by Clive Barker
“I wouldn't touch Godolphin, by the way,” he said.
She ignored the advice and went to the table.
“His life's hanging by a thread,” Dowd went on. “If he's moved, I swear his innards will just drop out. My advice is let him lie. Enjoy the moment.”
“Enjoy?” she said, the revulsion she felt surfacing, though she knew it was exactly what the bastard wanted to hear.
“Not so loud, sweetie,” Dowd said, as if pained by her volume. “You'll wake the baby.” He chuckled. “He is a baby, really, compared to us. Such a little life....”
“Why did you do this?”
“Where do I begin? With the petty reasons? No. With the big one. I did it to be free.” He leaned in towards her, his face a chiaroscuro jigsaw beneath the lamp. “When he breathes his last, lovey—which'H be very soon now—that's the end of the Godolphins. When he's gone, we're in thrall to nobody.”
“You were free in Yzordderrex.”
“No. On a long leash, maybe, but never free. I felt his desires, I felt his discomforts. A little part of me knew I should be at home with him, making his tea and drying between his toes. In my heart, I was still his slave.” He looked at the body again. “It seems almost miraculous, how he manages to linger.”
He reached for the knife.
“Leave him!” she snapped, and he retreated with surprising alacrity.
She leaned towards Oscar, afraid to touch him for fear of shocking his traumatized system further and stopping it. There were tics in his face, and his white lips were full of tiny tremors.
“Oscar?” she murmured. “Can you hear me?”
“Oh, look at you, lovey,” Dowd cooed. “Getting all doe-eyed over him. Remember how he used you. How he oppressed you.”
She leaned closer to Oscar and said his name again.
“He never loved either of us,” Dowd went on. “We were his goods and chattels. Part of his...”
Oscar's eyes flickered open.
”. . . inheritance,” Dowd said, but the word was barely audible. As the eyes opened, Dowd retreated a second step, covering himself in shadow.
Oscar's white lips shaped the syllables of Judith's name, but there was no sound to accompany the motion.
“Oh, God,” she murmured, “can you hear me? I want you to know this wasn't all for nothing. I found her. Do you understand? I found her.”
Oscar made a tiny nod, then, with agonizing delicacy, ran his tongue over his lips and drew enough breath to say, “It wasn't true....”
She caught the words, but not their sense. “What wasn't true?” she said.
He licked again, his face knotting up with the effort of speech. This time there was only one word: “Inheritance. ...”
“Not an inheritance?” she said. “I know that.”
He made the very tiniest smile, his gaze going over her face from brow to cheek, from cheek to lips, then back to her eyes, meeting them unabashed.
“I... loved ... you,” he said.
“I know that too,” she whispered.
Then his gaze lost its clarity. His heart stopped beating in its bloody pool; the knots on his face slipped with its cessation. He was gone. The last of the Godolphins, dead on the Tabula Rasa's table.
She stood upright, staring at the cadaver, though it distressed her to do so. If she was ever tempted to toy with darkness, let this sight be a scourge to that temptation. There was nothing poetic or noble in this scene, only waste.
“So there it is,” Dowd said. “Funny. I don't feel any different. It may take time, of course. I suppose freedom has to be learned, like anything else.” She could hear desperation beneath this babble, barely concealed. He was in pain. “You should know something,” he said.“I don't want to hear.”
“No, listen, lovey, I want you to know.... He did exactly this to me, on this very table. He gutted me in front of the Society. Maybe it's a petty thing, wanting revenge, but then I'm just an actor chappie. What do I know?”
“You killed them all for that?”
“Who?”
“The Society.”
“No, not yet. But I'll get to them. For us both.”
“You're too late. They're already dead.”
This hushed him for fully fifteen seconds. When he began again, it was more chatter, as empty as the silence he wanted to fill.
“It was that damn purge, you know; they made themselves too many enemies. There's going to be a lot of minor Maestros crawling out of the woodwork in the next few days. It's quite an anniversary, isn't it? I'm going to get stinking drunk. What about you? How will you celebrate, alone or with friends? This woman you found, for instance. Is she the partying type?”
Jude silently cursed her indiscretion.
“Who is she?” Dowd went on. “Don't tell me Clara had a sister.” He laughed. “I'm sorry, I shouldn't laugh, but she was crazy as a coot; you must see that now. She didn't understand you. Nobody understands you but me, lovey, and I understand you—” '
"—because we're the same.”
“Exactly. We don't belong to anybody any more. We're our own inventions. We'll do what we want, when we want, and we won't give a fuck for the consequences.”
“Is that freedom?” she said flatly, finally taking her eyes off Oscar and looking up at Dowd's misshapen form.
“Don't try and tell me you don't want it,” Dowd said. “I'm not asking you to love me for this, I'm not that stupid, but at least admit it was just.”
“Why didn't you murder him in his bed years ago?”
“I wasn't strong enough. Oh, I realize I may not radiate health and efficiency just at the moment, but I've changed a lot since we last met. I've been down among the dead. It was very ... educational. And while I was down there, it began to rain. Such a hard rain, lovey, let me tell you. I never saw its like before. You want to see what fell on me?”
He pulled up his sleeve and put his arm into the pool of light. Here was the reason for his lumpen appearance. His arm, and presumably his entire body, was a patchwork, with the flesh half sealed over fragments of stone which he'd slid into his wounds. She instantly recognized the iridescence that ran in the fragments, lending their glamour to his wretched meat. The rain that had fallen on his head was the sloughings of the Pivot.
“You know what it is, don't you?”
She hated the ease with which he read her face, but there was no use denying what she knew.
“Yes, I do,” she said. “I was in the tower when it started to collapse.”
“What a Godsend, eh? It makes me slow, of course, carrying this kind of weight, but after today I won't be fetching and carrying, so what do I care if it takes me half an hour to cross the room? I've got power in me, lovey, and I don't mind sharing—”
He stopped and withdrew his arm from the light.
“What was that?”
She'd heard nothing, but she did now: a distant rumbling from below.
“Whatever were you up to down there? Not destroying the library, I hope. I wanted that satisfaction for myself. Oh, dear. Well, there'll be plenty of other chances to play the barbarian. It's in the air, don't you think?”
Jude's thoughts went to Celestine. Dowd was perfectly capable of doing her harm. She had to go back down and warn the Goddess, perhaps find some means of defense. In the meantime, she'd play along.
“Where will you go after this?” she asked Dowd, lightening her tone as best she could.
“Back to Regent's Park Road, I thought. We can sleep in our master's bed. Oh, what am I saying? Please don't think I want your body. I know the rest of the world thinks heaven's in your lap, but I've been celibate for two hundred years and I've completely lost the urge. We can live as brother and sister, can't we? That doesn't sound so bad, now, does it?”
“No,” she said, fighting the urge to spit her disgust in his face. “No, it doesn't.”
“Well, look, why don't you wait for me downstairs? I've got a bit of business left to do here. Rituals have to be observed.”
“Whatever you say,” she replied.
She left him to his farewells, whatever they were, and headed back to the stairs. The rumbling that had caught his attention had ceased, but she hurried down the concrete flight with high hopes. The cell was open, she knew it. In a matter of moments she'd set her eyes on the Goddess and, perhaps as importantly, Celestine would set her eyes on Jude. In one sense, what Dowd had expressed above was true. With Oscar dead, she was indeed free from the curse of her creation. It was tune to know herself and be known.
As she walked through the remaining room of Roxborough's house and started down the stairs into the cellar, she sensed the change that had come over the maze below. She didn't have to search for the cell; the energy in the air moved like an invisible tide, carrying her towards its source. And there it was, in front of her: the cell wall a heap of splinters and rubble, the gap its collapse had made rising to the ceiling. The dissolution she'd initiated was still going on. Even as she approached, further bricks fell away, their mortar turned to dust. She braved the fall, clambering up over the wreckage to peer into the cell. It was dark inside, but her eyes soon found the mummified form of the prisoner, lying in the dirt.
There was no movement in the body whatsoever. She went to it and fell to her knees to tear at the fine threads that Roxborough or his agents had bound Celestine with. They were too tough for her fingers, so she went at them with her teeth. The threads were bitter, but her teeth were sharp, and once one succumbed to her bites others quickly followed. A tremor passed through the body, as if the captive sensed liberation. As with the bricks, the message of unmaking was contagious, and she'd only snapped half a dozen of the threads when they began to stretch and break of their own volition, aided by the motion of the body they'd bound. Her cheek was stung by the flight of one, and she was obliged to retreat as the unfettering spread, the threads describing sinuous motions as they broke, their severed ends bright.
The trdmors in Celestine's body were now convulsions, growing as the ambition of the threads increased. They weren't simply flying wildly, Jude realized; they were reaching out in all directions, up towards the ceiling of the cell and to its walls. Stung by them once, the only way she could avoid further contact was by backing away to the hole through which she'd come and then out, stumbling over the rubble.
As she emerged she heard Dowd's voice, somewhere in the labyrinth behind her. “What have you been doing, lovey?”
She wasn't quite sure, was the truth. Though she'd been the initiator of this unbinding, she wasn't its mistress. The cords had an urgency of their own, and whether it was Celestine who moved them, or Roxborough who'd plaited into them the instruction to destroy anyone who came seeking his prisoner's release, they were not about to be placated or contained. Some were snatching at the edge of the hole, dragging away more of the bricks. Others, demonstrating an elasticity she hadn't expected, were nosing over the rubble, turning over stones and books as they advanced.
“Oh, my Lord,” she heard Dowd say, and turned to see him standing in the passageway half a dozen yards behind her, with his surgeon's knife in one hand and a bloody handkerchief in the other.
This was the first sight she had of him head to foot, and the burden of Pivot shards he carried was apparent. He looked utterly maladroit, his shoulders mismatched and his left leg turned inward, as though a shattered bone had been badly set.
“What's in there?” he said, hobbling towards her. “Is this your friend?”
“I suggest you keep your distance,” she said.
He ignored her. “Did Roxborough wall something up? Look at those things! Is it an Oviate?”
“No.”
“What then? Godolphin never told me about this.”
“He didn't know.”
“But you did?” he said, glancing back at her as he advanced to study the cords, which were emerging all the time. “I'm impressed. We've both kept our little secrets, haven't we?”
One of the cords reared suddenly from the rubble, and he jumped back, the handkerchief dropping from his hand. It unfolded as it fell, and the piece of Oscar's flesh Dowd had wrapped in it landed in the dirt. It was vestigial, but she knew it well enough. He'd cut off the curiosity and carried it away as a keepsake.
She let out a moan of disgust. Dowd started to stoop to pick it up, but her rage—which she'd concealed for Celes—tine's sake-erupted.
“You scumbag!” she said, and went at him with both hands raised above her head, locked into a single fist.
He was heavy with shards and couldn't rise fast enough to avoid her blow. She struck the back of his neck, a clout that probably hurt her more than him, but unbalanced a body already too asymmetrical for its own good. He stumbled, prey to gravity, and sprawled in the rubble. He knew his indignity, and it enraged him.
“Stupid cow!” he said. “Stupid, sentimental cow! Pick it up! Go on, pick it up! Have it if you want to.”
“I don't want it.”
“No, I insist It's a gift, brother to sister.”
“I'm not your sister! I never was and I never will be!”
Mites were appearing from his mouth as he lay on the rubble, some of them grown fat as cockroaches on the power he carried in his skin. Whether they were for her benefit or to protect him against the presence in the wall she didn't know, but seeing them she took a step away from him.
“I'm going to forgive you this,” he said, all magnanimity. “You're overwrought, I know.” He raised his arm. “Help me up,” he said. “Tell me you're sorry, and it's forgotten.”
“I loathe everything you are,” she said.
Despite the mites, it was self-preservation that made her speak, not courage. This was a place of power. The truth would serve her better here than a lie, however politic.
He withdrew his arm and started to haul himself up. As he did so she took two steps forward and, picking up the bloodied handkerchief, claimed with it the last of Oscar. As she stoofl up again, almost guilty at what she'd done, she caught sight of a motion in the wall. A pale form had appeared against the darkness of the cell, as ripe and rounded a form as the wall that framed it was ragged. Celestine was floating, or rather was borne up as Quaisoir had been borne up, on ribbons of flesh, the filaments that had once smothered her clinging to her limbs like the remnants of a coat and draped around her head as a living hood. The face beneath was delicately boned, but severe, and what beauty it might have possessed was spoiled by the dementia that burned in it. Dowd was still in the process of rising and turned to follow Jude's astonished gaze. When he set eyes on the apparition his body failed him, and he fell back onto the rubble, belly down. From his mite-spawning mouth came one terrified word.
“Celestine?”
The woman had approached the limits of her cell and now raised her hands to touch the bricks that had sealed her in for so long. Though she merely brushed them, they seemed to flee her fingers, tumbling down to join the rest, There was ample room for her to emerge, but she hung back and spoke from the shadows, her pupils flicking back and forth maniacally, her lips curling back from her teeth as though in rehearsal for some ghastly revelation. She matched Dowd's single utterance with a word of her own: “Dowd.”
“Yes ...” he murmured, “it's me,” So he'd been honest in some part of his biography at least, Jude thought. She knew him, just as he'd claimed to know her.
“Who did this to you?” he said.
“Why ask me,” Celestine said, “when you were part of the plot?” In her voice was the same mingling of lunacy and composure her body exhibited, her mellifluous tones accompanied by a fluttering that was almost a second voice, speaking in tandem with the first.
“I didn't know, I swear,” Dowd said. He craned his heavy head to appeal to Jude. “Tell her,” he said.
Celestine's oscillating gaze rose to Jude. “You?” she said. “Did you conspire against me?”
“No,” Jude said. “I'm the one who freed you.”
“I freed myself.”
“Come closer. Let me see you better.”
Jude hesitated to approach, with Dowd's face still a nest of mites. But Celestine made her demand again, and Jude obeyed. The woman raised her head as she approached, turning it this way and that, perhaps to coax her torpid muscles back into life.
“Are you Roxborough's woman?” she said.
“No.”
“That's close enough,” she told Jude. “Who's then? Which one of them do you belong to?”
“I don't belong to any of them,” Jude said. “They're all dead.”
“Even Roxborough?”
“He's been gone two hundred years.”
At last the eyes stopped flickering, and their stillness, now it came, was more distressing than their motion. She had a gaze that could slice steel.
“Two hundred years,” she said. It wasn't a question, it was an accusation. And it wasn't Jude she was accusing, it was Dowd. “Why didn't you come for me?”
“I thought you were dead and gone,” he told her.
“Dead? No. That would have been a kindness. I bore His child. I raised it for a time. You knew this.”
“How could I? It was none of my business.”
“You made me your business,” she said. “The day you took me from my life and gave me to God. I didn't ask for that, and I didn't want it—”
“I was just a servant.”
“Dog, more like. Who's got your leash now? This woman?”
“I serve nobody.”
“Good. Then you can serve me.”
“Don't trust him,” Jude said.
“Who, would you prefer I trust?” Celestine replied, not deigning to look at Jude. “You? I don't think so. You've got blood on your hands, and you smell of coitus.”