Clive Barker - Weave World

At his side, Freddy moved.

His lids flickered open, but there was little in the way of life behind them.

‘Cal....' he tried to say. The word was a shape not a sound. Cal bent closer to him, putting his arms around his chilly, trembling body.

‘I'm here, Freddy,' he said.

Freddy tried to speak again.

‘... almost...' he said.

Cal tightened his embrace, as though he could keep the life from seeping out. But a hundred hands couldn't have kept it from going; it had better places to be. Still Cal couldn't help but say:

‘Don't go.'

The man made a tiny shake of his head.

‘... almost....' he said again, ‘... almost....'

The syllables seemed too much for him. His trembling stopped.

‘Freddy ...'

Cal put his fingers to the man's lips, but there was no trace of breath. As he stared at the empty features Apolline snatched hold of his hand. She too was cold. Her eyes turned skyward; he followed her gaze.

Immacolata was lying on the ceiling, staring down at him. She'd been hovering there all along, basking in his sorrow and helplessness.

A shout of horror had reached his lips before he could prevent it, and in that instant she swooped, her darkness reaching for him. For once, however, his clumsiness did him a kindness, and he fell backwards before her claws could connect. The door at his back gave inwards, and he pitched himself through it, his terror of her touch lending him speed.

‘What is this?'

The speaker was Shadwell. Cal had thrown himself into the midst of the Auction. The Salesman was at one end of the room, while half a dozen others, dressed as if for a night at the Ritz, were standing around the room. Immacolata would surely hesitate to murder him in such company. He had a moment's grace, at least.

Then he looked down, and the sight before him made him sick with joy.

He was sprawled across the carpet: its warp and weft were tingling beneath his palms. Was that why he so suddenly and absurdly felt safe-as though all that had gone before had been a test, the prize for which this was sweet reunion?

‘Get him out of here,' said one of the buyers.

Shadwell took a step towards him.

‘Remove yourself, Mr Mooney.' the Salesman said. ‘We've got business here.'

So have I, thought Cal, and as Shadwell approached he drew the knife from his pocket and sprang at the man. Behind him, he heard Immacolata cry out. He had seconds only in which to act. He thrust the blade at Shadwell, but despite his bulk, the Salesman neatly side-stepped it.

There was a commotion from the buyers, which Cal took to be an expression of horror, but no - he glanced towards them to see that they'd taken the sale into their own hands, and were shouting bids in each others' faces.

It was laughable to see, but Cal had little time to applaud them, for Shadwell had torn open his jacket. The lining blazed.

‘Anything you want? he said.

As he spoke he stepped towards Cal, blinding him with the glamour of the garment, and knocked the knife from his hand. With Cal disarmed, he resorted to less subtle tactics, delivering a knee to Cal's groin that dropped him groaning to the floor. There he lay for several seconds, unable to move until the nausea subsided. Through the daze of light and sickness he could see Immacolata, still waiting for him at the door. Behind her, the sisters. So much for his attack. He was weaponless now, and alone -

But no; not alone. Never alone.

He was lying on a world, wasn't he?, on a sleeping world. Miracles beyond counting were in the Weave beneath him, if he could just liberate them.

But how? There were raptures, no doubt, to stir the Fugue from its slumber, but he knew none of them. All he could do was lay his palms on the carpet and whisper:

‘Wake up ...'

Was he deluding himself, or was there already a restlessness in the knots?, as though the creatures there struggled against their condition, like sleepers desperate to wake themselves, knowing the day had broken, but powerless to stir.

Now, from the corner of his eye, he caught sight of a naked figure crouching at the feet of a buyer. It was undoubtedly one of the Seerkind, but no-one he recognized. Or at least not the body. But the eyes -

‘Nimrod?' he murmured.

The creature had seen him, and crawled from its place of safety to the edge of the carpet. He wasn't noticed. Shadwell was already back amongst the buyers, trying to prevent the Auction from becoming a blood-bath. He'd forgotten Cal's existence.

‘Is it you?' Cal said.

Nimrod nodded, pointing to his throat.

‘You can't speak? Shit!'

Cal glanced towards the door. Immacolata was still in wait. She had the patience of a carrion-bird.

The carpet...' said Cal. ‘We have to wake it.'

Nimrod looked at him blankly.

‘Don't you understand what I'm saying?'

Before Nimrod could signal any reply, Shadwell had settled the buyers and announced:

‘We'll begin again.'

Then, to Immacolata: ‘Remove the assassin.'

Cal had at best seconds before the Incantatrix stopped his life. He desperately scanned the room for an exit route. There were several windows, all heavily draped. Perhaps if he could reach one he might fling himself out. Even if the fall killed him it could not be worse than death at Immacolata's touch.

But before she reached him she halted. Her gaze, which had been fixed upon him, now drifted away. She turned to Shadwell and the word she said was:

‘... menstruum ...'

As she spoke the room beyond the door, where Apolline and Freddy had been left, was washed with a radiance which splashed through onto the carpet. At its touch, the colours seemed to become more vivid.

And then a shriek of wrath - the voice of the Hag - rose from the room, followed by a further spillage of light.

These new sights and sounds were enough to set the buyers into a fresh spin. One went to the door - either as spectator or escapee - and fell back, his hands over his eyes, yelling that he was blinded. Nobody went to his aid. The rest of the party retreated to the far end of the room, while the fury at the other escalated.

A figure had appeared at the door, threads of brilliance describing spirals all about her. Cal knew her at once, despite her transformation.

It was Suzanna. Fluid fireworks ran like veins over her arms, and showered from her fingertips; they danced on her belly and breasts and ran out from between her legs to ignite the air.

Seeing her thus, it took several seconds for Cal to voice his welcome, and by that time the sisters were through the door in pursuit of her. The battle had done grievous harm on both sides. The display of the menstruum could not hide the bleeding wounds on Suzanna's neck and body; and, though pain was most likely beyond the experience of the wraith-sisters, they too were torn.

Whether weakened or not, they fell back when Immacolata raised her hand, leaving Suzanna to their living sister.

‘You're late,' she said. ‘We were waiting.'

‘Kill her,' said Shadwell.

Cal studied the look on Suzanna's face. Try as she might she could not entirely disguise her exhaustion.

Now, perhaps feeling his eyes on her, she looked his way, her gaze locking with his, then moving to his hands, which were still palm down upon the Weave. Did she read his thoughts, he wondered. Did she comprehend that the only hope remaining to them lay asleep at her feet?

Again, their eyes met, and in them Cal saw that she understood.

Beneath his fingers, the Weave tingled as though a mild electric shock was passing through it. He didn't remove his hand, but let the energy use him as it so desired. He was just part of a process now: a circle of power that ran through the carpet from Suzanna's feet to his hands and up through his eyes and back along the line of their glance to her.