by Clive Barker
“Does it hurt?” she said.
“At the beginning, but not badly.”
“When will it begin?” she said.
He stood up. “It already has,” he said.
She felt it, as he spoke: a pressure in her bowels and bladder, a tightness in her chest that made her catch her breath.
“Breathe slowly,” he said, putting his palm against her breast-bone. “Don’t fight it. Just let it happen. There’s no harm going to come to you.”
She looked down at his hand, then beyond it to the circle that enclosed them, and out through the door of the Retreat to the sunlit grass that lay just a few paces from where she stood. Close as it was, she couldn’t return there. The train she’d boarded was gathering speed around her. It was too late for doubts or second thoughts. She was trapped.
“It’s all right,” she heard Oscar say, but it didn’t feel that way at all.
There was a pain in her belly so sharp it felt as though she’d been poisoned, and an ache in her head, and an itch too deep in her skin to be scratched. She looked at Oscar. Was he enduring the same discomforts? If so he was bearing them with remarkable fortitude, smiling at her like an anesthetist.
“It’ll be over soon,” he was saying. “Just hold on . . . it’ll be over soon.”
He drew her closer to him, and as he did so she felt a tingling pass through her cells, as though a rainstorm was breaking inside her, sluicing the pain away.
“Better?” he said, the word more shape than sound.
“Yes,” she told him and, smiling, put her lips to his, closing her eyes with pleasure as their tongues touched.
The darkness behind her lids was suddenly brightened by gleaming lines, falling like meteors across her mind’s eye. She lifted her lids again, but the spectacle came out of her skull, daubing Oscar’s face with streaks of brightness. A dozen vivid hues picked out the furrows and creases of his skin; another dozen, the geology of bone beneath; and another, the lineaments of nerves and veins and vessels, to the tiniest detail. Then, as though the mind interpreting them had done with its literal translation and could now rise to poetry, the layered maps of his flesh simplified. Redundancies and repetitions were discarded, the forms that emerged so simple and so absolute that the matter they represented seemed wan by comparison, and receded before them. Seeing this show, she remembered the glyph she’d imagined when she and Oscar had first made love: the spiral and curve of her pleasure laid on the velvet behind her eyes. Here was the same process again, only the mind imagining them was the circle’smind, empowered by the stones and by the travelers’ demand for passage.
A motion at the door distracted her gaze momentarily. The air around them was close to dropping its sham of sights altogether, and the scene beyond the circle was blurred. But there was enough color in the suit of the man at the threshold for her to know him even though she couldn’t make out his face. Who else but Dowd wore that absurd shade of apricot? She said his name, and though she heard no sound from her throat, Oscar understood her alarm and turned towards the door.
Dowd was approaching the circle at speed, his intention perfectly clear: to hitch a ride to the Second Dominion. She’d seen the gruesome consequences of such interference before, on this very spot, and she braced herself against Oscar for the coming shock. Instead of trusting to the circle to dispatch the hanger-on, however, Oscar turned from her and went to strike Dowd. The circle’s flux multiplied his violence tenfold, and the glyph of his body became an illegible scrawl, the colors dirtied in an instant. The pain she’d thought washed away swept back over her. Blood ran from her nose and into her open mouth. Her skin itched so violently she’d have brought blood to that too had the pain in her joints not kept her from moving.
She could make no sense of the scribble in front of her until her glance caught sight of Oscar’s face, smeared and raw, screaming back at her as he toppled from the circle. She reached to haul him back, despite the searing pain her motion brought, and took hold of an arm, determined that wherever they were delivered, to Yzordderrex or death, they’d go there together. He returned her grasp, seizing her outstretched arms and dragging himself back onto the Express. As his face emerged from the blur beyond the smile she realized her error. It was Dowd she’d hauled aboard.
She let go of her hold, in revulsion more than rage. His face was horribly contorted, blood streaming from eyes, ears, and nose. But the mind of passage was already working on this fresh text, preparing to translate and transport it. She had no way of braking the process, and to leave the circle now would be certain suicide. Beyond it, the scene was blurred and darkening, but she caught sight of Oscar, rising from the ground, and thanked whatever deities protected these circles that he was at least alive. He was moving towards the circle again, she saw, as though to dare its flux a second time, but it seemed he judged the train to be moving too swiftly now, because he retreated, arms up over his face. Seconds later the whole scene disappeared, the sunlight at the threshold burning on for a heartbeat longer than the rest, then that too folding away into obscurity.
The only sight left to her now was the matrix of lines which were the translator’s rendering of her fellow traveler, and though she despised him beyond words she kept her eyes fixed upon them, having no other point of reference. All bodily sensation had disappeared. She didn’t know if she was floating, falling, or even breathing, though she suspected she was doing none of these things. She had become a sign, transmitted between Dominions, encoded in the mind of passage. The sight before her—Dowd’s shimmering glyph—was not secured by sight but by thought, which was the only currency valid on this trip. And now, as if her powers to purchase were increasing with familiarity, the absence around her began to gain detail. The In Ovo, Oscar had called this place. Its darkness swelled in a million places, their skins stretching until they gleamed and split, glutinous forms breaking out and in their turn swelling and splitting, like fruit whose seeds were sown inside each other and nourishedto corruption by their predecessors’ decay. Repulsive as this was, there was worse to come, as new entities appeared, these no more than scraps from a cannibal’s table, sucked bloodless and gnawed: idiot doodles of life that didn’t bear translation into any material form. Primitive though they were, they sensed the presence of finished life forms in their midst and rose towards the travelers like the damned to passing angels. But they swarmed too late. The visitors moved on and away, the darknesses sealing up their tenants and receding.
Jude could see Dowd’s body in the midst of his glyph, still insubstantial but brightening by the moment. With the sight, the agonies of ferriage returned, though not as sharply as those that had pained her at the outset of the journey. She was glad to have them if they proved her nerves were hers again; surely it meant the journey was almost over. The horrors of the In Ovo had almost disappeared entirely when she felt the faint heat on her face. But the scent this heat raised to her nostrils brought more certain proof that the city was near: a mingling of the sweets and sours she’d first smelled on the wind that had issued from the Retreat months before.
She saw a smile come over Dowd’s face, cracking the blood already dried on it: a smile which became a laugh in a beat or two, ringing off the walls of the merchant Peccable’s cellar as it grew solid around them. She didn’t want to share his pleasure, after all the harms he’d devised, but she couldn’t help herself. Relief that the journey hadn’t killed her, and sheer exhilaration that after all this time she was here, brought laughter onto her face and, with every breath between, the air of the Second Dominion into her lungs.
Thirty-one
I
FIVE MILES UP THE mountainside from the house in which Jude and Dowd were taking their first gasps of Yzordderrexian air, the Autarch of the Reconciled Dominions sat in one of his watchtowers and surveyed the city he had inspired to such notorious excess. It was three days since his return from the Kwem Palace, and almost every hour somebody—it was usually Rosengarten—had brought news of further acts of civil defiance
, some in regions of the Imajica so remote that word of the mutinies had been weeks in coming, some—these more disturbing—barely beyond the palace walls. As he mused he chewed on kreauchee, a drug to which he’d been addicted for some seventy years. Its side effects were severe and unpredictable for those unused to it. Periods of lethargy alternated with bouts of priapism and psychotic hallucination. Sometimes the fingers and toes swelled to grotesque proportions. But the Autarch’s system had been steeped in kreauchee for so many years the drug no longer assaultedeither his physique or his faculties, and he could enjoy its capacity to lift him from dolor without having to endure its discomforts.
Or at least such had been the case until recently. Now, as if in league with the forces that were destroying his dream below, the drug refused to give him relief. He’d demanded a fresh supply while meditating at the place of the Pivot, only to get back to Yzordderrex to find that his procurers in the Scoriae Kesparate had been murdered. Their killers were reputedly members of the Dearth, an order of renegade shammists—worshipers of the Madonna, he’d heard it rumored—who’d been fulmigating revolution for years and had until now presented so little threat to the status quo that he’d let them be for entertainment’s sake. Their pamphlets—a mingling of castration fantasies and bad theology—had made farcical reading, and with their leader Athanasius in prison many of them had retreated to the desert to worship at the margins of the First Dominion, the so-called Erasure, where the solid reality of the Second paled and faded. But Athanasius had escaped his custody andreturned to Yzordderrex with fresh calls to arms. His first act of defiance, it seemed, had been the slaughter of the kreauchee pushers. A small deed, but the man was wily enough to know what an inconvenience he’d caused with it. No doubt he was touting it as an act of civil healing, performed in the name of the Madonna.
The Autarch spat out the wad of kreauchee he was chewing and vacated the watchtower, heading off through the monumental labyrinth of the palace towards Quaisoir’s quarters in the hope that she had some small supply he could filch. To left and right of him were corridors so immense no human voice would carry along them, each lined with dozens of chambers—all exquisitely finished, all exquisitely empty—the ceilings of many so high that thin clouds formed there. Though his architectural endeavors had once been the wonder of the Dominions, the enormity of his ambition, and indeed of his achievement, mocked him now. He’d wasted his energies with these follies, when he should have been concerning himself with the shock waves his empire building had sent through the Imajica.
It wasn’t the pogroms he’d instigated that were causing these troubles, his analysts informed him. The present unrest was a consequence of less violent changes in the fabric of the Dominions, the rise of Yzordderrex and its companion cities being one of those changes, and perhaps its most significant. All eyes had been turned towards the tinsel glories of those cities, and a new pantheon had been created for tribes and communities that had long since lost faith in the deities of rock and tree. Peasants had left their dust bowls in their hundreds of thousands to claim their slice of this miracle, only to end up fermenting their envy and despair in hellholes like Vanaeph.
That was one way revolutionaries were made, the analysts said: not out of ideologies but out of frustration and rage. Then there were those who saw a chance to profit by anarchy, like the new species of nomads that were making portions of the Lenten Way impassable—crazed and merciless bandits who took pleasure in their own notoriety. And finally, there were the new rich, the dynasties created by the boom in consumption that had come with Yzordderrex’s rise. In the early days they’d repeatedly turned to the regime for protection against the acquisitive poor. But the Autarch had been too busy building his palace, and the help had not been forthcoming, so the dynasties had formed private armies to police their lands, swearing their continued allegiance to the Empire even as they plotted against it. Now those plots were no longer theory. With their armies primed to defend their estates, the boom barons were announcing themselves independent of Yzordderrex and its taxes.
There was, the analysts said, no evidence of collusion among these elements. How could there be? They didn’t have a single philosophical notion in common. They were neo-feudalists, neo-communists, neo-anarchists, all enemies of the others. It was purely coincidence that had roused them to rebellion at the same moment. Either that, or unfortuitous stars.
The Autarch barely listened to such assessments. What little pleasure he’d taken in politics at the beginning of his regime had quickly staled. It wasn’t the craft he’d been born to, and he found it tiresome and dull. He’d appointed his Tetrarchs to rule over the four Reconciled Dominions—the Tetrarch of the First doing so in absentia, of course—leaving him to obsess upon making Yzordderrex the city to end all cities, and the palace its glorious crown. What he’d in fact created was a monument to purposelessness, which, when he was under the influence of kreauchee, he would rail against as at some enemy.
One day, for instance, in visionary mood, he’d had all the windows in the chambers facing the desert smashed, and great tonnages of rancid meat laid on the mosaics. Within a day, flocks of carrion birds had forsaken the hot high winds above the sands and were feasting and breeding on tables and beds prepared for the royalty of the Dominions. In another such mood he’d had fishes brought up from the delta and housed in the baths. The water was warm, the food plentiful, and they proved so fecund he could have walked on their backs within weeks. Then they became overcrowded, and he spent many hours watching the consequences: patricide, fratricide, infanticide. But the cruelest revenge he wreaked against his folly was the most private. One by one he was using the high halls with their drizzling clouds as stages for dramas in which nothing was feigned, not even death; and when the final act had been performed he had each theater sealed as elaborately as a king’s tomb and moved on to another chamber.Little by little, the glorious palace of Yzordderrex was becoming a mausoleum.
The suite of chambers he was entering now was exempt from this process, however. Quaisoir’s bathrooms, bedrooms, lounges, and chapel were a state unto themselves, and he’d long ago sworn to her he would never violate them. She’d decorated the rooms with any lush or luxurious item that pleased her eclectic eye. It was an aesthetic he himself had favored, before his present melancholia. He’d filled the bedrooms now nested by carrion birds with immaculate copies of baroque and rococo furniture, had commissioned the walls to be mirrored like Versailles, and had the toilets gilded. But he’d long since lost his taste for such extravagances, and now the very sight of Quaisoir’s rooms nauseated him so much that if he hadn’t been driven by need he’d have retreated, appalled by their opulence.
He called his wife’s name as he went. First through the lounges, strewn with the leavings of a dozen meals; all were empty. Then into the state room, which was appointed even more grandly than the lounges, but also empty. Finally, to the bedroom. At its threshold, he heard the slap of feet on the marble floor, and Quaisoir’s servant Concupiscentia paddled into view. She was naked, as always, her back a field of multicolored extremities each as agile as an ape’s tail, her forelimbs withered and boneless things, bred to such vestigial condition over generations. Her large green eyes seeped constantly, the feathery fans to either side of her face dipping to brush the moisture from her rouged cheeks.
“Where’s Quaisoir?” he demanded.
She drew a coquettish fan of her tails over her lower face and giggled behind them like a geisha. The Autarch had slept with her once, in a kreauchee fugue, and the creature never let him by without a show of flirtation.
“Not now, for Christ’s sake,” he said, disgusted at the display. “I want my wife! Where is she?”
Concupiscentia shook her head, retreating from his raised voice and fist. He pushed past her into the bedroom. If there was any tiny wad of kreauchee to be had, it would be here, in her boudoir, where she lazed away so many days, listening to Concupiscentia sing hymns and lullabies. The chamber smell
ed like a harbor bordello, a dozen sickly perfumes draping the air like the veils that hung around the bed.
“I want kreauchee!” he said. “Where is it?”
Again, a great shaking of the head from Concupiscentia, this time accompanied by whimpering.
“Where?” he shouted. “Where?”
The perfume and the veils sickened him, and he began to rip at the silks and gossamers in his rage. The creature didn’t intervene until he picked up the Bible lying open on the pillows and threatened to rip out its onion-leaf pages.
“Pleas ep!” she squealed. “Please ep! Shellem beat I if ye taurat the Book. Quaisoir lovat the Book.”
It wasn’t often he heard the gloss, the pidgin English of the islands, and the sound of it—as misshapen as its source—infuriated him even more. He tore half a dozen pages from the Bible, just to make her squeal again. She obliged.
“I want kreauchee!” he said.
“I havat! I havat!” the creature said, and led him from the bedroom into the enormous dressing room that lay next door, where she began to search through the gilded boxes on Quaisoir’s dressing table.
Catching sight of the Autarch’s reflection in the mirror, she made a tiny smile, like a guilty child, before bringing a package out of the smallest of the boxes. He snatched it from her fingers before she had a chance to proffer it. He knew from the smell that stung his nostrils that this was good quality, and without hesitating he unwrapped it and put the whole wad into his mouth.
“Good girl,” he told Concupiscentia. “Good girl. Now, do you know where your mistress got it?”
Concupiscentia shook her head. “She goallat alon unto the Kesparates, many nights. Sometimes shellem a goat beggar, sometimes shellem goat—”
“A whore.”
“No, no. Quaisoir isem a whore.”
“Is that where she is now?” the Autarch said. “Is she out whoring? It’s a little early for that, isn’t it, or is she cheaper in the afternoon?”