Clive Barker - Weave World

‘Bastards,' said de Bono, as several of them hounded down a victim and laid into him with cudgels and boots. ‘Cuckoo bastards.'

‘It's not just my people -' Cal began. But before he could finish the defence of his tribe, the words died on his tongue, as he recognized the place that was being destroyed in front of his eyes.

This was no wood. The trees weren't arbitrarily scattered, but planted in ordered avenues. Once, beneath the awning of those trees, he'd spoken Mad Mooney's verses. Now the orchard of Lemuel Lo was ablaze from end to end.

He started down the slope towards the conflagration.

‘Where are you going?' de Bono asked him. ‘Calhoun? What do you think you're doing?'

De Bono came after him, and took hold of his arm.

‘Calhoun! Listen to me!'

‘Let me alone,' Cal said, attempting to throw de Bono off. In the violence of that attempt the soil of the incline gave way beneath his heel and he lost balance, taking de Bono with him. They slid down the hill, dirt and stones showering them, and came to a halt in a waist-deep ditch of stagnant water at

the bottom. Cal began to haul himself out the other side, but de Bono had hold of his shirt.

‘You can't do anything, Mooney,' he said.

‘Get the fuck off me.'

‘Look, I'm sorry about the Cuckoo remark, right? We breed vandals too.'

‘Forget it,' said Cal, his eyes still on the fire. He detached de Bono's hand. ‘I know this place,' he said. ‘I can't just let it burn.'

He pulled himself up out of the ditch and started towards the blaze. He'd kill the bastards who'd done this, whoever they were. Kill them, and call it justice.

‘It's too late!' de Bono called after him. ‘You can't help.'

There was truth in what the youth said. Tomorrow there'd be nothing left of the orchard but ashes. Still he couldn't bring himself to turn his back on the spot where he'd first tasted the Fugue's raptures. Vaguely aware that de Bono was padding after him, and completely indifferent to the fact, he headed on.

As the scene before him became clearer he realized that the Prophet's troops (the word flattered them; it was a rabble) were not going unresisted. In several places around the fire figures were locked in hand-to-hand combat. But the orchard's defenders were easy meat for the fire-raisers, for whom these barbarities were little more than sport. They'd come into the Fugue armed with weapons that could decimate the Seerkind in hours. Even as Cal watched he saw one of the Kind felled with a pistol shot. Somebody went to the wounded man's aid, but was in her turn brought down. The soldiers went from body to body to see that the job was done. The first of the victims was not dead. He raised his hand towards his executioner, who pointed his gun at the man's head and fired.

A spasm of nausea convulsed Cal's system, as the smell of cooking flesh mingled with the smoke. He couldn't control his revulsion. His knees buckled, and he fell to the ground, retching on his empty stomach. At that moment his misery seemed complete: the wet clothes icy on his spine; the taste of his stomach in his throat; the paradise orchard burning nearby.

The horrors the Fugue was showing him were as profound as its visions had been elevated. He could fall no further.

‘Come away, Cal.'

De Bono's hand was on his shoulder. He put a handful of freshly torn grass in front of Cal.

‘Wipe your face,' he said softly. There's nothing to be done here.'

Cal pressed the grass beneath his nose, inhaling its cool sweetness. The nausea was passing. He chanced one more look up at the burning orchard. His eyes were watering, and at first glance he couldn't trust what they now told him. He wiped them with the back of his hand, sniffing. Then he looked again, and there - moving through the smoke in front of the fire - he saw Lem.

He spoke the man's name.

‘Who?' said de Bono.

Cal was already getting up, though his legs were jittery.

‘There,' Cal said, pointing towards Lo. The orchard-keeper was crouching beside one of the bodies, his hand extended to the face of the corpse. Was he closing the dead man's eyes, offering a blessing as he did so?

Cal had to make his presence known; had to speak to the man, even if it was just to say that he too had witnessed the horrors here, and that they wouldn't go unrevenged. He turned to de Bono. The blaze, reflected in the rope-dancer's spectacles, hid his eyes, but it was clear from the way his face was set that what he'd seen had not left him untouched.

‘Stay here,' Cal said. ‘I have to speak to Lem.'

‘You're insane, Mooney,' de Bono said.

‘Probably.'

He began back towards the fire, calling Lem's name. The rabble seemed to have tired of their hunt. Several had returned to their cars; another was pissing into the fire; yet others were simply watching the blaze, stupefied by drink and destruction.

Lem had done with his blessings, and was walking away from the remains of his orchard. Cal called his name again, but the sound of the fire drowned it out. He began to pick up his pace, and as he did so Lem caught sight of him from thecorner of his eye. He seemed not to recognize Cal, however. Instead, alarmed by the approaching figure, he turned and started to run. Again, Cal yelled his name, and this time drew the man's attention. He stopped running and glanced back, squinting through the smoke and smuts.

‘Lem! It's me!' Cal yelled. ‘It's Mooney!'

Lo's grimy face was not capable of a smile, but he opened his arms in welcome to Cal, who crossed the last yards between them fearful that at any moment the curtain of smoke would part them again. It didn't. They embraced like brothers.

‘Oh my poet,' said Lo, his eyes reddened with tears and smoke. ‘What a place to find you.'

‘I told you I wouldn't forget,' said Cal. ‘Didn't I say that?'

‘You did, by God.'

‘Why did they do it, Lem? Why did they burn it down?'

They didn't,' Lem replied. ‘I did.'

‘You?'

‘You think I'd give those bastards the pleasure of my fruit?'

‘But, Lem ... the trees. All those trees.'

Lo was digging in his pockets, and brought out handfuls of the Jude Pears. Many were bruised and broken, sap glistening as it ran over Lo's fingers. Their perfume pierced the filthy air, bringing back memories of lost times.

‘There's seeds in every one of them, poet,' Lem said. ‘And in every seed there's a tree. I'll find another place to plant.'

They were brave words, but he sobbed even as he spoke them.

‘They won't defeat us, Calhoun,' he said. ‘Whatever God's name they come in, we won't kneel to them.'

‘You mustn't,' said Cal. ‘Or everything's lost.'

As he spoke he saw Lo's gaze move off his face towards the rabble at the cars.

‘We should be going,' he said, stuffing the fruit back into his pocket. ‘Will you come with me?'

‘I can't, Lem.'

‘Well, I taught your verses to my daughters,' he said. ‘I remembered them as you remembered me -'

‘They're not mine,' Cal said. ‘They're my grandfather's.'

‘They belong to us all now,' Lo said. ‘Planted in good ground -'

Suddenly, a shot. Cal turned. The three fire-watchers had seen them, and were coming their way. All were armed.

Lo snatched hold of Cal's hand for an instant, and squeezed it by way of farewell. Then contact was broken, as more shots followed on the first. Lo was heading off into the darkness, away from the light of the fire, but the ground was uneven, and he fell after only a few steps. Cal went after him, as the gunmen began a further round of shots.

‘Get away from me -' Lo shouted. ‘For God's sake run!'

Lo was scrabbling to pick up the fruit that he'd dropped from his pocket. As Cal reached him one of the gunman got lucky. A shot found Lo. He cried out, and clutched his side.