear it! He’s still with us. Put him down! Put him down!”
The pallbearers did as they were instructed, and Gentle had his first glimpse of the strangers who’d almost bade him farewell. Not a happy bunch, even now. They stared down at the body, still disbelieving. But the danger was over, at least for the time being. The mystif leaned over Gentle and kissed his lips. Its face was fixed once more, its features exquisite in their joy.
“I love you,” it murmured to Gentle. “I’ll love you until the death of love.”
II
Alive he was; but not healed. He was moved to a small room of gray brick and laid on a bed only marginally more comfortable than the boards they’d laid him on as a corpse. There was a window, but being unable to move he had to rely upon Pie ‘oh’ pah to lift him up and show him the view through it, which was scarcely more interesting than the walls, being simply an expanse of sea—solid once again—under a cloudy sky.
“The sea only changes when the suns come out,” Pie explained. “Which isn’t very often. We were unlucky. But everyone is amazed that you survived. Nobody who fell into the Cradle ever came out alive before.”
That he was something of a curiosity was evidenced by the number of visitors he had, both guards and prisoners. The regime seemed to be fairly relaxed, from what little he could judge. There were bars on the windows, and the door was unbolted and bolted up again when anybody came or went, but the officers, particularly the Oethac who ran the asylum, named Vigor N’ashap, and his number two—a military peacock named Aping, whose buttons and boots shone a good deal more brightly than his eyes, and whose features drooped on his head as though sodden—were polite enough.