Clive Barker - Weave World

The journey here had offered a host of extraordinary sights; the occupants of this province, though plainly related to species outside the Fugue, had somehow been coaxed by magic into new forms. How else to explain moths five times the size of his hand, which yowled like mating cats from the tops of the trees? Or the shimmering snakes he'd seen, posing as flames in the niche of a rock? Or the bush the thorns of which bled onto its own blossoms?

Such novelties were everywhere. The pitch he'd offered to his clients when tempting them to the Auction had been colourful enough; but it had scarcely begun to evoke the reality. The Fugue was stranger by far than any words of his had suggested; stranger, and more distressing.

That was what he felt, looking down from the hill-top: distress. It had come over him slowly, as they'd journeyed here, beginning like dyspepsia, and escalating to the point where he felt a kind of terror. At first he'd tried not to admit

its origins to himself, but such was its force the feeling could now no longer be denied.

It was covetousness that had come to birth in his belly; the one sensation that no true Salesman could ever indulge. He tried to get the better of the ache by viewing the landscape and its contents in strictly commercial terms: how much could he ask for that orchard?; or the islands in that lake?; or the moths? But for once the technique failed him. He looked down over the Fugue and all thought of commerce was swept away.

It was no use to struggle. He had to admit the bitter fact: he'd made a terrible error trying to sell this place.

No price could ever be put on such mind-wracking profusion; no bidder, however wealthy, had the wherewithal to purchase it.

Here he was, looking down on the greatest collection of miracles the world had ever seen, with all ambition to lord it over princes fled.

A new ambition had taken its place. He would be a prince himself. More than a prince.

Here was a country, laid before him. Why should he not be King?

VIII

THE VIRGIN BLOODED

Happiness was not a condition Immacolata was much familiar with, but there were places in which she and her sisters felt something close to it. Battlefields at evening, when every breath she drew was somebody else's last; mortuaries and sepulchres. Anywhere death was, they took their ease; played amongst cadavers, and pick-nicked there.

That was why, when they'd got bored with searching for Shadwell, they came to the Requiem Steps. It was the only place in the Fugue sacred to death. As a child Immacolata had come here day after day to bathe in the sorrow of others. Now her sisters had taken themselves off in search of some unwilling father, and she was here alone, with thoughts so black the night sky was blindingly bright beside them.

She slipped off her shoes, and went down the steps to the black mud at the edge of the river. Here it was the bodies were finally relinquished to the waters. Here the sobs had always been loudest, and faith in the hereafter had trembled in the face of cold fact.

It was many, many years since those rituals had been in vogue. The practice of giving the dead to this or any other river had been stopped; too many of the corpses were being found by the Cuckoos. Cremation had taken over as the standard method of disposal, much to Immacolata's chagrin.

The Steps had dramatized something true, in the way that they descended into mud. Standing there now, with the river

moving fast before her, she thought how easy it would be to pitch herself into the flood, and go the way of the dead.

But she would leave too much unfinished business behind. She'd leave the Fugue intact, and her enemies alive. There was no wisdom in that.

No; she had to go on living. To see the Families humiliated; their hopes, like their territories, in dust; their miracles reduced to playthings. Destruction would be altogether too easy for them. It hurt for an instant only, then it was all over. But to see the Seerkind enslaved: that was worth living for.

The roar of the waters soothed her. She grew nostalgic, remembering the bodies she'd seen snatched beneath this tide.

But did she hear another roar, beneath that of the river? She looked up from the murky waters. At the top of the steps was a ramshackle building, little more than a roof supported by columns, in which the lesser mourners had loitered while the final farewells were made at the river-side. She could just see movement there now; fugitives in the shadows. Was it her sisters? She didn't sense their proximity.

Her unspoken question was answered as she crossed the mud back to the bottom step.

‘I knew you'd be here.'

Immacolata halted, her foot on the step.

‘Of all places ... here.'

Immacolata felt a twinge of trepidation. Not because of the man who emerged from the shelter of the column, but because of the company he kept. They moved in the shadows behind him, their panting flanks silken. Lions! He'd come with lions.

‘Oh yes,' Romo said, seeing the Incantatrix flinch, ‘I'm not alone, like she was. This time you're the vulnerable one.'

It was true. The lions were unreflective creatures. Her illusions would not mislead them. Nor would her assaults easily touch the tamer, who shared that bestial indifference.

‘Sisters ....' she breathed. ‘Come to me.'

The lions were moving into the moonlight, six in all; three male, three female. Their eyes were glued to their owner, awaiting his instructions.

She took a step backwards. The mud was slick beneath her

heel. She almost lost her balance. Where was the Magdalene, and the Hag? She sent another thought in hectic pursuit of them, but fear made it sluggish.

The lions were at the top of the steps now. She didn't dare take her eyes off them, though she loathed the sight. They were so effortlessly magnificent. Much as the thought appalled her, she knew she would have to flee before them. She would have the menstruum carry her up above the river before they reached her. But it was taking its time to flow through her, distracted as she was. She made an attempt to delay their approach.

‘You shouldn't trust them ....' she said.

‘The lions?' said Romo, half-smiling.

‘The Seerkind. They cheated Mimi as they cheated me. They left her in the Kingdom, while they took refuge. They're cowards and deceivers.'

‘And you? What are you?'

Immacolata felt the menstruum begin to suffuse her shadow-self. With her escape certain, she could afford to tell the truth.

‘I'm nothing,' she said, her voice now so soft it was almost lost in the din of the river. ‘I'm alive as long as my hatred for them keeps me alive.'

It was almost as if the lions understood this last remark, for they came at her suddenly, leaping down the steps to where she stood.

The menstruum rippled about her; she started to rise. Even as she did so the Magdalene appeared from along the river, and let out a cry.

The call diverted Immacolata's attention, her feet inches from the mud. It was all that the first of the lions required. He launched himself from the steps towards her, and before she could avoid the attack, he clawed her from the air. She fell backwards into the mud.

Romo pushed his way through the rest of the pride, calling the animal back before Immacolata mustered her powers. The summons came too late. The menstruum was spiralling around the beast, tearing at its face and flanks; the animal could not have disengaged itself now if it had wanted to. But the menstruum's attack left little in reserve for defence, and the lion landed blow after blow, each gouging a brutal wound. Immacolata shrieked and squirmed in the blood-streaked mud, but the lion would not let her alone.

As its claws opened her face, it let out a throttled roar, and its assault ceased. It stood over Immacolata for an instant, as steam rose from between them; then it staggered sideways. Its abdomen had been opened from throat to testicles. It was not the menstruum's doing, but that of the knife now dropping from Immacolata's hand. The beast, trailing its innards, stumbled a little way then keeled over in the mud.