Clive Barker - Weave World

The shadow on the wall shifted, and suddenly the Salesman was standing in front of her. All trace of the Prophet had gone. The face revealed beneath was bloated and pale; the face of a beached fish.

‘Gone,' he said.

He was shaking from head to foot. Sweat droplets decorated his face like pearls.

‘It's all gone.'

Any fear she might once have had of this man had disappeared. He was here unmasked as ludicrous. But his words made her wonder. What had gone? She began to walk towards the door he'd stepped through.

‘It was you -' he said, his shakes worsening. ‘You did this.'

‘I did nothing.'

‘Oh yes -'

As she came within a yard of him he reached for her, his clammy hands suddenly about her neck.

"There's nothing there!' he shrieked, pulling her close.

His grip intended harm, but the menstruum didn't rise to her aid. She was left with only muscle power to disengage him, and it was not enough.

‘You want to see?' he screamed into her face. ‘You want to see how I've been cheated?

‘I'll show you!' He dragged her towards the door, and pitched her through into the room at the heart of the Temple: the inner sanctum in which the miracles of the Gyre had been generated; the powerhouse which had held the many worlds of the Fugue together for so long.

It was a room some fifteen feet square, built of the same naked brick as the rest of the Temple, and high. She looked up to see that the roof had a skylight of sorts, open to the heavens. The clouds that swirled around the Temple roof shed a milky brightness down, as if the lightning from the Gyre was being kindled in the womb of troubled air above. The clouds were not the only movement overhead, however. As she gazed up she caught sight of a form in the corner of the roof. Before her gaze could focus on it, Shadwell was approaching her.

‘Where is it?' he demanded. ‘Where's the Loom?'

She looked around the sanctum, and discovered now that it was not entirely bare. In each of the four corners a figure was sitting, gazing towards the centre of the room. Her spine twitched. Though they sat bolt upright on their high-backed chairs, the quartet were long dead, their flesh like stained paper on their bones, their clothes hanging in rotted rags.

Had these guardians been murdered where they sat, so that thieves could remove the Loom unchallenged? So it seemed. Yet there was nothing in their posture that suggested a violent death; nor could she believe that this charmed place would have sanctioned bloodshed. No; something else had happened here - was happening still, perhaps - some essential point both she and Shadwell could not yet grasp.

He was still muttering to himself, his voice a decaying spiral of complaint. She was only half-listening; she was far more interested in the object she now saw lying in the middle of the floor. There it lay, the kitchen knife Cal had brought into the Auction Room all those months ago; the commonplace domestic tool which the look between them had somehow drawn into the Weave, to this very spot, the absolute centre of the Fugue.

Seeing it, pieces of the riddle began to slot together in her head. Here, where the glances of the sentinels intersected, lay the knife that another glance - between herself and Cal - had empowered. It had entered this chamber and somehow cut the last knot the Loom had created; and the Weave had released its secrets. All of which was well and good, except that the sentinels were dead, and the Loom, as Shadwell kept repeating, was gone.

‘You were the one,' he growled. ‘You knew all along.'

She ignored his accusations, a new thought forming. If the

magic had gone, she reasoned, why did the menstruum hide itself?

As she shaped the question Shadwell's fury drove him to attack.

Til kill you!' he yelled.

His assault caught her unawares, and she was flung back against the wall. The breath went out of her in a rush, and before she could defend herself his thumbs were at her throat, his bulk trapping her.

Thieving bitch,' he said. ‘You cheated me!'

She raised her hands to beat him off, but she was already growing weak. She struggled to draw breath, desperate for a mouthful of air even if it was the flatulent breath he was expelling, but his grip on her throat prevented so much as a mouthful reaching her. I'm going to die, she thought; I'm going to die looking into this curdled face.

And then her upturned eyes caught a glimpse of movement in the roof, and a voice said:

‘The Loom is here.'

Shadwell's grip on Suzanna relaxed. He turned, and looked up at the speaker.

Immacolata, her arms spread out like a parachutist in free-fall, was hovering above them.

‘Do you remember me?' she asked Shadwell.

‘Jesus Christ.'

‘I missed you, Shadwell. Though you were unkind.'

‘Where's the Loom?' he said. Tell me.'

There is no Loom,' she replied.

‘But you just said -'

The Loom is here.'

‘Where then? Where?'

There is no Loom.'

‘You're out of your mind,' he yelled up at her. ‘Either there is or there isn't!'

The Incantatrix had a skull's smile as she gazed down on the man below.

‘You're the fool,' she said mildly. ‘You don't understand, do you?'

Shadwell put on a gentler tone. ‘Why don't you come down?' he said. ‘My neck aches.'

She shook her head. It cost her effort to hang in the air that way, Suzanna could see; she was defying the sanctity of the Temple by working her raptures here. But she flew in the face of such edicts, determined to remind Shadwell of how earth-bound he was.

‘Afraid, are you?' said Shadwell.

Immacolata's smile did not falter. ‘I'm not afraid,' she said, and began to float down towards him.

Keep out of his way, Suzanna willed her. Though the Incantatrix had done terrible harm, Suzanna had no desire to see her felled by Shadwell's mischief. But the Salesman stood face to face with the woman and made no move. He simply said:

‘You reached here before me.'

‘I almost forgot you,' Immacolata replied. Her voice had lost any trace of stridency. It was full of sighs. ‘But she reminded me,' she glanced at Suzanna. ‘It was a fine service you did me, sister,' she said. To remind me of my enemy.'

Her eyes went back to Shadwell.

‘You drove me mad,' she said. ‘And I forgot you. But I remember now.'

Suddenly the smile and the sighs had gone entirely. There was only ruin, and rage.

‘I remember very well.'

‘Where's the Loom?' Shadwell demanded.

‘You were always so literal,' Immacolata replied, contemptuously. ‘Did you really expect to find a thing? Another object to be possessed? Is that your Godhood, Shadwell? Possession?'

‘Where the fuck is it?'

She laughed then, though the sound from her throat had nothing to do with pleasure.

Her ridicule pressed Shadwell to breaking point; he flung himself at her. But she was not about to let herself be touched by his hands. As he snatched hold of her it seemed to Suzanna that her whole ruined face cracked open, spilling a force that might once have been the menstruum - that cool, bright river

Suzanna had first plunged into at Immacolata's behest - but was now a damned and polluted stream, breaking from the wounds like pus. It had force nevertheless. Shadwell was thrown to the ground.

Overhead, the clouds threw lightning across the roof, freezing the scene below by its scalpel light. The killing blow could only be a glance away, surely.

But it didn't come. The Incantatrix hesitated, the broken face leaking tainted power, and in that instant Shadwell's hand closed on the kitchen knife at his side.

Suzanna cried a warning, but Immacolata either failed to hear or chose not to. Then Shadwell was on his feet, his ungainly rise offering his victim a moment to strike him down, which was missed - and drove the blade up into her abdomen, a butcher's stroke which opened a traumatic wound.