Imajica

by Clive Barker

  “He saw no mystery,” Pie replied. “He looked at me, and he saw a woman he’d loved and lost in Yzordderrex. A woman who looked like his mother, in fact. That’s what he was obsessing on. An echo of his mother’s echo. And as long as I kept supplying the illusion, discreetly, he was compliant. That seemed more important than my dignity.”

  “Not any more,” Gentle said. “If we’re to go from here—together—then I want whatever you are to be mine. I won’t share you, Pie. Not for compliance. Not for life itself.”

  “I didn’t know you felt like this. If you’d told me—”

  “I couldn’t. Even before we came here, I felt it, but I couldn’t bring myself to say anything.”

  “For what it’s worth, I apologize.”

  “I don’t want an apology.”

  “What then?”

  “A promise. An oath.” He paused. “A marriage.”

  The mystif smiled. “Really?”

  “More than anything. I asked you once, and you accepted. Do I need to ask again? I will if you want me to.”

  “No need,” Pie said. “Nothing would honor me more. But here? Here, of all places?” The mystif’s frown became a grin. “Scopique told me about a Dearther who’s locked up in the basement. He could do the honors.”

  “What’s his religion?”

  “He’s here because he thinks he’s Jesus Christ.”

  “Then he can prove it with a miracle.”

  “What miracle’s that?”

  “He can make an honest man of John Furie Zacharias.”

  III

  The marriage of the Eurhetemec mystif and the fugitive John Furie Zacharias, called Gentle, took place that night in the depths of the asylum. Happily, their priest was passing through a period of lucidity and was willing to be addressed by his real name, Father Athanasius. He bore the evidence of his dementia, however: scars on his forehead, where the crowns of thorns he repeatedly fashioned and wore had dug deep, and scabs on his hands where he’d driven nails into his flesh. He was as fond of the frown as Scopique of the grin, though the look of a philosopher sat badly on a face better suited to a comedian: with its blob nose that perpetually ran, its teeth too widely spread, and eyebrows, like hairy caterpillars, that concertinaed when he furrowed his forehead. He was kept, along with twenty or so other prisoners judged exceptionally seditious, in the deepest part of the asylum, his windowless cell guarded more vigorously than those of the prisoners on higher floors. It had thus taken some fancy maneuveringon Scopique’s part to get access to him, and the bribed guard, an Oethac, was only willing to turn a hooded eye for a few minutes. The ceremony was therefore short, conducted in an ad hoc mixture of Latin and English, with a few phrases pronounced in the language of Athanasius’ Second Dominion order, the Dearthers, the music of which more than compensated for its unintelligibility. The oaths themselves were necessarily spare, given the constraints of time and the redundance of most of the conventional vocabulary.

  “This isn’t done in the sight of Hapexamendios,” Athanasius said, “nor in the sight of any God, or the agent of any God. We pray that the presence of our Lady may however touch this union with Her infinite compassion, and that you go together into the great union at some higher time. Until then, I can only be as a glass held up to your sacrament, which is performed in your sight for your sake.”

  The full significance of these words didn’t strike Gentle until later, when, with the oaths made and the ceremony done, he lay down in his cell beside his partner.

  “I always said I’d never marry,” he whispered to the mystif.

  “Regretting it already?”

  “Not at all. But it’s strange to be married and not have a wife.”

  “You can call me wife. You can call me whatever you want. Reinvent me. That’s what I’m for.”

  “I didn’t marry you to use you, Pie.”

  “That’s part of it, though. We must be functions of each other. Mirrors, maybe.” It touched Gentle’s face. “I’ll use you, believe me.”

  “For what?”

  “For everything. Comfort, argument, pleasure.”

  “I do want to learn from you.”

  “About what?”

  “How to fly out of my head again, the way I did this afternoon. How to travel by mind.”

  “By mote,” Pie said, echoing the way Gentle had felt as he’d driven his thoughts through N’ashap’s skull. “Meaning: a particle of thought, as seen in sunlight.”

  “It can only be done in sunlight?”

  “No. It’s just easier that way. Almost everything’s easier in sunlight.”

  “Except this,” Gentle said, kissing the mystif. “I’ve always preferred the night for this. . . .”

  He had come to their marriage bed determined that he would make love with the mystif as it truly was, allowing no fantasy to intrude between his senses and the vision he’d glimpsed in N’ashap’s office. That oath made him as nervous as a virgin groom, demanding as it did a double unveiling. Just as he unbuttoned and discarded the clothes that concealed the mystif’s essential sex, so he had to tear from his eyes the comfort of the illusions that lay between his sight and its object. What would he feel then? It was easy to be aroused by a creature so totally reconfigured by desire that it was indistinguishable from the thing desired. But what of the configurer itself, seen naked by naked eyes?

  In the shadows its body was almost feminine, its planes serene, its surface smooth, but there was an austerity in its sinew he couldn’t pretend was womanly; nor were its buttocks lush, or its chest ripe. It was not his wife, and though it was happy to be imagined that way, and his mind teetered over and over on the edge of giving in to such invention, he resisted, demanding his eyes hold to their focus and his fingers to the facts. He began to wish it were lighter in the cell, so as not to give ease to ambiguity. When he put his hand into the shadow between its legs and felt the heat and motion there, he said, “I want to see,” and Pie dutifully stood up in the light from the window so that Gentle could have a plainer view. His heart was pumping furiously, but none of the blood was reaching his groin. It was filling his head, making his face burn. He was glad he sat in shadow, where his discomfort was less visible, though he knew that shadow concealed only the outward show, and the mystif was perfectlyaware of the fear he felt. He took a deep breath and got up from the bed, crossing to within touching distance of this enigma.

  “Why are you doing this to yourself?” Pie asked softly. “Why not let the dreams come?”

  “Because I don’t want to dream you,” he said. “I came on this journey to understand. How can I understand anything if all I look at is illusions?”

  “Maybe that’s all there is.”

  “That isn’t true,” he said simply.

  “Tomorrow, then,” Pie said, temptingly. “Look plainly tomorrow. Just enjoy yourself tonight. I’m not the reason we’re in the Imajica. I’m not the puzzle you came to solve.”

  “On the contrary,” Gentle said, a smile creeping into his voice. “I think maybe you are the reason. And the puzzle. I think if we stayed here, locked up together, we could heal the Imajica from what’s between us.” The smile appeared on his face now. “I never realized that till now. That’s why I want to see you clearly, Pie, so there’re no lies between us.” He put his hand against the mystif’s sex. “You could fuck or be fucked with this, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you could give birth?”

  “I haven’t. But it’s been known.”

  “And fertilize?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s wonderful. And is there something else you can do?”

  “Like what?”

  “It isn’t all doer or done to, is it? I know it isn’t. There’s something else.”

  “Yes, there is.”

  “A third way.”

  “Yes.”

  “Do it with me, then.”

  “I can’t. You’re male, Gentle. You’re a fixed sex. It’s a physical fa
ct.” The mystif put its hand on Gentle’s prick, still soft in his trousers. “I can’t take this away. You wouldn’t want me to.” It frowned. “Would you?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  “You don’t mean that.”

  “If it meant finding a way, maybe I do. I’ve used my dick every way I know how. Maybe it’s redundant.”

  Now it was Pie’s turn to smile, but such a fragile smile, as though the unease Gentle had felt now burdened the mystif instead. It narrowed its shining eyes.

  “What are you thinking?” Gentle said.

  “How you make me a little afraid.”

  “Of what?”

  “Of the pain ahead. Of losing you.”

  “You’re not going to lose me,” Gentle said, putting his hand around the back of Pie’s neck and stroking the nape with his thumb. “I told you, we could heal the Imajica from here. We’re strong, Pie.”

  The anxiety didn’t go from the mystif’s face, so Gentle coaxed its face towards his and kissed it, first discreetly, then with an ardor it seemed reluctant to match. Only moments before, sitting on the bed, he’d been the tentative one. Now it was the other way around. He put his hand down to its groin, hoping to distract it from its sadness with caresses. The flesh came to meet his fingers, warm and fluted, trickling into the shallow cup of his palm a moisture his skin drank like liquor. He pressed deeper, feeling the elaboration grow at his touch. There was no hesitation here; no shame or sorrow in this flesh, to keep it from displaying its need, and need had never failed to arouse him. Seeing it on a woman’s face was a sure aphrodisiac, and it was no less so now.

  He reached up from this play to his belt, unbuckling it with one hand. But before he could take hold of his prick, which was becoming painfully hard, the mystif did so, guiding him inside it with an urgency its face still failed to betray. The bath of its sex soothed his ache, immersing him balls and all. He let out a long sigh of pleasure, his nerve endings—starved of this sensation for months—rioting. The mystif had closed its eyes, its mouth open. He put his tongue hard between its lips, and it responded with a passion he had never seen it manifest before. Its hands wrapped around his shoulders, and in possession of them both it fell back against the wall, so hard the breath went from it into Gentle’s throat. He drew it down into his lungs, inciting a hunger for more, which the mystif understood without need of words, inhaling from the heated air between them and filling Gentle’s chest as though he were a just-drowned man being pumped back to life. He answered its gift with thrusts, itsfluids running freely down the inside of his thighs. It gave him another breath, and another. He drank them all, eating the pleasure off its face in the moments between, the breath received as his prick was given. In this exchange they were both entered and enterer: a hint, perhaps, of the third way Pie had spoken of, the coupling between unfixed forces that could not occur until his manhood had been taken from him. Now, as he worked his prick against the warmth of the mystif’s sex, the thought of relinquishing it in pursuit of another sensation seemed ludicrous. There could be nothing better than this; only different.

  He closed his eyes, no longer afraid that his imagination would put a memory, or some invented perfection, in Pie’s place, only that if he looked at the mystif’s bliss too much longer he’d lose all control. What his mind’s eye pictured, however, was more potent still: the image of them locked together as they were, inside each other, breath and prick swelling inside each other’s skins until they could swell no further. He wanted to warn the mystif that he could hold on no longer, but it seemed to have that news already. It grasped his hair, pulling him off its face, the sting of it just another spur now, and the sobs too, coming out of them both. He let his eyes open, wanting to see its face as he came, and in the time it took for his lashes to unknit, the beauty in front of him became a mirror. It was his face he was seeing, his body he was holding. The illusion didn’t cool him. Quite the reverse. Before the mirror softened into flesh, its glass becoming the sweat on Pie’ssweet face, he passed the point of no return, and it was with that image in his eye—his face mingled with the mystif’s—that his body unleashed its little torrent. It was, as ever, exquisite and racking, a short delirium followed by a sense of loss he’d never made peace with.

  The mystif began to laugh almost before he was finished, and when Gentle drew his first clear breath it was to ask, “What’s so funny?”

  “The silence,” Pie said, suppressing the music so that Gentle could share the joke.

  He’d lain here in this cell hour after hour, unable to make a moan, but he’d never heard a silence such as this. The whole asylum was listening, from the depths where Father Athanasius wove his piercing crowns to N’ashap’s office, its carpet indelibly marked with the blood his nose had shed. There was not a waking soul who’d not heard their coupling.

  “Such a silence,” the mystif said.

  As it spoke, the hush was broken by the sound of someone yelling in his cell, a rage of loss and loneliness that went on unchecked for the rest of the night, as if to cleanse the gray stone of the joy that had momentarily tainted it.

  Twenty-seven

  I

  IF PRESSED, JUDE COULD have named a dozen men—lovers, suitors, slaves—who’d offered her any prize she set her heart on in return for her affections. She’d taken several up on their largesse. But her requests, extravagant as some of them had been, were as nothing beside the gift she’d asked of Oscar Godolphin. Show me Yzordderrex, she’d said, and watched his face fill with trepidation. He’d not refused her out of hand. To have done so would have crushed in a moment the affection growing between them, and he would never have forgiven himself that loss. He listened to her request, then made no further mention of it, hoping, no doubt, she’d let the subject lie.

  She didn’t, however. The blossoming of a physical relationship between them had cured her of the strange passivity that had afflicted her when they’d first met. She had knowledge of his vulnerability now. She’d seen him wounded. She’d seen him ashamed of his lack of self-control. She’d seen him in the act of love, tender and sweetly perverse. Though her feelings for him remained strong, this new perspective removed the veil of unthinking acceptance from her eyes. Now, when she saw the desire he felt for her—and he several times displayed that desire in the days following their consummation—it was the old Judith, self-reliant and fearless, who watched from behind her smiles; watched and waited, knowing that his devotion empowered her more by the day. The tension between these two selves—the remnants of the compliant mistress his presence had first conjured and the willful, focused woman she’d been (and now was again)—scourged the last dregs of dreaminessfrom her system, and her appetite for Dominion-hopping returned with fresh intensity. She didn’t shrink from reminding him of his promise to her as the days went by, but on the first two occasions he made some polite but spurious excuse so as to avoid talking further about it.

  On the third occasion her insistence won her a sigh, and eyes cast to heaven.

  “Why is this so important to you?” he asked. “Yzordderrex is an overpopulated cesspit. I don’t know a decent man or woman there who wouldn’t prefer to be here in England.”

  “A week ago you were talking about disappearing there forever. But you couldn’t you said, because you’d miss the cricket.”

  “You’ve got a good memory.”

  “I hang on your every word,” she said, not without a certain sourness.

  “Well, the situation’s changed. There’s most likely going to be revolution. If we went now, we’d probably be executed on sight.”

  “You’ve come and gone often enough in the past,” she pointed out. “So have hundreds of others, haven’t they? You’re not the only one. That’s what magic is for: passing between Dominions.”

  He didn’t reply.

  “I want to see Yzordderrex, Oscar,” she said, “and if you won’t take me I’ll find a magician who will.”

  “Don’t even joke about it.”


  “I mean it,” she said fiercely. “You can’t be the only one who knows the way.”

  “Near enough.”

  “There are others. I’ll find them if I have to.”

  “They’re all crazy,” he told her. “Or dead.”

  “Murdered?” she said, the word out of her mouth before she’d fully grasped its implication.

  The look on his face, however (or rather its absence: the willed blankness), was enough to confirm her suspicion. The bodies she’d seen on the news being carted away from their games were not those of burned-out hippies and sex-crazed satanists. They were possessors of true power, men and women who’d maybe walked where she longed to walk: in the Imajica.

  “Who’s doing it, Oscar? It’s somebody you know, isn’t it?”

  He got up and crossed to where she sat, his motion so swift she thought for an instant he meant to strike her. But instead he dropped to his knees in front of her, holding her hands tight and staring up at her with almost hypnotic intensity.

  “Listen to me carefully,” he said. “I have certain familial duties, which I wish to God I didn’t have. They make demands upon me I’d willingly shrug off if I could—”

  “This is all to do with the tower, isn’t it?”

  “I’d prefer not to discuss that.”

  “We are discussing it, Oscar.”

  “It’s a very private and a very delicate business. I’m dealing with individuals quite without any sense of morality. If they were to know that I’ve said even this much to you, both our lives would be in the direst jeopardy. I beg you, never utter another word about this to anyone. I should never have taken you up to the tower.”

  If its occupants were half as murderous as he was suggesting, she thought, how much more lethal would they be if they knew how many of the tower’s secrets she’d seen?