Imajica: Annotated Edition

by Clive Barker

  The boy looked uncertain. “As best I can,” he said.

  “That will have to suffice,” the Maestro said. “Now . . . get out of here before the purgers come.”

  He let go of the boy’s shoulders, and Cobbitt retreated down the stairs, backwards, like a commoner from the king, only turning and heading away when he was at the bottom.

  The storm was overhead now, and with the boy gone, taking his sewer stench with him, the smell of electricity was strong. The candle Gentle held flickered, and for an instant he thought it was going to be extinguished, signaling the end of these recollections, at least for tonight. But there was more to come.

  “That was kind,” he heard Pie ‘oh’ pah say, and turned to see the mystif standing at the top of the stairs. It had discarded its soiled clothes with its customary fastidiousness, but the plain shirt and trousers it wore were all the finery it needed to appear in perfection. There was no face in the Imajica more beautiful than this, Gentle thought, nor form more graceful, and the scenes of terror and recrimination the storm had brought were of little consequence while he bathed in the sight of it. But the Maestro he had been had not yet made the error of losing this miracle and, seeing the mystif, was more concerned that his deceits had been discovered.

  “Were you here when Godolphin came?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Then you know about Judith?”

  “I can guess.”

  “I kept it from you because I knew you wouldn’t approve.”

  “It’s not my place to approve or otherwise. I’m not your wife, that you should fear my censure.”

  “Still, I do. And I thought, well, when the Reconciliation was done this would seem like a little indulgence, and you’d say I deserved it because of what I’d achieved. Now it seems like a crime, and I wish it could be undone.”

  “Do you? Truly?” the mystif said.

  The Maestro looked up. “No, I don’t,” he said, his tone that of a man surprised by a revelation. He started to climb the stairs. “I suppose I must believe what I told Godolphin, about her being our . . .”

  “Victory,” Pie prompted, stepping aside to let the summoner step into the Meditation Room. It was, as ever, bare. “Shall I leave you alone?” Pie asked.

  “No,” the Maestro said hurriedly. Then, more quietly: “Please. No.”

  He went to the window from which he had stood those many evenings watching the nymph Allegra at her toilet. The branches of the tree he’d spied her through thrashed themselves to splinter and pulp against the panes.

  “Can you make me forget, Pie ‘oh’ pah? There are such feits, aren’t there?”

  “Of course. But is that what you want?”

  “No, what I really want is death, but I’m too afraid of that at the moment. So . . . it will have to be forgetfulness.”

  “The true Maestro folds pain into his experience.”

  “Then I’m not a true Maestro,” he returned. “I don’t have the courage for that. Make me forget, mystif. Divide me from what I’ve done and what I am forever. Make a feit that’ll be a river between me and this moment, so that I’m never tempted to cross it.”

  “How will you live?”

  The Maestro puzzled over this for a few moments. “In increments,” he finally replied. “Each part ignorant of the part before. Well. You can do this for me?”

  “Certainly.”

  “It’s what I did for the woman I made for Godolphin. Every ten years she’ll start to undo her life and disappear. Then she’ll invent another one and live it, never knowing what she left behind.”

  Listening to himself plot the life he’d lived, Gentle heard a perverse satisfaction in his voice. He had condemned himself to two hundred years of waste, but he’d known what he was doing. He’d made the same arrangements precisely for the second Judith and had contemplated every consequence on her behalf. It wasn’t just cowardice that made him shun these memories. It was a kind of revenge upon himself for failing, to banish his future to the same limbo he’d made for his creature.

  “I’ll have pleasure, Pie,” he said. “I’ll wander the world and enjoy the moments. I just won’t have the sum of them.”

  “And what about me?”

  “After this, you’re free to go,” he said.

  “And do what? Be what?”

  “Whore or assassin, I don’t care,” the Maestro said.

  The remark had been thrown off casually—surely not intended as an order to the mystif. But was it a slave’s duty to distinguish between a command made for the humor of it and one to be followed absolutely? No, it was a slave’s duty to obey, especially if the dictate came, as did this, from a beloved mouth. Here, with a throwaway remark, the master had circumscribed his servant’s life for two centuries, driving it to deeds it had doubtless abhorred.

  Gentle saw the tears shining in the mystif’s eyes and felt its suffering like a hammer pounding at his heart. He hated himself then, for his arrogance and his carelessness, for not seeing the harm he was doing a creature that only wanted to love him and be near him. And he longed more than ever to be reunited with Pie, so that he could beg forgiveness for this cruelty.

  “Make me forget,” he said again. “I want an end to this.”

  The mystif was speaking, Gentle saw, though whatever incantations its lips shaped were spoken in a voice he couldn’t hear. The breath that bore them made the flame he’d set on the floor flicker, however, and as the mystif instructed its master in forgetfulness the memories went out with the flame.

  Gentle rummaged for the box of matches and struck one, using its light to find the smoking wick, then reigniting it. But the night of storm had passed back into history, and Pie ‘oh’ pah, beautiful, obedient, loving Pie ‘oh’ pah, had gone with it. He sat down in front of the candle and waited, wondering if there was some coda to come. But the house was dead from cellar to eaves.

  “So,” he said to himself. “What now, Maestro?”

  He had his answer from his stomach, which made a little thunder of its own.

  “You want food?” he asked it, and it gurgled its reply. “Me too,” he said.

  He got up and started down the stairs, preparing himself for a return to modernity. As he reached the bottom, however, he heard something scraping across the bare boards. He raised the candle, and his voice.

  “Who’s there?”

  Neither the light nor his demand brought an answer. But the sound went on, and others joined it, none of them pleasant: a low, agonized moan; a wet, dragging sound; a whistling inhalation. What melodrama was his memory preparing to stage for him, he wondered, that had need of these hoary devices? They might have inspired fear in him once upon a time, but not now. He’d seen too many horrors face to face to be chilled by imitations.

  “What’s this about?” he asked the shadows, and was somewhat surprised to have his question answered.

  “We’ve waited for you a long time,” a wheezing voice told him.

  “Sometimes we thought you’d never come home,” another said. There was a fluting femininity in its tone.

  Gentle took a step in the direction of the woman, and the rim of the candle’s reach touched what looked to be the hem of a scarlet skirt, which was hastily twitched out of sight. Where it had lain, the bare boards shone with fresh blood. He didn’t advance any further, but listened for another pronouncement from the shadows. It came soon enough. Not the woman this time, but the wheezer.

  “The fault was yours,” he said. “But the pain’s been ours. All these years, waiting for you.”

  Though corrupted by anguish, the voice was familiar. He’d heard its lilt in this very house.

  “Is that Abelove?” he said.

  “Do you remember the maggot-pie?” the man said, confirming his identity. “The number of times I’ve thought: That was my error, bringing the bird into the house. Tyrwhitt would have no part of it, and he survived, didn’t he? He died in his dotage. And Roxborough, and Godolphin, and you. All of you lived and d
ied intact. But me, I just suffered here, flying against the glass but never hard enough to cease.” He moaned, and though his rebuke was as absurd as it had been when first uttered, this time Gentle shuddered. “I’m not alone, of course,” Abelove said. “Esther’s here. And Flores. And Byam-Shaw. And Bloxham’s brother-in-law; do you remember him? So there’ll be plenty of company for you.”

  “I’m not staying,” Gentle said.

  “Oh, but you are,” said Esther. “It’s the least you can do.”

  “Blow out the candle,” Abelove said. “Save yourself the distress of seeing us. We’ll put out your eyes, and you can live with us blind.”

  “I’ll do no such thing,” Gentle said, raising the light so that it cast its net wider.

  They appeared at its farthest edge, their viscera catching the gleam. What he’d taken to be Esther’s skirt was a train of tissue, half flayed from her hip and thigh. She clutched it still, pulling it up around her, seeking to conceal her groin from him. Her decorum was absurd, but then perhaps his reputation as a womanizer had so swelled over the passage of the years that she believed he might be aroused by her, even in this appalling state. There was worse, however. Byam-Shaw was barely recognizable as a human being, and Bloxham’s brother-in-law looked to have been chewed by tigers. But whatever their condition they were ready for revenge, no doubt of that. At Abelove’s command they began to close upon him.

  “You’ve already been hurt enough,” Gentle said. “I don’t want to hurt you again. I advise you to let me pass.”

  “Let you pass to do what?” Abelove replied, his terrible wounding clearer with every step he took. His scalp had gone, and one of his eyes lolled on his cheek. When he lifted his arm to point his next accusation at Gentle, it was with the littlest finger, which was the only one remaining on that hand. “You want to try again, don’t you? Don’t deny it! You’ve got the old ambition in your head!”

  “You died for the Reconciliation,” Gentle said. “Don’t you want to see it achieved?”

  “It’s an abomination!” Abelove replied. “It was never meant to be! We died proving that. You render our sacrifice worthless if you try, then fail again.”

  “I won’t fail,” Gentle said.

  “No, you won’t,” Esther replied, dropping her skirt to uncoil a garrote of her gut. “Because you won’t get the chance.”

  He looked from one wretched face to the next and realized that he didn’t have a hope of dissuading them from their intentions. They hadn’t waited out the years to be diverted by argument. They’d waited for revenge. He had no choice but to stop them with a pneuma, regrettable as it was to add to their sum of suffering. He passed the candle from his right hand to his left, but as he did so somebody reached around him from behind and pinned his arms to his torso. The candle went from his fingers and rolled across the floor in the direction of his accusers. Before it could drown in its own wax, Abelove picked it up in his fingered hand.

  “Good work, Flores,” Abelove said.

  The man clutching Gentle grunted his acknowledgment, shaking his prey to prove he had it securely caught. His arms were flayed, but they held Gentle like steel bands.

  Abelove made something like a smile, though on a face with flaps for cheeks and blisters for lips it was a misbegotten thing.

  “You don’t struggle,” he said, approaching Gentle with the candle held high. “Why’s that? Are you already resigned to joining us, or do you think we’ll be moved by your martyrdom and let you go?” He was very close to Gentle now. “It is pretty,” he said. He cocked his eye a little, sighing. “How your face was loved!” he went on. “And this chest. How women fought to lay their heads upon it!” He slid his stump of a hand into Gentle’s shirt and tore it open. “Very pale! And hairless! It’s not Italian flesh, is it?”

  “Does it matter?” said Esther. “As long as it bleeds, what do you care?”

  “He never deigned to tell us anything about himself. We had to take him on trust because he had power in his fingers and his wits. He’s like a little God, Tyrwhitt used to say. But even little Gods have fathers and mothers.” Abelove leaned closer, allowing the candle flame within singeing distance of Gentle’s lashes. “Who are you really?” Abelove said. “You’re not an Italian. Are you Dutch? You could be Dutch. Or a Swiss. Chilly and precise. Huh? Is that you?” He paused. Then: “Or are you the Devil’s child?”

  “Abelove,” Esther protested.

  “I want to know!” Abelove yelped. “I want to hear him admit he’s Lucifer’s son.” He peered at Gentle more closely. “Go on,” he said. “Confess it.”

  “I’m not,” Gentle said.

  “There was no Maestro in Christendom could match you for feits. That kind of power has to come from somebody. Who, Sartori?”

  Gentle would have gladly told, if he’d had an answer. But he had none. “Whoever I am,” he said, “and whatever hurt I’ve done—”

  “ ‘Whatever,’ he says!” Esther spat. “Listen to him! Whatever! Whatever!”

  She pushed Abelove aside and tossed a loop of her gut over Gentle’s head. Abelove protested, but he’d prevaricated long enough. He was howled down from all sides, Esther’s howls the loudest. Tightening the noose around Gentle’s neck, she tugged on it, preparing to topple him. He felt rather than saw the devourers awaiting him when he fell. Something was gnawing at his leg, something else punching his testicles. It hurt like hell, and he started to struggle and kick. There were too many holds upon him, however—gut, arms, and teeth—and he earned himself not an inch of latitude with his thrashings. Past the red blur of Esther’s fury, he caught sight of Abelove, crossing himself with his one-fingered hand, then raising the candle to his mouth.

  “Don’t!” Gentle yelled. Even a little light was better than none. Hearing him shout, Abelove looked up and shrugged. Then he blew out the flame. Gentle felt the wet flesh around him rise like a tide to claw him down. The fist gave up beating at his testicles and seized them instead. He screamed with pain, his clamor rising an octave as someone began to chew on his hamstrings.

  “Down!” he heard Esther screech. “Down!”

  Her noose had cut off all but the last squeak of breath. Choked, crushed, and devoured, he toppled, his head thrown back as he did so. They’d take his eyes, he knew, as soon as they could, and that would be the end of him. Even if he was saved by some miracle, it would be worthless if they’d taken his eyes. Unmanned, he could go on living; but not blind. His knees struck the boards, and fingers clawed for access to his face. Knowing he had mere seconds of sight left to him, he opened his eyes as wide as he could and stared up into the darkness overhead, hoping to find some last lovely thing to spend them on: a beam of dusty moonlight; a spider’s web, trembling at the din he raised. But the darkness was too deep. His eyes would be thumbed out before he could use them again.

  And then, a motion in that darkness. Something unfurling, like smoke from a conch, taking figmental shape overhead. His pain’s invention, no doubt, but it sweetened his terror a little to see a face, like that of a beatific child, pour his gaze upon him.

  “Open yourself to me,” he heard it say. “Give up the struggle and let me be in you.”

  More cliché, he thought. A dream of intercession to set against the nightmare that was about to geld and blind him. But one was real—his pain was testament to that—so why not the other?

  “Let me into your head and heart,” the infant’s lips said.

  “I don’t know how,” he yelled, his cry taken up in parody by Abelove and the rest.

  “How? How? How?” they chanted.

  The child had its reply. “Give up the fight,” he said.

  That wasn’t so hard, Gentle thought. He’d lost it anyway. What was there left to lose? With his eyes fixed on the child, Gentle let every muscle in his body relax. His hands gave up their fists; his heels, their kicks. His head tipped back, mouth open.

  “Open your heart and head,” he heard the infant say.

  “Yes,”
he replied.

  Even as he uttered his invitation, a moth’s-wing doubt fluttered in his ear. At the beginning hadn’t this smacked of melodrama? And didn’t it still? A soul snatched from Purgatory by cherubim; opened, at the last, to simple salvation. But his heart was wide, and the saving child swooped upon it before doubt could seal it again. He tasted another mind in his throat and felt its chill in his veins. The invader was as good as its word. He felt his tormentors melt from around him, their holds and howls fading like mists.

  He fell to the floor. It was dry beneath his cheek, though seconds before Esther’s skirts had been seeping on it. Nor was there any trace of the creatures’ stench in the air. He rolled over and cautiously reached to touch his hamstrings. They were intact. And his testicles, which he’d presumed nearly pulped, didn’t even ache. He laughed with relief to find himself whole and, while he laughed, scrabbled for the candle he’d dropped. Delusion! It had all been delusion! Some final rite of passage conducted by his mind so that he might supersede his guilt and face his future as a Reconciler unburdened. Well, the phantoms had done their duty. Now he was free.

  His fingers had found the candle. He picked it up, fumbled for the matches, struck one, and put the flame to the wick. The stage he’d filled with ghouls and cherubim was empty from boards to gallery. He got to his feet. Though the hurts he’d felt had been imagined, the fight he’d put up against them had been real enough, and his body—which was far from healed after the brutalities of Yzordderrex—was the worse for his resistance.

  As he hobbled towards the door, he heard the cherub speak again. “Alone at last,” it said.

  He turned on his heel. The voice had come from behind him, but the staircase was empty. So was the landing and the passageways that led off the hall. The voice came again, however.