Clive Barker - Weave World

The Shrine of Mortalities, for one. It had been a gathering place for her Cult when she'd been at the height of her power and ambition. But she'd fallen from grace. Her desire to rule the Fugue, which had then still been a ragged collection of far-flung settlements, had been frustrated. Her enemies had assembled evidence against her, listing crimes that had begun in her mother's womb, and she and her followers had retaliated. There had been bloodshed, though Shadwell had never gathered the scale of it. The consequence however, he had gathered. Vilified and humiliated, Immacolata had been forbidden to tread the magic earth of the Fugue again.

She had not taken this exile well. Unable to mellow her nature, and so pass unseen amongst the Cuckoos, her history became a round of blood-lettings, pursuits and further bloodlettings. Though she was still known and worshipped by a cognoscenti, who called her by a dozen different names - the Black Madonna, the Lady of Sorrows, Mater Malifecorium -she became nevertheless a victim of her own strange purity. Madness beckoned; the only refuge from the banality of the Kingdom she was exiled in.

That was how she had been when Shadwell had found her. A mad woman, whose talk had been like none he'd heard before, and who spoke in her ramblings of things that, could he but lay his hands upon them, would make him mighty.

And now, here they were, those wonders. All contained within a rectangle of carpet.

He approached the middle of it, staring down at the spiral of stylized clouds and lightning called the Gyre. How many nights had he lain awake, wondering what it would be like in that flux of energies? Like being with God, perhaps?; or the Devil.

He was shaken from these thoughts by a howl from the adjacent room, and the lamp above his head suddenly dimmed as its light was sucked beneath the intersecting door, testament to the profundity of darkness on the far side.

He moved to the opposite end of the room, and sat down.

How long until dawn? he wondered.

There was still no sign of morning, when - hours later, it seemed - the door opened.

There was only blackness beyond. Out of it, Immacolata said:

‘Come and see.'

He stood up, his limbs stiff, and hobbled to the door.

A wave of heat met him at the threshold. It was like stepping into an oven in which cakes of human dirt and blood had been cooking.

Dimly, he could see Immacolata, standing- floating, perhaps - a little way from him. The air pressed against his throat: he badly wanted to retreat. But she beckoned.

‘Look,' she instructed him, staring off into the darkness. ‘Our assassin came. This is the Rake.'

Shadwell could see nothing at first. Then a shred of fugitive energy skittered up the wall and upon contact with the ceiling threw down a wash of cankered light.

By it, he saw the thing she called the Rake.

Had this once been a man? It was difficult to believe. The Surgeons Immacolata had spoken of had re-invented his anatomy. He hung in the air like a slashed coat left on a hook, his body somehow drawn out to superhuman height. Then, as though a breeze had gusted up from the earth, the body moved, swelling and rising. Its upper limbs - pieces of what might once have been human tissue held in an uneasy alliance by threads of mercurial cartilage - were raised, as if it were about to be crucified. The gesture unwound the matter that blinded its head. They fell away, and Shadwell could not prevent a cry from escaping him, as he understood what surgery had been performed upon the Rake.

They'd filleted him. They'd taken every bone from his body and left a thing more fit for the ocean-bed than the breathing world, a wretched echo of humanity, fuelled by the raptures the sisters had devised to bring it from Limbo. It swayed and swelled, its skull-less head taking on a dozen shapes as Shadwell watched. One moment it was all bulging eyes, the next only a maw, which howled its displeasure at waking to this condition.

‘Hush ...' Immacolata told it.

The Rake shuddered and its arms grew longer, as if it wanted to kill the woman that had done this to it. But it fell silent nevertheless.

‘Domville,' Immacolata said. ‘You once professed love for me.'

It threw back its head then, as if despairing of what desire had brought it to.

‘Are you afraid, my Rake?'

It looked at her, its eyes like blood blisters close to bursting.

‘We've given you a little life,' she said. ‘And enough power to turn these streets upside down. I want you to use it.'

The sight of the thing made Shadwell nervous.

‘Is he in control of himself?' he whispered. ‘Suppose he goes berserk?'

‘Let him,' she said. ‘I hate this city. Let him burn it up. As long as he kills the Seerkind, I don't care what he does. He knows he won't be allowed to rest until he's done as I ask. And Death's the best promise he's ever had.'

The blisters were still fixed on Immacolata, and the look in them confirmed her words.

‘Very well,' Shadwell said, and turned away, heading back into the adjoining room. There was only so much of this magic a man could take.

The sisters had an appetite for it. They liked to immerse themselves in these rites. For himself, he was content to be human.

Well, almost content.

V

FROM THE MOUTHS OF BABES

1

Dawn crept over Liverpool cautiously, as if fearful of what it would find. Cal watched the light uncover the city, and it seemed to him it was grey from gutter to chimney stack. He'd lived here all his life; this had been his world. The television and the glossy magazines had shown him different vistas on occasion, but somehow he'd never quite believed in them. They were as remote from his experience, or indeed from what he hoped to know in his seventy years, as the stars that were winking out above his head.

But the Fugue had been different. It had seemed, for a short, sweet time, a place he might truly belong. He'd been too optimistic. The land might want him, but its people didn't. As far as they were concerned he was contemptibly human.

He loitered on the streets for an hour or so, watching another Liverpool Monday morning get started.

Were they so bad, these Cuckoos whose tribe he shared? They smiled as they welcomed their cats in from a night of philandering; they hugged their children as they departed for the day; their radios played love-songs at the breakfast table. As he watched them he became fiercely defensive. Damn it, he'd go back and tell the Seerkind what bigots they were.

As he approached the house he saw that the front door was wide open, and that a young woman he recognized as a local.

but didn't know by name, was standing at the top of the path staring into the house. It was only as he came within a couple of paces of the front gate that he set eyes on Nimrod. He was standing on the welcome mat, wearing a pair of sunglasses that he'd filched from beside Cal's bed, and a toga made from one of Cal's shirts.

‘Is that your kid?' the woman asked Cal, as he opened the gate.

‘In a manner of speaking.'

‘He started banging on the window when I went past. Isn't there anyone to look after him?'

There is now,' said Cal.

He looked down at the child, remembering what Freddy had said about Nimrod only seeming to be a babe in arms. Having slid the sunglasses up onto his forehead, Nimrod was giving his visitor a look that fully confirmed Cammell's description. Cal had little option, however, but to play the part of father. He picked Nimrod up.

‘What are you doing?' he whispered to the child.

‘Bussteds!' Nimrod replied. He was having some difficulty mastering the infantile palate. ‘El killum.'

‘Who?'

But as Nimrod went to answer, the woman, who'd come down the path and was standing half a yard from the door, spoke: