Clive Barker - Sacrament

It became harder to do, however, once he came off the motorway, and headed into the hills. The clouds broke, and the sunlight moved on the slopes as if commanded, the light beautiful enough to bring him close to tears. It amazed him that having put so many journeys between his heart and the spirit of this place, labouring for more than two decades to discipline his sentiments, its beauty could still steal upon him. And still the clouds divided, and the sun joined up its quilt piece by gilded piece. He was passing through villages he now knew, at least by name. Herricksthwaite, Raddlesmoor, Kemp's Hill. He knew the twists and turns in the road, and where it would bring him to a vantage point from which to admire a stand of sycamores, a stream, the folded hills.

Dusk was imminent, the last of the day's light still warming the hilltops but leaving to the blues and greys of dusk the valleys through which he wound his way. This was the landscape of memory; and this the hour. Nothing was quite certain. Forms blurred, defying definition. Was that a sheep or a boulder? Was that a deserted cottage or a clot of trees?

His only concession to prophecy had been to prepare himself for a shock when he got into Burnt Yarley, but he needn't have concernedhimself. The changes wrought upon the village were relatively small. The post office had been remodelled; a few cottages had been tamed up; where the grocer's had once stood there was now a small garage. Otherwise, everything looked quite familiar in the lamplight. He drove on until he reached the bridge, where he halted for a moment or two. The river was high; higher, in fact, then he ever remembered it running. He was sorely tempted to get out of the car and sit for a few minutes before covering the final mile. Maybe even double back three hundred yards and fortify himself with a pint of Guinness before he faced the house itself. But he resisted his own cowardice (for that was what it was) and after a minute or two loitering beside the river, he drove home.

ii

Home? No, never that. Never home. And yet what other word was there for this place he'd fled from? Perhaps that was the very definition of home, at least for men of his inclination: the solid, certain spot from which all roads led.

Adele was opening the door even as he got out of the car. She'd heard him coming, she said, and thank goodness he was here, her prayers were answered. The way she said this (and repeated it) made him think she meant this literally; that she'd been praying for his safe and swift arrival. Now he was here and she had good news. Hugo was no longer on the danger list. He was mending quite nicely, the doctors said, though he'd have to stay in hospital for at least a month.

'He's a tough old bird,' Adele said fondly, as she puttered around the kitchen preparing Will a ham sandwich and tea.

'And how are you bearing up?' Will asked her.

'Oh, I've had a few sleepless nights,' she admitted almost guiltily, as though she had no right to sleeplessness. She certainly looked exhausted. She was no longer the formidable no-nonsense Yorkshirewoman of twenty-five years before. Though he guessed her to be still shy of seventy, she looked older, her movements about the kitchen hesitant, her words often halting. She hadn't told Hugo that Will was coming ('Just in case you changed your mind at the last minute,' she explained), but she had told his doctor, who had agreed that they could go to the hospital to see him tonight, though it would be well past visiting hours.

'He's been difficult,' she said heavily. 'Even though he's not fully with us. But he knows how to rub people up the wrong way whether he's sick or well. He takes pleasure in it.'

'I'm sorry you've had to deal with this on your own. I know how difficult he can be.'

'Well, if he wasn't difficult,' she said, with gentle indulgence, 'he wouldn't be who he is, and I wouldn't care for him. So, I get on with it. That's all we can really do, isn't it?'

It was simple enough wisdom. There were flaws in any arrangement. But if you cared, you just got on with it.

Adele insisted she drive to the hospital. She knew the way, she said, so it would be quicker. Of course she drove at a snail's pace, and by the time they got there it was almost half past nine. Relatively early by the standards of the outside world of course, but hospitals were discrete kingdoms, with their own time-zones, and it might as well have been two in the morning: the corridors were hushed and deserted, the wards in darkness.

The nurse who escorted Will and Adele to Hugo's room was chatty, however, her voice a little too loud for the subdued surroundings.

'He was awake last time I popped my head in, but he may have gone back to sleep. The pain-killers are making him a little groggy. Are you his son, then?'

'I am.'

'Ah,' she said, with an almost coy little smile. 'He's been talking about you, on and off. Well, rambling really. But he's obviously been wanting to see you. It's Nathaniel, right?' She didn't wait for confirmation, but wittered on blithely: something about how they moved him to a shared room, and now the man he'd been put in with had been discharged, so he had the room to himself, which was lucky, wasn't it? Will murmured that yes, it was lucky.

'Here we are.' The door was ajar. 'You want to just go in and surprise him?' the nurse said.

'Not particularly,' Will said.

The nurse looked confounded, then decided she'd misheard, and with an asinine smile, breezed off down the corridor.

'I'll wait out here,' Adele said. 'You should have this moment alone, just the two of you.'

Will nodded, and after twenty-one years stepped back into his father's presence.

There was a meagre lamp burning beside Hugo's bed, its sallow light throwing a monumental shadow of the man upon the wall. He was semi-recumbent amid a Himalayan mass of pillows, his eyes closed.

He'd grown a beard, and nurtured it to a formidable size. A solid ten inches long, trimmed and waxed in emulation of the beards of great, dead men: Kant, Nietzsche, Tolstoy. The minds by which Hugo had always judged contemporary thought and art, and found it wanting. The beard was more grey than black, with streams of white running in it from the corners of his mouth, as though he'd dribbled cream into it. His hair, by contrast, had been clipped short and lay fiat to his scalp, delineating the Roman dome of his skull. Will watched him for fifteen or twenty seconds, thinking how magisterial he looked. Then Hugo's lips parted, and very quietly he said:

'So you came back.'

Now his eyes opened, and found Will. Though there was a pair of spectacles at the bedside table, he stared at his visitor as though he had Will in perfect focus, his stare as unrelenting as ever; and as judgmental.

'Hello, Pa,' Will said.

'Into the light,' Hugo said, beckoning for Will to approach the bed. 'Let me see you.' Will duly stepped into the throw of the lamp to be scrutinized. 'The years are showing on you,' he said. 'It's the sun. If you have to tramp the world at least wear a hat.'

'I'll remember.'

'Where were you lurking this time?'

'I wasn't lurking, Pa. I was-'

'I thought you'd deserted me. Where's Adele? Is she here?' He reached out to pluck his glasses off the nightstand. In his haste he instead knocked them to the ground. 'Damn things!'

'They're not broken,' Will said, picking them up.

Hugo put them on, one-handed. Will knew better than to help. 'Where is she?'

'Waiting outside. She wanted us to have a little quality time together.'

Now, paradoxically, he didn't look at Will, but studied the folds in the bedcover, and his hands, his manner perfectly detached. 'Quality time?' he said. 'Is that an Americanism?'

'Probably.'

'What does it mean exactly?'