by Clive Barker
But Fletcher had been an exception to that rule from the outset. His peccadilloes, and his desperation, had made him pliable, but the man still had a will of his own. Four times he'd refused Jaffe's offer to come out of hiding and recommence his experiments, though Jaffe had reminded him on each occasion how difficult it had been to trace the lost genius, and how much he desired that they work together. He'd sweetened each of the four offers by bringing mescaline in modest supply, always promising more, and promising too that any and every facility Fletcher required would be provided if he could only be persuaded back to his studies. Jaffe had known from first reading about Fletcher's radical theories that here was the way to cheat the system that stood between him and the Art. He didn't doubt that the route to Quiddity was thronged with tests and trials, designed by high-minded gurus or lunatic shamans like Kissoon to keep what they judged lower-class minds from approaching the Holy of Holies. Nothing new about that. But with Fletcher's help he could trip the gurus; get to power over their backs. The Great Work would evolve him beyond the condition of any of the self-elected wise men, and the Art would sing in his fingers.
At first, having set up the laboratory to Fletcher's specifications, and offered the man some thoughts on the problem he'd gleaned from the Dead Letters, Jaffe left the maestro alone, dispatching supplies (starfish, sea urchins; mescaline; an ape) as and when they were requested, but visiting only once a month. On each occasion he'd spent twenty-four hours with Fletcher, drinking and sharing gossip which Jaffe had plucked from the academic grapevine to feed Fletcher's curiosity. After eleven such visits, sensing that the researches at the Mission were beginning to move towards some conclusion, he began to make the journey more regularly. He was less welcome each time. On one occasion Fletcher had even attempted to keep Jaffe out of the Mission altogether, and there'd been a short, mismatched struggle. Fletcher was no fighter. His stooping, undernourished body was that of a man who'd been bent at his studies since adolescence. Beaten, he'd been obliged to allow access. Inside, Jaffe had found the ape, transformed by Fletcher's distillation, the Nuncio, into an ugly but undeniably human child. Even then, in the midst of this triumph, there'd been hints of the breakdown which Jaffe couldn't doubt Fletcher had finally succumbed to. The man had been uneasy about what they'd achieved. But Jaffe had been too damned pleased to take the warning signs seriously. He'd even suggested he try the Nuncio for himself, there and then. Fletcher had counselled against it; suggested several months of further study to be undertaken before Jaffe risk such a step. The Nuncio was still too volatile, he argued. He wanted to examine the way it worked on the boy's system before any further tests. Suppose it simply proved fatal to the child in a week? Or a day? That argument was enough to cool Jaffe's ardor for a while. He left Fletcher to undertake the proposed tests, returning on a weekly basis now, becoming more aware of Fletcher's disintegration with each visit, but assuming the man's pride in his own masterwork would prevent him trying to undo it.
Now, as flocks of scorched notes flew across the ground towards him, he cursed his trust. He stepped from the jeep and began to make his way through the scattered fires towards the Mission. There had always been an apocalyptic air about this spot. The earth so dry and sandy it could sustain little more than a few stunted yucca; the Mission, perched so close to the cliff-edge that one winter the Pacific would inevitably claim it, the boobies and tropic birds making din overhead.
Today there were only words on the wing. The Mission's walls were stained with smoke where fires had been built close to them. The earth was dusted with ash, even less fertile than sand.
Nothing was as it had been.
He called Fletcher's name as he stepped through the open door, the anxiety he'd felt coming up the hill now close to fear, not for himself but for the Great Work. He was glad he'd come armed. If Fletcher's grasp on sanity had finally slipped he might be obliged to coerce the formula for the Nuncio from him. It would not be the first time he'd gone seeking knowledge with a weapon in his pocket. It was sometimes necessary.
The interior was all ruin; several hundred thousand dollars' worth of instrumentation—coaxed, bullied or seduced from academics who'd given him what he asked for just to get Jaffe's eyes off them—destroyed; table-tops cleared with the sweep of an arm. The windows had all been thrown open and the Pacific wind blew through the place, hot and salty. Jaffe navigated the wreckage and made his way through to Fletcher's favorite room, the cell he'd once (high on mescaline) called the plug in the hole in his heart.
He was there, alive, sitting in his chair in front of the flung window, staring up at the sun: the very act that had blinded him in his right eye. He was dressed in the same shabby shirt and overlarge trousers he always wore; his face presented the same pinched, unshaven profile; the pony-tail of graying hair (his only concession to vanity), was in place. Even his posture—hands at his lap, the body sagging—was one Jaffe had seen innumerable times. And yet there was something subtly wrong with the scene, enough to hold Jaffe at the door, refusing to step into the cell. It was as if Fletcher was too much himself. This was too perfect an image of him: the contemplative, staring at the sun, his every pore and pucker demanding the attention of Jaffe's aching retina, as if his portrait had been painted by a thousand miniaturists, all of whom had been granted an inch of their subject and with brushes bearing a single hair rendered their portion in nauseating detail. The rest of the room—the walls, the window, even the chair on which Fletcher sat—swam out of focus, unable to compete with the too-thorough reality of this man.
Jaffe closed his eyes against the portrait. It overloaded his senses. Made him nauseous. In the darkness, he heard Fletcher's voice, as unmusical as ever.
"Bad news," he said, very quietly.
"Why?" Jaffe said, not opening his eyes. Even with them closed he knew damn well the prodigy was speaking to him without use of tongue or lips.
"Just leave," Fletcher said. "And yes. "
"Yes what?"
"You're right. I don't need my throat any longer."
"I didn't say—"
"You don't need to, Jaffe. I'm in your head. It's in there, Jaffe. Worse than I thought. You must leave . . ."
The volume faded, though the words still came. Jaffe tried to catch them, but most slipped by. Something about do we become sky?, was it? Yes, that's what he said:
" . . . do we become sky?"
"What are you talking about?" Jaffe said.
"Open your eyes," Fletcher replied.
"It makes me sick to look at you."
"The feeling's mutual. But still. .. you should open your eyes. See the miracle at work."
"What miracle?"
"Just look."
He did as Fletcher urged. The scene was exactly as it had been when he'd closed them. The wide window; the man sitting before it. The same exactly.
"The Nuncio's in me," Fletcher announced in Jaffe's head. His face didn't move at all. Not a twitch of the lips. Not a flicker of an eyelash. Just the same terrible finishedness.
"You mean you tested it on yourself?" Jaffe said. "After all you told me?"
"It changes everything, Jaffe. It's the whip to the back of the world."
"You took it! It was supposed to be me!"
"I didn't take it. It took me. It's got a life of its own, Jaffe. I wanted to destroy it, but it wouldn't let me."
"Why destroy it in the first place? It's the Great Work."
"Because it doesn't operate the way I thought it would. It's not interested in the flesh, Jaffe, except as an afterthought. It's the mind it plays with. It takes thought for its inspiration, and runs with that. Makes us what we'd hope to be, or fear we are. Or both. Maybe both."
"You haven't changed," Jaffe observed. "Still sound the same."
"But I'm talking in your head," Fletcher reminded him. "Did I ever do that before?"
"So, telepathy's in the future of the species," Jaffe replied. "No surprise there. You've just accelerated the process. Leap-frogged a few th
ousand years."
"Will I be sky?" Fletcher said again. "That's what I want to be."
"Then be it," Jaffe said. "I've got more ambition than that."
"Yes. Yes, you have, more's the pity. That was why I tried to keep it out of your hands. Stop it using you. But it distracted me. I saw the window open and I couldn't keep away. The Nuncio made me so dreamy. Made me sit, and wonder: will I . . . will I be sky?"
"It stopped you cheating me," Jaffe said. "It wants to be used, that's all."
"Mmmm."
"So where's the rest? You didn't take it all."
"No," Fletcher said. The power to deceive had been sluiced from him. "But please, don't . . ."
"Where?" Jaffe said, advancing into the room now. "You've got it on you?"
He felt myriad tiny brushes against his skin as he stepped forward, as though he'd walked into a dense cloud of invisible gnats. The sensation should have warned him against tackling Fletcher, but he was too eager for the Nuncio to take notice. He put his fingers on the man's shoulder. Upon contact the figure seemed to fly apart, a cloud of motes—gray, white and red—breaking against him like a pollen storm.
In his head he heard the genius begin to laugh, not, Jaffe knew, at his expense but at the sheer liberation of shrugging off this skin of dulling dust, which had begun to gather upon him at birth, accruing steadily until all but the brightest hints of brightness were stopped. Now, when the dust blew away, Fletcher was still sitting in the chair as he had been. But now he was incandescent.
"I am too bright?" he said. "I'm sorry." He turned down his flame. "I want this too!" Jaffe said. "I want it now."
"I know," Fletcher replied. "I can taste your need. Messy, Jaffe, messy. You're dangerous. I don't think I ever really knew till now how dangerous you are. I can see you inside out. Read your past." He stopped for a moment, then let out a long, pained moan. "You killed a man," he said. "He deserved it."
"Stood in your way. And this other I'm seeing . . . Kissoon is it? Did he die too?"
"No."
"But you'd like to have done it? I can taste hatred in you."
"Yes, I'd have killed him if I'd had the chance." He smiled.
"And me as well, I think," Fletcher said. "Is that a knife in your pocket," he asked, "or are you just pleased to see me?"
"I want the Nuncio," Jaffe said. "I want it, and it wants me . . ."
He turned away. Fletcher called after him. "It works on the mind, Jaffe. Maybe on the soul. Don't you understand? Nothing outside that doesn't begin inside. Nothing real that isn't dreamed first. Me? I never wanted my body except as a vehicle. Never really wanted anything at all, except to be sky. But you, Jaffe. You! Your mind's full of shit. Think of that. Think what the Nuncio's going to magnify. I beg you—"
The entreaty, breathed in his skull, made Jaffe halt a moment, and look back at the portrait. It had risen from its chair, though by the expression on Fletcher's face it was a torment to tear himself away from the view.
"I beg you," he said again. "Don't let it use you."
Fletcher extended a hand towards Jaffe's shoulder, but he retreated out of touching range, stepping through into the laboratory. His eyes almost instantly came to rest on the bench and the two vials left in the rack, their contents boiling up against the glass.
"Beautiful," Jaffe said, and stepped towards them, the Nuncio leaping up in the vials at his approach, like a dog wanting to lick its master's face. Its fawning made a lie of Fletcher's fears. He, Randolph Jaffe, was the user in this exchange. The Nuncio, the used.
In his head, Fletcher continued to issue his warning:
"Every cruelty in you, Jaffe, every fear, every stupidity, every cowardice. All making you over. Are you prepared for that? I don't think so. It'll show you too much."
"No such thing as too much, "Jaffe said, tuning the protests out and reaching for the nearest of the vials. The Nuncio couldn't wait. It broke the glass, its contents jumping to meet his skin. His knowledge (and his terror) were instantaneous, the Nuncio communicating its message on contact. The moment Jaffe realized Fletcher was right was the same moment he became powerless to correct the error.
The Nuncio had little or no interest in changing the order of his cells. If that happened it would only be as a consequence of a profounder alteration. It viewed his anatomy as a cul-de-sac. What minor improvements it could make in the system were beneath its notice. It wasn't going to waste time sophisticating finger-joints or taking the kinks out of the lower bowel. It was an evangelist not a beautician. Mind was its target. Mind which used body for its gratification, even when that gratification harmed the vehicle. Mind which was the source of the hunger for transformation and its most ardent and creative agent.
Jaffe wanted to beg for help, but the Nuncio had already taken control of his cortex, and he was prevented from uttering a word. Prayer was no more plausible. The Nuncio was God. Once in a bottle; now in his body. He couldn't even die, though his system shook so violently it seemed ready to throw itself apart. The Nuncio forbade everything but its work. It’s awesome, perfecting work.
Its first act was to throw his memory into reverse, shooting him back through his life from the moment it touched him, piercing each event until he struck the waters of his mother's womb. He was granted a moment of agonizing nostalgia for that place—its calm, its safety—before his life came to drag him out again, and began the return journey, revisiting his little life in Omaha. From the beginning of his conscious life there'd been so much rage. Against the petty and the politic; against the achievers and the seducers, the ones who made the girls and the grades. He felt it all over again, but intensified: like a cancer cell getting fat in the flick of an eye, distorting him. He saw his parents fading away, and him unable to hold on to them, or—when they'd gone—to mourn them, but raged nevertheless, not knowing why they'd lived, or bothered to bring him into the world. He fell in love again, twice. Was rejected again, twice. Nurtured the hurt, decorated the scars, let the rage grow fatter and fatter. And between those notable lows the perpetual grind of jobs that he couldn't hold, and people who forgot his name day after day, and Christmases coming on Christmases, and only age to mark them. Never getting closer to understanding why he'd been made—why anyone was made, when everything was a cheat and a sham and went to nothing anyway.
Then, the room at the crossroads, filled with Dead Letters, and suddenly his rage had echoes from coast to coast, wild, bewildered people like him stabbing at their confusion and hoping to see sense when it bled. Some of them had. They'd tumbled mysteries, albeit fleetingly. And he had the evidence. Signs and codes; the Medallion of the Shoal, falling into his hands. A moment later he had his knife buried in Homer's head, and he was away, with only a parcel of clues, on a trip that had taken him, growing more powerful with every step, to Los Alamos, and the Loop, and finally to the Misión de Santa Catrina.
And still he didn't know why he'd been made, but he'd accrued enough in his four decades for the Nuncio to give him a temporary answer. For rage's sake. For revenge's sake. For the having of power and the using of power.
Momentarily he hovered over the scene, and saw himself on the floor below, curled round in a litter of glass, clutching at his skull as though to keep it from splitting. Fletcher moved into view. He seemed to be haranguing the body, but Jaffe couldn't hear the words. Some self-righteous speech, no doubt, on the frailty of human endeavor. Suddenly he rushed at the body, his arms raised, and brought his fists down upon it. It came apart, like the portrait at the window. Jaffe howled as his dislocated spirit was claimed for the substance on the floor, drawn down into his Nunciate anatomy.
He opened his eyes and looked up at the man who'd struck off his crust, seeing Fletcher with new comprehension.
From the beginning they'd been an uneasy partnership, the fundamental principles of which had confounded both. But now Jaffe saw the mechanism clearly. Each was the other's nemesis. No two entities on earth were so perfectly opposed. Fletcher loving light as onl
y a man in terror of ignorance could; one eye gone from looking at the sun's face. He was no longer Randolph Jaffe, but the Jaff, the one and only, in love with the dark where his rage had found its sustenance and its expression. The dark where sleep came, and the trip to the dream-sea beyond sleep began. Painful as the Nuncio's education had been, it was good to be reminded of what he was. More than reminded, magnified through the glass of his own history. Not in the dark now, but of it, capable of using the Art. His hand already itched to do so. And with the itch came a grasp of how to snatch the veil aside and enter Quiddity. He didn't need ritual. He didn't need suits or sacrifices. He was an evolved soul. His need could not be denied, and he had need in abundance.
But in reaching this new self he had accidentally created a force that would, if he didn't stop here and now, oppose him every step of the way. He got to his feet, not needing to hear a challenge from Fletcher's lips to know that the enmity between them was perfectly understood. He read the revulsion in the flame that flared behind his enemy's eye. The genius sauvage, the dope-fiend and Pollyanna Fletcher had been dissolved and reconstructed: joyless, dreamy and bright. Minutes ago he'd been ready to sit by the window, longing to be sky, until longing or death did its work. But not now.
"I see the whole thing," he announced, choosing to use his voice-box now that they were equal and opposite. "You tempted me to raise you up, so you could steal your way to revelation."
"And I will," the Jaff replied. "I'm halfway there already."
"Quiddity won't open to the likes of you."
"It'll have no choice," the Jaff replied. "I'm inevitable now." He raised his hand. Beads of power, like tiny ballbearings, came sweating from it. "You see?" he said, "I'm an Artist."
"Not till you use the Art you're not."
"And who's going to stop me? You?"
"I've got no choice. I'm responsible."
"How? I beat you to a pulp once. I'll do it again."
"I'll raise visions to oppose you."