by Clive Barker
“That's right.”
“Well, you'll find me ready,” he said, consuming a sizable pickle in one bite.
“Do you have anyone to help you?”
His mouth full, all Tick could manage was: “on't 'eed un.” He chewed on, then swallowed. “Nobody even knows I'm here,” he explained. “I'm still wanted by the law, even though I hear Yzordderrex is in ruins.”
“It's true.”
“I also hear the Pivot's quite transformed,” Tick Raw said. “Is that right?”
“Into what?”
“Nobody can get near enough to find out,” he replied. “But if you're planning to check on the whole Synod—”
“I am.”
“Then maybe you'll see for yourself while you're in the city. There was a Eurhetemec representing the Second, if I remember—”
“He's dead.”
“So who's there now?”
“I'm hoping Scopique's found someone.”
“He's in the Third, isn't he? At the Pivot pit?”
“That's right.”
“And who's at the Erasure?”
“A man called Chicka Jackeen.”
“I've never heard of him,” Tick Raw said. “Which is odd. I get to hear about most Maestros. Are you sure he's a Maestro?”
“Certainly.”
Tick Raw shrugged. “I'll meet him in the Ana then. And don't worry about me, Sartori. I'll be here.”
“I'm glad we've made our peace.”
“I fight over food and women but never metaphysics,” Tick Raw said. “Besides, we've joined in a great mission. This time tomorrow you'll be able to walk home from here!”
Their exchange ended on that optimistic note, and Gentle left Tick to his night watch, heading with a thought towards the Kwem, where he hoped to find Scopique keeping his place beside the site of the Pivot. He would have been there in the time it took to think himself over the border between Dominions, but he allowed his journey to be diverted by memory. His thoughts turned to Beatrix as he left the Mount of Lipper Bayak, and it was there rather than the Kwem his spirit flew to, arriving on the outskirts of the village.
It was night here too, of course. Doeki lowed softly on the dark slopes around him, their neck bells tinkling. Beatrix itself was silent, however, the lamps that had flickered in the groves around the houses gone, and the children who'd tended them gone too: all extinguished. Distressed by this melancholy sight, Gentle almost fled the village there and then, but that he glimpsed a single light in the distance and, advancing a little way, saw a figure he recognized crossing the street, his lamp held high. It was Coaxial Tasko, the hermit of the hill who'd granted Pie and Gentle the means to dare the Jokalaylau. Tasko paused, halfway across the street, and raised his lamp, peering out into the darkness.
“Is somebody there?” he asked.
Gentle wanted to speak—to make his peace, as he had with Tick Raw, and to talk about the promise of tomorrow—but the expression on Tasko's face forbade him. The hermit wouldn't thank him for apologies, Gentle thought, or for talk of a bright new day. Not when there were so many who'd never see it. If Tasko had some inkling of his visitor, he also judged a meeting pointless. He simply shuddered, lowered his lamp, and moved on about his business.
Gentle didn't linger another minute, but turned his face up towards the mountains and thought himself away, not just from Beatrix but from the Dominion. The village vanished, and the dusty daylight of the Kwem appeared around him. Of the four sites where he hoped to find his fellow Maestros—the Mount, the Kwem, the Eurhetemec Kesparate, and the Erasure—this was the only one he hadn't visited in his travels with Pie, and he'd been prepared to have some difficulty locating the spot. But Scopique's presence was a beacon in this wasteland. Though the wind raised blinding clouds of dust, he found the man within a few moments of his arrival, squatting in the shelter of a primitive blind, constructed from a few blankets hung on poles which were stuck in the gray earth.
Uncomfortable though it was, Scopique had suffered worse privations in his life as a seditionist—not least his incarceration in the maison de sante—and when he rose to meet Gentle it was with the brio of a fit and contented man. He was dressed immaculately in a three—piece suit and bow tie, and his face, despite the peculiarity of his features (the nose that was barely two holes in his head, the popping eyes), was much less pinched than it had been, his cheeks made florid by the gritty wind. Like Tick Raw, he was expecting his visitor.
“Come in! Come in!” he said. “Not that you're feeling the wind much, eh?”
Though this was true (the wind bfew through Gentle in the most curious way, eddying around his navel), he joined Scopique in the lee of his blankets, and there they sat down to talk. As ever, Scopique had a good deal to say and poured his tales and observations out in a seamless monologue. He was ready, he said, to represent this Dominion in the sacred space of the Ana, though he wondered how the equilibrium of the working would be affected by the absence of the Pivot. It had been set at the center of the Five Dominions, he reminded Gentle, to be a conduit, and perhaps an interpreter, of power through the Imajica. Now it was gone, and the Third was undoubtedly the weaker for its removal.
“Look,” he said, standing up and leading his phantom visitor out to the tip of the pit. “I'm left conjuring beside a hole in the ground!”
“And you think that'll affect the working?”
“Who knows? We're all amateurs pretending to be experts. All I can do is cleanse the place of its previous oco> pant and hope for the best.”
He directed Gentle's attention away from the pit, to the smoking shell of a sizable building, which was only occasionally visible through the dust.
“What was that?” Gentle asked.
“The bastard's palace.”
“And who destroyed it?”
“I did, of course,” Scopique said. “I didn't want his handiwork looming over our working. This is going to be a delicate operation as it is, without his filthy influence fucking it up. It looked like a bordello!” He turned his back on it. “We should have had months to prepare for this, not hours.”
“I realize that—”
“And then there's the problem of the Second. You know Pie charged me with finding a replacement? I'd have liked to discuss all of this with you, of course, but when we last met you were in a fugue state, and Pie forbade me to acquaint you with who you were, though—may I be honest?”
“Could I stop you?”
“No. I was sorely tempted to slap you out of it.” Scopique looked at Gentle fiercely, as though he might have done so now, if Gentle had been material enough. “You caused the mystif so much grief, you .know,” he said. “And like a damned fool it loved you anyway.”
“I had my reasons,” Gentle said softly. “But you were talking about this replacement—”
“Ah, yes. Athanasius.”
“Athanasius?”
“He's now our man in Yzordderrex, representing the Second. Don't look so appalled. He knows the ceremony, and he's completely committed to it.”
“There's not a sane bone in his body, Scopique. He thought I was Hapexamendios' agent.”
“Well, of course, that's nonsense—”
“He tried to kill me with Madonnas. He's crazy!”
“We've all had our moments, Sartori.”
“Don't call me that.”
“Athanasius is one of the most holy men I've ever met.”
“How can he believe in the Holy Mother one moment and claim he's Jesus the next?”
“He can believe in his own mother, can't he?”
“Are you seriously saying—”
"—that Athanasius is literally the resurrected Christos? No. If we have to have a Messiah among us, I vote for you.” He sighed. — “Look, I realize you have difficulties with Athanasius, but I ask you, who else was I to find? There aren't that many Maestros left, Sartori."“I told you—”
“Yes, yes, you don't like the name. Well, forgive me, but for as long as
I live you'll be the Maestro Sartori, and if you want to find somebody else to sit here instead of me, who'll call you something prettier, find him.”
“Were you always this bloody-minded?” Gentle replied.
“No,” said Scopique. “It's taken years of practice.”
Gentle shook his head in despair. “Athanasius. It's a nightmare.”
“Don't be so sure he hasn't got the spirit of Jesu in him, by the way,” Scopique said. “Stranger things have been known.”
“Any more of this,” Gentle said, “and I'll be as crazy as he is. Athanasius! This is a disaster!”
Furious, he left Scopique at the blind and moved off through the dust, trailing imprecations as he went, the optimism with which he'd set out on his journey severely bruised. Rather than appear in front of Athanasius with his thoughts so chaotic, he found a spot on the Lenten Way to ponder. The situation was far from encouraging. Tick Raw was holding his position on the Mount as an outlaw, still in danger of arrest. Scopique was in doubt as to the efficacy of his place now that the Pivot had been removed. And now, of all people to join the Synod, Athanasius, a man without the wit to come out of the rain.
“Oh, God, Pie,” Gentle murmured to himself. “I need you now.”
The wind blew mournfully along the highway as he loitered, gusting towards the place of passage between the Third and Second Dominions, as if to usher him with it, on towards Yzordderrex. But he resisted its coaxing, taking time to examine the options available to him. There were, he decided, three. One, to abandon the Reconciliation right away, before the frailties he saw in the system were compounded and brought on another tragedy. Two, to find a Maestro who could replace Athanasius. Three, to trust Scopique's judgment and go into Yzordderrex to make his peace with the man. The first of these options was not to be seriously countenanced. This was his Father's business, and he had a sacred duty to perform it. The second, the finding of a replacement for Athanasius, was impractical in the time remaining. Which left the third. It was unpalatable, but it seemed to be unavoidable. He'd have to accept Athanasius into the Synod.
The decision made, he succumbed to the message of the gusts and at a thought went with them, along the straight road, through the gap between the Dominions, and across the delta into the city-god's entrails.
“Hoi-Polloi?”
Peccable's daughter had put down her bludgeon and was kneeling beside Jude with tears pouring from her crossed eyes.
“I'm sorry, I'm so sorry,” she kept saying. “I didn't know. I didn't know.”
Jude sat up. A team of bell ringers was tuning up between her temples, but she was otherwise unharmed. “What are you doing here?” she asked Hoi-Polloi. “I thought you'd gone with your father.”
“I did,” she explained, fighting the tears. “But I lost him at the causeway. There were so many people trying to find a way over. One minute he was beside me, and the next he'd vanished. I stayed there for hours, looking for him; then I thought he'd be bound to come back here, to the house, so I came back too—”
“But he wasn't here.”
“No.”
She started to sob again, and Jude put her arms around her, murmuring condolences.
“I'm sure he's still alive,” Hoi-Polloi said. “He's just being sensible and staying under cover. It's not safe out there.” She cast a nervous glance up towards the cellar roof. “If he doesn't come back after a few days, maybe you can take me to the Fifth, and he can follow.”
“It's no safer there than it is here, believe me.”
“What's happening to the world?” Hoi-Polloi wanted to know.
“It's changing,” Jude said. “And we have to be ready for the changes, however strange they are.”
“I just want things the way they were: Poppa, and the business, and everything in its place—”
“Tulips on the dining room table.”
“Yes.”
“It's not going to be that way for quite a while,” Jude said. “In fact, I'm not sure it'll ever be that way again.” She got to her feet.
“Where are you going?” Hoi-Polloi said. “You can't leave.”
“I'm afraid I've got to. I came here to work. If you want to come with me, you're welcome, but you'll have to be responsible for yourself.”
Hoi-Polloi sniffed hard. “I understand,” she said.
“Will you come?”
“I don't want to be alone,” she replied. “I'll come.”
Jude had been prepared for the scenes of devastation awaiting them beyond the door of Peccable's house, but not for the sense of rapture that accompanied them. Though there were sounds of lamentation rising from somewhere nearby, and that grief was doubtless being echoed in innumerable houses across the city, there was another message on the balmy noonday air.
“What are you smiling at?” Hoi-Polloi asked her.
She hadn't been aware she was doing so, until the girl pointed it out.
“I suppose because it feels like a new day,” she said, aware as she spoke that it was also very possibly the last. Perhaps this brightness in the city's air was its acknowledgement of that: the final remission of a sickened soul before decline and collapse.
She voiced none of this to Hoi-Polloi, of course. The girl was already terrified enough. She walked a step behind Jude as they climbed the street, her fretful murmurs punctuated by hiccups. Her distress would have been pro-founder still if she'd been able to sense the confusion in Jude, who had no clue, now that she was here, as to where to find the instruction she'd come in search of. The city was no longer a labyrinth of enchantments, if indeed it had ever been that. It was a virtual wasteland, its countless fires now guttering out but leaving a pall overhead. The comet's light pierced these grimy skirts in several places, however, and where its beams fell won color from the air, like fragments of stained glass shimmering in solution above the griefs below.
Having no better place to head for, Jude directed them towards the nearest of these spots, which was no more than half a mile away. Long before they'd reached the place, a faint drizzle was carried their way by the breeze, and the sound of running water announced the phenomenon's source. The street had cracked open, and either a burst water main or a spring was bubbling up from the tarmac. The sight had brought a number of spectators from the ruins, though very few were venturing close to the water, their fear not of the uncertain ground but of something far stranger. The water issuing from the crack was not running away down the hill but up it, leaping the steps that occasionally broke the slope with a salmon's zeal. The only witnesses unafraid of this mystery were the children, several of whom had wrested themselves from their parents' grip and were playing in the law-defying stream, some running in it, others sitting in the water to let it play over their legs. In the little shrieks they uttered, Jude was sure she heard a note of sexual pleasure.
“What is this?” Hoi-Polloi said, her tone more offended than astonished, as though the sight had been laid on as a personal affront to her.
“Why don't we follow it and find out?” Jude replied.
“Those children are going to drown,” Hoi-Polloi observed, somewhat primly.
“In two inches of water? Don't be ridiculous.”
With this, Jude set off, leaving Hoi-Polloi to follow if she so wished. She apparently did, because she once again fell into step behind Jude, her hiccups now abated, and they climbed in silence until, two hundred yards or more from where they'd first encountered the stream, a second appeared, this from another direction entirely and large enough to carry a light freight from the lower slopes. The bulk of the cargo was debris—items of clothing, a few drowned graveolents, some slices of burned bread—but among this trash were objects clearly set upon the stream to be carried wherever it was going: boat missives of carefully folded paper; small wreaths of woven grass, set with tiny flowers; a doll laid on a little flood in a shroud of ribbons.
Jude plucked one of the paper boats out of the water and unfolded it. The writing inside was smeared but le
gible.
Tishalulle, the letter read. My name is Cimarra Sakeo. 1 send this prayer for my mother and for my father, and for my brother, Boem, who is dead. I have seen you in dreams, Tishalulle, and know you are good. You are in my heart. Please be also in the hearts of my mother and father, and give them your comfort.
Jude passed the letter over to Hoi-Polloi, her gaze following the course of the married streams.
“Who's Tishalulle?” she asked.
Hoi-Polloi didn't reply. Jude glanced around at her, to find that the girl was staring up the hill.
“Tishalulli?” Jude said again.
“She's a Goddess,” Hoi-Polloi replied, her voice lowered although there was nobody within earshot. She dropped the letter onto the ground as she spoke, but Jude stooped to pick it up.
“We should be careful of people's prayers,” she said, refolding the boat and letting it return to its voyage.
“She'll never get it,” Hoi-Polloi said. “She doesn't exist.”
“Yet you refuse to say her name out loud.”
“We're not supposed to name any of the Goddesses. Poppa taught us that. It's forbidden.”
“There are others, then?”
“Oh, yes. There's the sisters of the Delta. And Poppa said there's even one called Jokalaylau, who lived in the mountains.”
“Where does Tishalulle come from?”
“The Cradle of Chzercemit, I think. I'm not sure.”
“The Cradle of what?”
“It's a lake in the Third Dominion.”
This time, Jude knew she was smiling. “Rivers, snows, and lakes,” she said, going down on her haunches beside the stream and putting her fingers into it. “They've come in the waters, Hoi-Polloi.”