by Clive Barker
“You lucky bugger,” he said to Gentle. “She's beautiful.”
Floccus glanced at Gentle to see if he intended to remark on Estabrook's error in sexing the patient, but Gentle made a tiny shake of his head. He was surprised that Pie's power to respond to the gaze of others was still intact, especially as his eyes saw an altogether more distressing sight: the substance of his beloved growing more insubstantial as the hours passed. Was this a sight and understanding reserved for Maestros? He knelt beside the bed and studied the fading features on the pillow. Pie's eyes were roving beneath the lids.
“Dreaming of me?” Gentle murmured.
“Is she getting better?” Estabrook inquired.
“I don't know,” Gentle said. “This is supposed to be a healing place, but I'm not so sure.”
“I really think we should talk,” Estabrook said, with the strained nonchalance of a man who had something vital to impart, but was not able to do so in present company. “Why don't you pop along with me and have a quick drink? I'm sure Floccus will come and find you if anything untoward happens.”
Floccus chewed on, nodding in accord with this, and Gentle agreed to go, hoping Estabrook had some insight into conditions here that would help him to decide whether to go or stay.
“I'll be five minutes" he promised Floccus, and let Estabrook lead him off through the lamp-lit passages to what he'd earlier called his nook.
It was off the beaten track somewhat, a little canvas room he'd made his own with what few possessions he'd brought from Earth. A shirt, its bloodstains now brown, hung above the bed like the tattered standard from some noteworthy battle. On the table beside the bed his wallet, his comb, a box of matches, and a roll of mints had been arranged, along several symmetrical columns of change, into an altar to the spirit of the pocket.
“It's not much,” Estabrook said, “but it's home.”
“Are you a prisoner here?” Gentle said as he sat in the plain chair at the bottom of the bed.
“Not at all,” Estabrook said.
He brought a small bottle of liquor out from under the pillow. Gentle recognized it from the hours he and Huzzah had lingered in the cafe” in the Oke T'Noon. It was the fermented sap of a swamp flower from the Third Dominion: kloupo. Estabrook took a swig from the bottle, reminding Gentle of how he'd supped brandy from a flask on Kite Hill. He'd refused the man's liquor that day, but not now.
“I could go anytime I wanted to,” he went on. “But I think to myself, Where would you go, Charlie? And where would I go?”
“Back to the Fifth?”
“In God's name, why?”
“Don't you miss it, even a little?”
“A little, maybe. Once in a while I get maudlin, I suppose, and then I get drunk-drunker-and I have dreams.”
“Of what?”
“Mostly childhood things, you know. Odd little details that wouldn't mean a damn thing to. anyone else.” He reclaimed the bottle and drank again. “But you can't have the past back, so what's the use of breaking your heart? When things are gone, they're gone.”
Gentle made a noncommittal noise.
“You don't agree.”
“Not necessarily.”
“Name one thing that stays.”
“I don't—”
“No, go on. Name one thing.”
“Love.”
“Ha! Well, that certainly brings us full circle, doesn't it? Love! You know, I'd have agreed with you half a year ago. I can't deny that. I couldn't conceive of ever being out of love with Judith. But I am. When I think back to the way I felt about her, it seems ludicrous. Now, of course, it's Oscar's turn to be obsessed by her. First you, then me, then Oscar. But he won't survive long.”
“What makes you say that?”
“He's got his fingers in too many pies. It'll end in tears, you see if it doesn't. You know about the Tabula Rasa, I suppose?”
“No.”
“Why should you?” Estabrook replied. “You were dragged into this, weren't you? I feel guilty about that, I really do. Not that my feeling guilty's going to do either of us much good, but I want you to know I never understood the ramifications of what I was doing. If I had, I swear I'd have left Judith alone.”
“I don't think either of us would have been capable of that,” Gentle remarked.
“Leaving her alone? No, I don't suppose we would. Our paths were already beaten for us, eh? I'm not saying I'm a total innocent, mind you. I'm not. I've done some pretty wretched things in my time, things I squirm to think about. But compared with the Tabula Rasa, or a mad bastard like Sartori, I'm not so bad. And when I look out every morning, into God's Nowhere—”
“Is that what they call it?”
“Oh, hell, no; they're much more reverential. That's my little nickname. But when I look out at it, I think, Well, it's going to take us all one of these days, whoever we are: mad bastards, lovers, drunkards, it's not going to pick and choose. We'll all go to nothing sooner or later. And you know, maybe it's my age, but that doesn't worry me any longer. We all have our time, and when it's over, it's over.”
“There must be something on the other side, Charlie,” Gentle said.
Estabrook shook his head. “That's all guff,” he said. “I've seen a lot of people get up and walk into the Erasure, praying and carrying on. They take a few steps and they're gone. It's like they'd never lived.”
“But people are healed here. You were.”
“Oscar certainly made a mess of me, and I didn't die. But I don't know whether being here had much to do with that. Think about it. If God really was on the other side of that wall, and He was so damn eager to heal the sick, don't you think He'd reach out a little further and stop what's going on in Yzordderrex? Why would He put up with horrors like that, right under His nose? No, Gentle. I call it God's Nowhere, but that's only half-right. God isn't there. Maybe He was once....”
He trailed away and filled the silence with another throatful of kloupo.
“Thank you for this,” Gentle said.
“What is there to thank me for?”
“You've helped me to make up my mind about something.”
“My pleasure,” Estabrook said. “It's damn difficult to think straight, isn't it, with this bloody wind blowing all the time? Can you find your way back to that lovely lady of yours, or shall I go with you?”
“I'll find my way,” Gentle replied.
He rapidly regretted declining Estabrook's offer, discovering after turning a few corners that one lamp-lit passageway looked much like the next, and that hot only could he not retrace his steps to Pie's bedside, he couldn't be certain of finding his way back to Estabrook either.
One route he tried brought him into a kind of chapel, where several Dearthers were kneeling facing a window that gave onto God's Nowhere. The Erasure presented in what was now total darkness the same blank face it had by dusk, lighter than the night but shedding none upon it, its nullity more disturbing than the atrocities of Beatrix or the sealed rooms of the palace.
Turning his back on both window and worshipers, Gentle continued his search for Pie, and accident finally brought him back into what he thought was the room where the mystif lay. The bed was empty, however. Disoriented, he was about to go and quiz one of the other patients to confirm that he had the right room when he caught sight of Floccus' meal, or what was left of it, on the floor beside the bed: a few crusts, half a dozen well-picked bones. There could be no doubt that this was indeed Pie's bed. But where was the occupant? He turned to look at the others. They were all either asleep or comatose, but he was determined to have the truth of this, and was crossing to the nearest bed, when he heard Floccus running in pursuit, calling after him.
“There you are! I've been looking all over for you.”
“Pie's bed is empty, Floccus.”
“I know, I know. I went to empty my bladder—I was away two minutes, no more—and when I got back it had gone. The mystif, not my bladder. I thought maybe you'd come and taken it away.”
>
“Why would I do that?”
“Don't get angry. There's no harm going to come to it here. Trust me.”
After his discussion with Estabrook, Gentle was by no means certain this was true, but he wasn't going to waste time arguing with Floccus while Pie was wandering unattended.
“Where have you looked?” he asked—“A1I around,”
“Can't you be a little more precise?”
“I got lost,” Floccus said, becoming exasperated. “All the tents look alike.”
“Did you go outside?”
“No, why?” Floccus' agitation sank from sight. What surfaced instead was deep dismay. “You don't think it's gone to the Erasure?”
“We won't know till we look,” Gentle said. “Which way did Athanasius take me? There was a door—”
“Wait! Wait!” Floccus said, snatching hold of Gentle's jacket. “You can't just step out there.”
“Why not? I'm a Maestro, aren't I?”
“There are ceremonies—”
“I don't give a shit,” Gentle said, and without waiting for further objections from Floccus, he headed off in what he hoped was the right direction.
Floccus followed, trotting beside Gentle, opening new arguments against what Gentle was planning with every fourth or fifth step. The Erasure was restless tonight, he said, there was talk of ruptures in it; to wander in its vicinity when it was so volatile was dangerous, possibly suicidal; and besides, it was a desecration. Gentle might be a Maestro, but it didn't give him the right to ignore the etiquette of what he was planning. He was a guest, invited in on the understanding that he obey the rules. And rules weren't written for the fun of it. There were good reasons to keep strangers from trespassing there. They were ignorant, and ignorance could bring disaster on everybody.
“What's the use of rules, if nobody really understands what's going on out there?” Gentle said.
“But we do! We understand this place. It's where God begins.”
“So if the Erasure kills me, you know what to write in my obituary. 'Gentle ended where God begins.' ”
“This isn't funny, Gentle.”
“Agreed.”
“It's life or death.”
“Agreed.”
“So why are you doing it?”
“Because wherever Pie is, that's where I belong. And I would have thought even someone as half-sighted and short-witted as you would have seen that!”
“You mean shortsighted and halfwitted.”
“You said it.”
Ahead lay the door he and Athanasius had stepped through. It was open and unguarded.
“I just want to say—” Floccus began.
“Leave it alone, Floccus.”
"—it's been too short a friendship,” the man replied, bringing Gentle to a halt, shamed by his outburst.
“Don't mourn me yet,” he said softly.
Floccus made no reply, but backed away from the open door, leaving Gentle to step through it alone. The night outside was hushed, the wind having dropped to little more than a breeze. He scanned the terrain, left and right. There were worshipers in both directions, kneeling in the gloom, their heads bowed as they meditated on God's Nowhere. Not wishing to disturb them, he moved as quietly as he could over the uneven ground, but the smaller shards of rock ahead of him skipped and rolled as he approached, as though to announce him with their rattle and clatter. This was not the only response to his presence. The air he exhaled, which he'd turned to killing use so many times now, darkened as it left his lips, the cloud shot through with threads of bright scarlet. They didn't disperse, these breaths, but sank as though weighed down by their own lethality, wrapping around his torso and legs like funeral robes. He made no attempt to shrug them off, even though their folds soon concealed the ground and slowed his step. Nor did he have to puzzle much over their purpose. Now that he was unaccompanied by Athanasius, the air was determined to deny him the defense of walking here as an innocent, as a man in pursuit of an errant lover. Wrapped in black and attended by drums, his profounder nature was here revealed: he was a Maestro with a murderous power at his lips, and there would be no concealing that fact, either from the Erasure or from those who were meditating upon it.
Several of the worshipers had been stirred from their contemplations by the sound of the stones and now looked up to see they had an ominous figure in their midst. One, kneeling alone close to Gentle's path, rose in panic and fled, uttering a prayer of protection. Another fell prostrate, sobbing. Rather than intimidate them further with his gaze, Gentle turned his eyes on God's Nowhere, scouring the ground close to the margin of solid earth and void for some sign of Pie 'oh' pah. The sight of the Erasure no longer distressed him as it had when he'd first stepped out here with Athanasius. Clothed as he was, and thus announced, he came before the void as a man of power. For him to have attempted the rites of Reconciliation, he must have made his peace with this mystery. He had nothing to fear from it.
By the time he set eyes on Pie 'oh' pah he was three or four hundred yards from the door, and the assembly of meditators had thinned to a brave few who'd wandered from the mam knot of the congregation in search of solitude. Some had already retreated, seeing him approach, but a stoical few kept their praying places and let this stranger pass by without so much as glancing up at him. Now so folded in sable breath he feared Pie would not recognize him, Gentle began to call the mystif s name. The call went unacknowledged. Though the mystif's head was no more than a dark blur in the murk, Gentle knew what its hungry eyes were fixed upon: the enigma that was coaxing its steady step the way a cliff edge might coax a suicide. He picked up his pace, his momentum moving steadily larger stones as he went. Though there was no sign that the mystif was in any hurry, he feared that once it was in the equivocal region between solid ground and nothingness, it would be irretrievable.
“Pie!” he yelled as he went. “Can you hear me? Please, stop!”
The words went on clouding and clothing him, but they had no effect upon Pie until Gentle turned his requests into an order.
“Pie 'oh' pah. This is your Maestro. Stop.”
The mystif stumbled as Gentle spoke, as though his demand had put an obstacle in its way. A small, almost bestial sound of pain escaped it. But it did as its sometime summoner had ordered and stopped in its tracks like a dutiful servant, waiting until the Maestro reached its side.
Gentle was within ten paces, now, and saw how far advanced the process of unknitting was. The mystif was barely more than a shadow among shadows, its features impossible to read, its body insubstantial. If Gentle needed any further proof that the Erasure was not a place of healing, it was in the sight of the uredo, which was more solid than the body it had fed upon, its livid stains intermittently brightening like embers caught by a gusting wind.
“Why did you leave your bed?” Gentle said, his pace slowed once again as he approached the mystif. Its form seemed so tenuous he feared any violent motion might disperse it entirely. “There's nothing beyond the Erasure you need, Pie. Your life's here, with me.”
The mystif took a little time to reply. When it did its voice was as ethereal as its substance, a slender, exhausted plea emerging from a spirit at the edge of total collapse.
“I don't have any life left, Maestro,” it said.
“Let me be the judge of that. I swore to myself I wouldn't let you go again, Pie. I want to look after you, make you well. Bringing you here was a mistake, I see that now. I'm sorry if it's brought you pain, but I'll take you away—”
“It wasn't a mistake. You found your way here for your own reasons.”
“You're my reason, Pie. I didn't know who I was till you found me, and I'll forget myself again if you go.”
“No, you won't,” it said, the dubious outline of its head turning in Gentle's direction. Though there was no gleam to mark the place where its eyes had been, Gentle knew it was looking at him. “You're the Maestro Sartori. The Reconciler of the Imajica.” It faltered for a long moment. When its voic
e came again, it was frailer than ever. “And you are also my master, and my husband, and my dearest brother. ... If you order me to stay, then I will stay. But if you love me, Gentle, then please ... let... me ... go.”
The request could scarcely have been made more simply or more eloquently, and had Gentle known without question there was an Eden on the other side of the Erasure, ready to receive Pie's spirit, he would have let the mystif go there and then, agonizing as it would be. But he believed differently and was ready to say it, even in such proximity to the void.
“It's not heaven, Pie. Maybe God's there, maybe not.
But until we know—”
“Why not just let me go now and see for myself? I'm not afraid. This is the Dominion where my people were made. I want to see it.” In these words there was the first hint of passion Gentle had so far heard. “I'm dying, Maestro. I need to lie down and sleep.”
“What if there's nothing there, Pie? What if it's only emptiness?”
“I'd prefer the absence to the pain.” The reply defeated Gentle utterly. “Then you'd better go,” he said, wishing he could find some more tender way to relinquish his hold, but unable to conceal his desolation with platitudes. However much he wanted to save Pie from suffering, his sympathy could not outweigh the need he felt, nor quite annul the sense of ownership which, however unsavory, was a part of what he felt towards this creature.
“I wish we could have taken this last journey together, Maestro,” Pie said. “But you've got work to do, I know. Great work.”
“And how do I do it without you?” Gentle said, knowing this was a wretched gambit—and half ashamed of it—but unwilling to let the mystif pass from life without voicing every desire he knew to keep it from going.