by Clive Barker
“Oh, true, true.”
“Indeed, I give thanks for the fact night and day,” Gentle said, glancing at Godolphin as he spoke. “Beside my bed and in it.”
Joshua laughed his Devil’s laugh.
“So the Godhead is both male and female. For convenience, an It.”
“Bravely said!” Joshua announced. “I never tire of hearing you speak, Sartori. My thoughts get muddy, but after I’ve listened to you awhile they’re like spring water, straight from the rock!”
“Not too clean, I hope,” the Maestro said. “We don’t want any Puritan souls spoiling the Reconciliation.”
“You know me better than that,” Joshua said, catching Gentle’s eye.
Even as he did so, Gentle had proof of his suspicion that these encounters, though remembered in one continuous stream, had not occurred sequentially but were fragments his mind was knitting together as the rooms he was walking through evoked them. McGann and Roxborough faded from the table, as did most of the candlelight and the litter of carafes, glasses, and food it had illuminated. Now there was only Joshua and himself, and the house was still above and below. Everyone asleep, but for these conspirators.
“I want to be with you when you perform the working,” Joshua was saying. There was no hint of laughter now. He looked harassed and nervous. “She’s very precious to me, Sartori. If anything were to happen to her I’d lose my mind.”
“She’ll be perfectly safe,” the Maestro said, sitting down at the table.
There was a map of the Imajica laid out in front of him, with the names of the Maestros and their assistants in each Dominion marked beside their places of conjuration. He scanned them and found he knew one or two. Tick Raw was there, as the deputy to Uter Musky; Scopique was there too, marked as an assistant to an assistant to Heratae Hammeryock, the latter a distant relation, perhaps, of the Hammeryock whom Gentle and Pie had encountered in Vanaeph. Names from two pasts, intersecting here on the map.
“Are you listening to me?” Joshua said.
“I told you she’d be perfectly safe,” came the Maestro’s reply. “The workings are delicate, but they’re not dangerous.”
“Then let me be there,” Godolphin said, wringing his hands. “I’ll be your assistant instead of that wretched mystif.”
“I haven’t even told Pie ‘oh’ pah what we’re up to. This is our business and only ours. You just bring Judith here tomorrow evening, and I’ll see to the rest.”
“She’s so vulnerable.”
“She seems very self-possessed to me,” the Maestro observed. “Very heated.”
Godolphin’s fretful expression soured into ice. “Don’t parade it, Sartori,” he said. “It’s not enough that I’ve got Roxborough at my ear all yesterday, telling me he doesn’t trust you; I have to bear you parading your arrogance.”
“Roxborough understands nothing.”
“He says you’re obsessed with women, so he understands that, at least. You watch some girl across the street, he says—”
“What if I do?”
“How can you give yourself to the Reconciliation if you’re so distracted?”
“Are you trying to talk me out of wanting Judith?”
“I thought magic was a religion to you.”
“So’s she.”
“A discipline, a sacred mystery.”
“Again, so’s she.” He laughed. “When I first saw her, it was like my first glimpse of another world. I knew I’d risk my life to be inside her skin. When I’m with her, I feel like an adept again, creeping towards a miracle, step by step. Tentative, excited—”
“Enough!”
“Really? You don’t want to know why I need to be inside her so badly?”
Godolphin eyed him ruefully. “Not really,” he said. “But if you don’t tell me, I’ll only wonder.”
“Because for a little time, I’ll forget who I am. Everything petty and particular will go out of me. My ambition. My history. Everything. I’ll be unmade. And that’s when I’m closest to divinity.”
“Somehow you always manage to bring everything back to that. Even your lust.”
“It’s all One.”
“I don’t like your talk of the One,” Godolphin said. “You sound like Roxborough with his dictums! Simplicity is strength and all the rest.”
“That’s not what I mean and you know it. It’s just that women are where everything begins, and I like—how shall I put it?—to touch the source as often as possible.”
“You think you’re perfect, don’t you?” Godolphin said.
“Why so sour? A week ago you were doting on my every word.”
“I don’t like what we’re doing,” Godolphin replied. “I want Judith for myself.”
“You’ll have her. And so will I. That’s the glory of this.”
“There’ll be no difference between them?”
“None. They’ll be identical. To the pucker. To the lash.”
“So why must I have the copy?”
“You know the answer to that. Because the original loves me, not you.”
“I should never have let you set eyes on her.”
“You couldn’t have kept us apart. Don’t look so forlorn. I’m going to make you a Judith that’ll dote on you and your sons, and your son’s sons, until the name Godolphin disappears off the face of the earth. Now where’s the harm in that?”
As he asked the question all the candles but the one he held went out, and the past was extinguished with them. He was suddenly back in the empty house, a police siren whooping nearby. He stepped back into the hallway as the car sped down Gamut Street, its blue light pulsing through the windows. Seconds later, another came howling after. Though the din of the sirens faded and finally disappeared, the flashes did not. They brightened from blue to white, however, and lost their regularity. By their brilliance he saw the house once more restored to glory. It was no longer a place of debate and laughter however. There was sobbing above and below, and the animal smells of fear in every corner. Thunder rattled the roof, but there was no rain to soothe its choler.
I don’t want to be here, he thought. The other memories had entertained him. He’d liked his role in the proceedings. But this darkness was another matter entirely. It was full of death, and he wanted to run from it.
The lightning came again, horribly livid. By it, he saw Lucius Cobbitt standing halfway up the stairs, clutching the banister as though he’d fall if he didn’t. He’d bitten his tongue or lip, or both, and blood dribbled from his mouth and chin, made stringy by the spit with which it was mingled. When Gentle climbed the stairs he smelt excrement. The boy had loosed his bowels in his breeches. Seeing Gentle, he raised his eyes.
“How did it fail, Maestro?” he sobbed. “How?”
Gentle shuddered as the question brought images flooding into his head, more horrendous than all the scenes he’d witnessed at the Erasure. The failure of the Reconciliation had been sudden, and calamitous, and had caught the Maestros representing the five Dominions at such a delicate time in the working that they’d been ill-equipped to prevent it. The spirits of all five had already risen from their circles across Imajica and, carrying the analogues of their worlds, had converged on the Ana, the zone of inviolability that appeared every two centuries in the heart of the In Ovo. There, for a tender time, miracles could be worked, as the Maestros, safe from the In Ovo’s inhabitants but freed and empowered by their immaterial state, unburdened themselves of their similitudes and allowed the genius of the Ana to complete the fusing of the Dominions. It was a precarious time, but they’d been reaching its conclusion when the circle in which the Maestro Sartori’s physical body sat, its stonesprotecting the outside world from the flux which let on to the In Ovo, broke. Of all the potential places for failure in the ceremonies, this was the unlikeliest: tantamount to transubstantiation failing for want of salt in the bread. But fail it did, and once the breach was opened, there was no way to seal it until the Maestros had returned to their bodies and muster
ed their feits. In that time the hungry tenants of the In Ovo had free access to the Fifth. Not only to the Fifth, but to the exulted flesh of the Maestros themselves, who vacated the Ana in confusion, leading the hounds of the In Ovo back to their flesh.
Sartori’s life would certainly have been forfeited along with all the others had Pie ‘oh’ pah not intervened. When the circle broke, Pie was being forcibly removed from the Retreat on Godolphin’s order, for voicing a prophetic murmur of alarm and disturbing the audience. The duty of removal had fallen to Abelove and Lucius Cobbitt, but neither had possessed the strength to hold the mystif. It had broken free, racing across the Retreat and plunging into the circle, where its master was visible to the assembly only as a blaze of light. The mystif had learned well at Sartori’s feet. It had defenses against the flux of power that roared in the circle and had pulled the Maestro from under the noses of the approaching Oviates.
The rest of the assembly, however, caught between the mystif’s yells of warning and Roxborough’s attempts to maintain the status quo, were still standing around in confusion when the Oviates appeared.
The entities were swift. One moment the Retreat was a bridge to the transcendental; the next, it was an abattoir. Dazed by his sudden fall from grace, the Maestro had seen only snatches of the massacre, but they were burned on his eyes, and Gentle remembered them now in all their wretched detail: Abelove, scrabbling at the ground in terror as an Oviate the size of a felled bull, but resembling something barely born, opened its toothless maw and drew him between its jaws with tongues the length of whips; McGann, losing his arm to a sleek dark animal that rippled as it ran but hauling himself away, his blood a scarlet fountain, while the thing was distracted by fresher meat; and Flores—poor Flores, who’d come to Gamut Street the day before, carrying a letter of introduction from Casanova—caught by two beasts whose skulls were as flat as spades and whose translucent skin had given Sartori a terrible glimpse of their victim’s agony as his head was taken down the throat of one while his legswere devoured by the other.
But it was the death of Roxborough’s sister that Gentle remembered with profoundest horror, not least because the man had been at such pains to keep her from coming and had even abased himself to the Maestro, begging him to talk to the woman and persuade her to stay away. He’d had the talk, but he’d knowingly made his caution a seduction—almost literally, in fact—and she’d come to see the Reconciliation as much to meet the eyes of the man who’d wooed her with his warnings as for the ceremony itself. She’d paid the most terrible price. She’d been fought over like a bone among hungry wolves, shrieking a prayer for deliverance as a trio of Oviates drew out her entrails and dabbled in her open skull. By the time the Maestro, with Pie ‘oh’ pah’s help, had raised sufficient feits to drive the entities back into the circle, she was dying in her own coils, thrashing like a fish half filleted by a hook.
Only later did the Maestro hear of the atrocities visited on the other circles. It was the same story there as in the Fifth: the Oviates appearing in the midst of innocents; carnage ensuing, which was only brought to a halt when one of the Maestro’s assistants drove them back. With the exception of Sartori, the Maestros themselves had all perished.
“It would be better if I’d died like the others,” he said to Lucius.
The boy tried to persuade him otherwise, but tears overwhelmed him. There was another voice, however, rising from the bottom of the stairs, raw with grief but strong.
“Sartori! Sartori!”
He turned. Joshua was there in the hallway, his fine powder-blue coat covered with blood. As were his hands. As was his face.
“What’s going to happen?” he yelled. “This storm! It’s going to tear the world apart!”
“No, Joshua.”
“Don’t lie to me! There’s never been a storm like this! Ever!”
“Control yourself—”
“Jesus Christ our Lord, forgive us our trespasses.”
“That’s not going to help, Joshua.”
Godolphin had a crucifix in his hand and put it to his lips.
“You Godless trash! Are you a demon? Is that it? Were you sent to have our souls?” Tears were pouring down his crazed face. “What Hell did you come out of?”
“The same as you. The human hell.”
“I should have listened to Roxborough. He knew! He said over and over you had some plan, and I didn’t believe him, wouldn’t believe him, because Judith loved you, and how could anything so pure love anything unholy? But you hid yourself from her too, didn’t you? Poor, sweet Judith! How did you make her love you? How did you do it?”
“Is that all you can think of?”
“Tell me! How?”
Barely coherent in his fury, Godolphin started up the stairs towards the seducer.
Gentle felt his hand go to his mouth. Godolphin halted. He knew this power.
“Haven’t we shed enough blood tonight?” the Maestro said.
“You, not me,” Godolphin replied. He jabbed a finger in Gentle’s direction, the crucifix hanging from his fist. “You’ll have no peace after this,” he said. “Roxborough’s already talking about a purge, and I’m going to give him every guinea he needs to break your back. You and all your works are damned!”
“Even Judith?”
“I never want to see that creature again.”
“But she’s yours, Joshua,” the Maestro said flatly, descending the stairs as he spoke. “She’s yours forever and ever. She won’t age. She won’t die. She belongs to the family Godolphin until the sun goes out.”
“Then I’ll kill her.”
“And have her innocent soul on your blotted conscience?”
“She’s got no soul!”
“I promised you Judith to the last, and that’s what she is. A religion. A discipline. A sacred mystery. Remember?”
Godolphin buried his face in his hands.
“She’s the one truly innocent soul left among us, Joshua. Preserve her. Love her as you’ve never loved any living thing, because she’s our only victory.” He took hold of Godolphin’s hands and unmasked him. “Don’t be ashamed of our ambition,” he said. “And don’t believe anyone who tells you it was the Devil’s doing. We did what we did out of love.”
“Which?” Godolphin said. “Making her, or the Reconciliation?”
“It’s all One,” he replied. “Believe that, at least.”
Godolphin claimed his hands from the Maestro’s grip. “I’ll never believe anything again,” he said and, turning his back, began his weary descent.
Standing on the stairs, watching the memory disappear, Gentle said a second farewell. He had never seen Godolphin again after that night. A few weeks later the man had retreated to his estate and sealed himself up there, living in silent self-mortification until despair had burst his tender heart.
“It was my fault,” said the boy on the stairs behind him.
Gentle had forgotten Lucius was still there, watching and listening. He turned back to the child.
“No,” he said. “You’re not to blame.”
Lucius had wiped the blood from his chin, but he couldn’t control his trembling. His teeth chattered between his stumbling words. “I did everything you told me to do,” he said. “I swear. I swear. But I must have missed some words from the rites or . . . I don’t know . . . maybe mixed up the stones.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The stones you gave me, to replace the flawed ones.”
“I gave you no stones, Lucius.”
“But Maestro, you did. Two stones, to go in the circle. You told me to bury the ones I took, at the step. Don’t you remember?”
Listening to the boy, Gentle finally understood how the Reconciliation had come to grief. His other—born in the upper room of this very house—had used Lucius as his agent, sending him to replace a part of the circle with stones that resembled the originals (forging ran in the blood), knowing they would not preserve the circle’s integrity when the
ceremony reached its height.
But while the man who was remembering these scenes understood how all this had come about, to Maestro Sartori, still ignorant of the other self he’d created in the womb of the doubling circle, this remained an unfathomable mystery.
“I gave you no such instruction,” he said to Lucius.
“I understand,” the youth replied. “You have to lay the blame at my feet. That’s why Maestros need adepts. I begged you for the responsibility, and I’m glad to have had it even if I failed.” He reached into his pocket as he spoke. “Forgive me, Maestro,” he said and, drawing out a knife, had it at his heart in the space of a thunderclap. As the tip drew blood the Maestro caught hold of the youth’s hand and, wrenching the blade from his fingers, threw it down the stairs.
“Who gave you permission to do that?” he said to Lucius. “I thought you wanted to be an adept?”
“I did,” the boy said.
“And now you’re out of love with it. You see humiliation and you want no more of the business.”
“No!” Lucius protested. “I still want wisdom. But I failed tonight.”
“We all failed tonight!” the Maestro said. He took hold of the trembling boy and spoke to him softly. “I don’t know how this tragedy came about,” he said. “But I sniff more than your shite in the air. Some plot was here, laid against our high ambition, and perhaps if I hadn’t been blinded by my own glory I’d have seen it. The fault isn’t yours, Lucius. And stopping your own life won’t bring Abelove, or Esther, or any of the others back. Listen to me.”
“I’m listening.”
“Do you still want to be my adept?”
“Of course.”
“Will you obey my instructions now, to the letter?”
“Anything. Just tell me what you need from me.”
“Take my books, all that you can carry, and go as far from here as you’re able to go. To the other end of the Imajica, if you can learn the trick of it. Somewhere Roxborough and his hounds won’t ever find you. There’s a hard winter coming for men like us. It’ll kill all but the cleverest. But you can be clever, can’t you?”
“Yes.”
“I knew it.” The Maestro smiled. “You must teach yourself in secret, Lucius, and you must learn to live outside time. That way, the years won’t wither you, and when Roxborough’s dead you’ll be able to try again.”