Clive Barker - Weave World

‘It's a fine poem!' Lo said, applauding heartily as he spoke. ‘And finely delivered!'

So saying, he stepped out of the audience again and embraced Cal with fervour.

‘Do you hear?' Cal said to the poet in his skull. They like you.'

And back came another fragment, as if fresh from Mad Mooney's lips. He didn't speak it this time: but he heard it clearly.

Forgive my Art. On bended knees, I do confess: I seek to please.

And it was a fine thing, this pleasing business. He returned Lemuel's hug.

‘Help yourself, Mr Mooney,' the orchard-keeper said, ‘to all the fruit you can eat.'

Thank you,' said Cal.

‘Did you ever know the poet?' he asked.

‘No,' said Cal. ‘He was dead before I was born.'

‘Who can call a man dead whose words still hush us and whose sentiments move?' Mr Lo replied.

That's true.' said Cal.

‘Of course it's true. Would I tell a lie on a night like this?'

Having spoken, Lemuel called somebody else out of the crowd: another performer brought to the rug. Cal felt a pang of envy as he stepped over the footlights. He wanted that breathless moment again: wanted to feel the audience held by his words, moved and marked by them. He made a mental note to learn some more of Mad Mooney's verses if and when he saw his father's house again, so that next time he was here he had new lines to enchant with.

His hand was shaken and his face kissed half a dozen times as he made his way back through the crowd. When he turned round to face the rug once more, he was surprised to find that the next performers were Boaz and Ganza. Doubly surprised: they were both naked. There was nothing overtly sexual in their nakedness: indeed it was as formal in its way as the clothes they'd shrugged off. Nor was there any trace of discomfort amongst the audience: they watched the pair with the same grave and expectant looks as they'd watched him.

Boaz and Ganza had gone to opposite sides of the carpet, halted there a beat, then turned and begun to walk towards each other. They advanced slowly, until they were nose to nose, lip to lip. It crossed Cal's mind that maybe some erotic display was in the offing, and in a way that confounded his every definition of erotic, that was true, for they continued to walk towards each other, or so his eyes testified, pressing into each other, their faces disappearing, their torsos congealing, their limbs too, until they were one body, the head an almost featureless ball.

The illusion was absolute. But there was more to come; for the partners were still moving forward, their faces appearing now to press through the back of each other's craniums, as though the bone was soft as marshmallow. And still they advanced, until they were like Siamese twins born back to back, their single skull now teased out, and boasting two faces.

As if this weren't enough, there was a further twist to the trick, for somehow in the flux they'd exchanged genders, to stand finally — quite separate once more — in their partner's place.

Love's like that, the monkey had said. Here was the point proved, in flesh and blood.

As the performers bowed, and fresh applause broke out, Cal detached himself from the crowd and began to wander back through the trees. Several vague thoughts were in his head. One, that he couldn't linger here all night, and should soon go in search of Suzanna. Another that it might be wise to seek a guide. The monkey, perhaps?

But first, the laden branches drew his eye again. He reached, took another handful of fruit, and began to peel. Lo's ad hoc vaudeville was still going on behind him. He heard laughter, then more applause, and the music began again.

He felt his limbs growing heavier; his fingers were barely the equal of the peeling; his eye-lids drooped. Deciding he'd better sit down before he fell down, he settled beneath one of the trees.

Drowsiness was claiming him, and he had no power to resist it. There was no harm in dozing for a while. He was safe here, in the wash of starlight and applause. His eyes flickered closed. It seemed he could see his dreams approaching - their light growing brighter, their voices louder. He smiled to greet them.

It was his old life he dreamt.

He stood in the shuttered room that lay between his ears and let the lost days appear on the wall like a lantern show; moments retrieved from some stock-pile he hadn't even known he'd owned. But the scenes that were paraded before him now - these passages from the unfinished book of his life - no longer seemed quite real. It was fiction, that book; or at best momentarily real, when some part of him had leapt from that stale story, and glimpsed the Fugue in waiting.

The sound of applause called him to the surface of sleep, and his eyes flickered open. The stars were still set amongst the branches of the Giddy trees; there was still laughter and flame-light near at hand; all was well with his new-found land.

I wasn't born ‘til now, he thought, as the lantern show returned. I wasn't even born.

Content with that thought, his mind's eye peeled another of Lo's sweet fruits, and put it to his lips.

Somewhere, somebody was applauding him. Hearing it, he took a bow. But this time he did not wake.

VI

CAPRA'S HOUSE

1

In its way, Capra's House was as great a surprise as anything Suzanna had seen in the Fugue. It was a low building, in a state of considerable disrepair, the off-white plaster that clad its walls falling away to reveal large hand-made red bricks beneath. The tiles of the porch were much weather-beaten; the door itself barely hanging on its hinges. Myrtle trees grew all around it, and in their branches the myriad bells they'd heard were hanging, responsive to the merest breath of wind. Their sound, however, was all but cancelled by the raised voices from within. It sounded more like a riot than civilized debate.

There was a guard at the threshold, squatting on his haunches, making a ziggurat of rocks in front of him. At their approach he stood up. He was fully seven feet tall.

‘What business have you got here?' he demanded of Jerichau.

‘We have to see the Council -'

From within, Suzanna could hear a woman's voice, raised clear and strong.

‘I will not lie down and sleep!' she said. The remark was followed by a roar of approval from her supporters. ‘It's vital we talk to the Council,' said Jerichau. ‘Impossible,' the guard pronounced. ‘This is Suzanna Parrish,' said Jerichau. ‘She -' He had no need to go on. ‘I know who she is,' the guard said.

‘If you know who I am then you know I woke the Weave.' said Suzanna. ‘And I've opinions the Council should hear.'

‘Yes,' said the guard. ‘I can see that.'

He glanced behind him. The din had, if anything, worsened.

‘It's bedlam in there,' he warned. ‘You'll be lucky if you're heard.'

‘I can shout with the best,' said Suzanna.

The guard nodded. ‘No doubt,' he said. ‘It's straight ahead.' He stood aside, pointing down a short hallway to a half-closed door.

Suzanna took a deep breath, looking round at Jerichau to see that he was still in tow, then she walked down the passage and pushed the door.

The room was large, but filled with people; some sitting, some on their feet, some even standing on chairs to get a better view of the debate's chief protagonists. There were five individuals in the heat of it. One, a woman with wild hair and an even wilder look - whom Jerichau identified as Yolande Dor. Her faction were in a knot around her, egging her on. She was facing two men, one long-nosed individual whose face was beetroot with yelling, and his older companion, who had a restraining hand upon the first man's arm. They were clearly the opposition. In between was a negress, who was haranguing both parties, and an oriental, immaculately dressed, who looked to be the moderator. If so, he was failing in this function. It could only be moments before the fists replaced opinions.