Clive Barker - Sacrament

Whether this question was meant for his occupant or the corpse before them, Will did not dare enquire. He'd dragged Jacob to revisit this appalling vision against the man's wishes, and now he felt shame at what he'd done. Sickened too. Not at the sight of the body. That didn't bother him particularly; it was no more horrible than the meat hanging up in a butcher's window. What made him want to look away was the thought that this thing before him was probably the way Nathaniel had looked, give or take a wound. Will had always imagined Nathaniel somehow perfected in death; his injuries erased by kindly hands, so that his mother could remember him immaculate. Now he knew differently. Nathaniel had been thrown through a shoe-shop window. There was no concealing wounds so deep. No wonder Eleanor had wept for months and locked herself away; no wonder she'd taken to eating pills instead of bread and eggs. He hadn't understood how terrible it must have been for her, sitting beside Nathaniel's bed, while he slipped away. But he understood now. And understanding, he blushed with shame at his cruelty.

He'd had enough. It was time to do as Steep had wanted all along, and look away. But now the shoe was on the other foot, and Steep knew it.

Do you want to take a closer look? Will heard him say, and the next moment Steep was going down on his haunches beside Thomas's corpse, scrutinizing it wound by wound. It was Will who flinched now, his

curiosity more than sated. But Jacob would not give him release. Look at him, Steep murmured, his gaze going to Thomas' mutilated groin. That fox made a meal of him, eh? There was a phony jocularity in Steep's tone. He felt this as deeply as Will; perhaps more so. Serves him right. He should have got some pleasure from his prick while he still had it to wave around. Poor, pathetic Thomas. Rosa tried to seduce him more than once but he could never get it up. I told him: if you don't want Rosa, who has everything a man could want in a woman, then you can't want a woman at all. You're a sodomite, Thom. He said I was too simple.

Steep leaned over and peered more closely at the wound. The fox's needle teeth had done a neat job. If not for the blood and a few remnants of tissue, the man could have been born unsexed. 'Well, you look like the simple one now, Thomas,' Steep said, taking his gaze from gelded groin to blinded head.

There was another colour here, which Will had not noticed until now. On the inner surfaces of the painter's lips, and on his teeth and tongue, a bluish tinge.

'You poisoned yourself, didn't you?' Steep said. He leaned closer to Thomas's face. 'Why did you do a damn fool thing like that? Not because of Rukenau, surely. I would have protected you from him. Didn't I promise?' He reached out and brushed the back of his fingers across the man's cheek, the way he had as they parted the day before. 'Didn't I tell you you'd be safe with Rosa and me? Oh Lord, Thom. I would not have seen you suffer.' He leaned back from the body, and in a louder voice than he'd used hitherto, as though making a formal declaration, said, 'Rukenau's to blame. You gave him your genius; he paid you in lunacy. That makes him a thief, at very least. I won't serve him after this. And I will never forgive him. He can stay in his wretched house forever, but he won't have me for company. Nor Rosa, either.' He got to his feet. 'Goodbye, Thom,' he said, more softly. 'You would have liked the island.' Then he turned his back on the body, the way he'd turned his back on the living man the day before, and strode away.

As he did so, the scene began to flicker out, the pattering rain, the roses and the body that lay under both, dimming in a heartbeat. But as they went, Will caught a glimpse of the fox, standing at the limit of the trees, gazing back at him. A shaft of sun had pierced the rain clouds and found the animal, etching its lean flanks and keen head and flickering brush in gold. In the instant before his vision fled, Will met the beast's unblinking stare. There was nothing contrite in its look, no shame that it had fed on pudenda today. I'm a beast, its stare seemed to say, don't you dare judge me.

Then they were both gone - the fox and the sun that blessed it - and Will was back in the dark copse above Burnt Yarley. In front of him stood Jacob, his hand still caught in Will's grip.

'Had enough?' Steep said.

By way of reply, Will simply let go of the man's hand. Yes, it was enough. More than enough. He looked all around him, to be certain nothing of what he'd witnessed had lingered, reassured by what he saw. The trees were once again leafless, the ground frosted; and the only corpses upon it two birds, one broken, one stabbed. In fact, he was by no means certain that this was even the same wood.

'Did it ... happen here?' he asked, looking back at Jacob.

The man's tear-stained face was slack, his eyes glazed. It took a few moments for him to focus his attention upon the question. 'No,' he said, finally. 'Simeon lived in Oxfordshire that year-'

'Who's Simeon?'

'Thomas Simeon, the man you just met.'

Will tried the name for himself, 'Thomas Simeon...'

'It was the July of 1730. He was twenty-three years old. He poisoned himself with his pigments, which he mixed himself. Arsenic and sky-blue.'

'If it happened in some other place,' Will said, 'why did you remember it?'

'Because of you,' Jacob replied, softly. 'You brought him to mind, in more ways than one.' He looked away from Will, out through the trees towards the valley. 'I'd known him since he was about your age. He was like my own to me. Too gentle for this world of illusions. It made him mad, trying to find his way through this profligate Creation.' He glanced back at Will, his eyes as sharp as his blade. 'God's a coward and show-off, Will. You will come to understand this, as the years go by. He hides behind a gaudy show of forms, boasting how fine His workings are. But Thomas had it right. Even in his wretched state, he was wiser than God.' Jacob raised his hand palm up in front of his face, his little finger extended. The significance of the gesture was perfectly clear. All that was missing was the petal. 'If the world were a simpler place, we would not be lost in it,' he said. 'We wouldn't be greedy for novelty. We wouldn't always want something new, always something new! We'd live the way Thomas wanted to live, in awe of the mysteries of a petal.' Even as he spoke, Steep seemed to hear the yearning in his own voice, and turned it to ice. 'Yon made a mistake, boy,' he said, his hand closing into a fist. 'You drank where it wasn't wise to drink. My memories are in your head now. So's Thomas. And the fox. And the madness.'

Will didn't like the sound of this at all. 'What madness?' he said.

'You can't see all that you've seen, you can't know what we now both know, without something souring.' He put his thumb to the middle of his skull. 'You've supped from here, wunderkind, and neither of us can ever be the same. Don't look so frightened. You were brave enough to come with me this far-'

'But only because you were with me-'

'What makes you think we can ever be apart after this?'

'You mean we can still go away together?'

'No, that won't be possible. I'll have to keep you at a distance - a great distance - for both our sakes.' 'But you just said-'

'That we'd never be apart. Nor will we. But that doesn't mean you'll be at my side. There would be too much pain for both of us, and I don't wish that for you any more than you wish it for me.'

He was talking the way he would to an adult, Will knew, and it soothed a little of the disappointment. This talk of pain between them, of places where Jacob didn't want to look: this was the vocabulary one man would use talking to another. He would diminish himself in Jacob's eyes if he answered like a petulant child. And what was the use? Plainly, Jacob wasn't going to change his mind.