Clive Barker - Weave World

‘What about the Sale?'

‘There'll be no Sale. It's too late.'

‘Shadwell's going to know you used him.'

‘No more than he used me. Or would have liked to.'

A tremor passed through the Magdalene's uncertain substance.

‘Wouldn't you like to give yourself to him once?' she enquired softly. ‘Just once.'

‘No. Never.'

‘Then let me have him. I can use him. Imagine his children.'

Immacolata reached out and grasped her sister's fragile neck. ‘You will never lay a hand on him,' she said. ‘Not a finger.'

The wraith's face grew absurdly long, in a parody of remorse.

‘I know,' she said. ‘He's yours. Body and soul.'

The Hag laughed. The man's got no soul,' she said.

Immacolata released the Magdalene, filaments of her sister's matter decaying into sewer air between them.

‘Oh, he has a soul,' she said, letting gravity claim her for the earth beneath. ‘But I want no part of it.' Her feet touched the ground. ‘When all this is over - when the Seerkind are in the Cuckoo's hands - I'll let him go his way. Unharmed.'

‘And us?' said the Hag. ‘What happens to us then? Will we be free?'

‘That's what we agreed.'

‘We can go into extinction?'

‘If that's what you want.'

‘More than anything,' said the Hag. ‘More than anything.'

‘There are worse things than existence,' said Immacolata.

‘Oh?' the Hag replied. ‘Can you name one?'

Immacolata thought for a short while.

‘No,' she conceded, with a soft sigh of distress. ‘You may be right, sister.'

2

Shadwell had fled from the disintegrating house moments after Cal and Nimrod had escaped through the window, and had barely avoided being caught by the cloud that had swallowed Devereaux. He'd ended up face down, his mouth filled with dust and with the sour taste of defeat. After so many years of anticipation, to have the Auction end in ruin and humiliation, it was enough to make him weep.

But he didn't. For one thing, he was an optimist by nature: in today's rejection the seeds of tomorrow's sale. For another, the spectacle of the Fugue solidifying about him was a fine distraction from his sorrows. And for a third, he had found one worse off than he.

‘What the fuck is happening?' It was Norris, the Hamburger King. Blood and plaster dust vied for the right to paint his face, and somewhere in the maelstrom he'd lost both the back of his jacket and most of his trousers; also one of his fine Italian shoes. The other he carried.

‘I'll sue the ass off you!' he screeched at Shadwell. ‘You fucking asshole. Look at me! Fucking asshole!'

He began to beat Shadwell with the shoe, but the Salesman was in no mood to be bruised. He slapped the man back, hard. Within seconds they were brawling like drunkards, indifferent to the extraordinary scenes coming to life all around them. The tussle left them more breathless and bloody than they'd started out, and did nothing to resolve their differences. ‘You should have taken precautions!' Norris spat. ‘It's too late for accusations,' Shadwell replied. The Fugue's woken whether we like it or not.'

‘I would have woken it myself,' said Norris. ‘If I'd got to own it. But I would have been ready and waiting. Had some forces to go in and take control. But this? It's chaos! I don't even know which way is out.'

‘Any way'll do. It's not that big. If you want out, just walk in any direction.'

This simple solution seemed to pacify Norris somewhat. He turned his gaze on the burgeoning landscape.

‘I don't know though ...' he said, ‘... maybe it's better this way. At least I get to see what I would have bought.' ‘And what do you make of it?'

‘It's not the way I'd thought it'd be. I'd expected something ... tamer. Frankly, I'm not sure now I'd want to own the place.'

As his voice faltered an animal that could surely be found in no menagerie jumped from the flux of threads and snarled a welcome at the world before bounding off.

‘See?' said Norris. ‘What was that?'

Shadwell shrugged. ‘I don't know,' he said. ‘There's things here that probably died out before we were born.'

‘That?' said Norris, staring after the hybrid beast. ‘I never saw the like of that before, even in books. I tell you I want none of this fucking place. I want you to get me out.'

‘You'll have to find your own way,' said Shadwell. ‘I've got business here.'

‘Oh no you don't,' said Norris, pointing his shoe at Shadwell. ‘I need a body-guard. And you're it.'

The sight of the Hamburger King reduced to this nervous wreckage amused Shadwell. More than that, it made him feel - perhaps perversely - secure.

‘Look,' he said, his manner softening. ‘We're both in the same shit here -'

‘Damn right we are.'

‘I've got something that might help,' he said, opening his jacket,'- something to sweeten the pill.'

Norris looked suspicious. ‘Oh yeah?'

‘Have a peep,' said Shadwell, showing the man the jacket lining. Norris wiped off the blood that was running into his left eye, and stared into the folds. ‘What do you see?'

There was a moment of hesitation, when Shadwell wondered if the jacket was still functioning. Then a slow smile broke over Norris' face, and a look familiar from countless other such seductions crept into his eyes.

‘See something you like?' Shadwell asked him.

‘Indeed I do.'

Take it then. It's yours. Free, gratis and for nothing.'

Norris smiled, almost coyly. ‘Wherever did you find him?' he asked, as he extended a trembling hand towards the jacket. ‘After all these years ....'

Tenderly, he drew his temptation from the folds of the lining. It was a wind-up toy: a soldier with a drum, so fondly and so accurately remembered by its owner that the illusion he now held in his hand had been recreated with every dent and scratch in place.

‘My drummer,' said Norris, weeping for joy as if he'd taken possession of the world's eighth wonder. ‘Oh my drummer.' He turned it over. ‘But there's no key,' he said. ‘Do you have it?'

‘I may find it for you, by and by,' Shadwell replied.

‘One of his arms is broken,' said Norris, stroking the drummer's head. ‘But he still plays.'

‘You're happy?'

‘Oh yes. Yes thank you.'

Then put it in your pocket, so that you can carry me awhile,' said Shadwell.

‘Carry you?'

‘I'm weary. I need a horse.'

Norris showed no trace of resistance to this notion, though Shadwell was a bigger and heavier man, and would constitute quite a burden. The gift had won him over utterly, and while it held him in thrall he would allow his spine to crack before disobeying the giftgiver.

Laughing to himself, Shadwell climbed onto the man's back. His plans might have gone awry tonight, but as long as people had dreams to mourn he could possess their little souls awhile.

‘Where do you want me to take you?' the horse asked him.

‘Somewhere high.' he directed. Take me somewhere high.'

V

THE ORCHARD OF LEMUEL LO

1

Neither Boaz nor Ganza were voluble guides. They led the way through the Fugue in almost complete silence, only breaking that silence to warn Cal that a stretch of ground was treacherous, or to keep close to them as they moved down a colonnade in which he heard dogs panting. In a sense he was glad of their quietness. He didn't want a guided tour of the terrain, at least not tonight. He'd known, when he'd first looked down at the Fugue from the wall in Mimi's yard, that it couldn't be mapped, nor its contents listed and committed to memory like his beloved timetables. He would have to understand the Weaveworld in a different fashion: not as hard fact but as feeling. The schism between his mind and the world it was attempting to grasp was dissolving. In its place was a relationship of echo and counter echo. They were thoughts inside each other's heads, he and this world; and that knowledge, which he could never have found the words to articulate, turned the journey into a tour of his own history. He'd known from Mad Mooney that poetry was heard differently from ear to ear. Poetry was like that. The same, he began to see, was also true of geography.