Clive Barker - The Great and Secret Show

Though the day beat hard on the woods, the atmosphere beneath its canopy was that of a place under the spell of night. Whatever animals and birds made their dwelling here they were keeping to their nests and dens. Light, or something that lived in light, had silenced them. Howie felt their scrutiny however. They observed his every step, as though he were a hunter coming among them under a too-bright moon. He was not welcome here. And yet the urge to go forward increased with every yard he covered. A whisper had brought him down here the day before; a whisper he'd later dismissed as his dizzied mind playing tricks. But now no cell in his system doubted that the call had been genuine. There was somebody here who wanted to see him; to meet him; to know him. Yesterday he'd rejected the summons. Today he would not.

Some impulse, not entirely his own, made him throw back his head as he walked, so that the sun piercing the foliage struck his upturned face like a blow. He didn't flinch from its glare, but rather opened his eyes wider to it. The brightness, and the rhythmic way it struck his retina, seemed to mesmerize him. In most circumstances he hated to relinquish control of his mental processes. He drank only when browbeaten by his peers, stopping the moment he felt his hold over the machine slipping; drugs were unthinkable. But here he was welcoming this intoxication; inviting the sun to burn out the real.

It worked. When he looked back at the scene around him he was half-blinded with colors no blade of grass could have laid claim to. His mind's eye was quick to seize the space vacated by the palpable. Suddenly his sight was filling up, brimming and spilling over with images he must have dredged up from some uncharted place in his cortex, because he had no memory of having lived them.

He saw a window in front of him, as solid—no, more solid—than the trees he was wandering between. It was open, this window, and it let on to a view of sea and sky.

That vision gave way to another; this less peaceful. Fires sprang up around him, in which pages of books seemed to be burning. He walked through the fires fearlessly, knowing these visions could do him no harm; only wanting them more.

He was granted a third far stranger than its predecessors. Even as the fires dimmed fishes appeared out of the colors in his eyes, darting ahead of him in rainbow shoals.

He laughed out loud at the sheer incongruity of the sight, and his laughter inspired another wonder, as the three hallucinations synthesized, drawing into their pattern the very woods he was walking, until fires, fishes, sky, sea and trees became one brilliant mosaic.

The fishes swam with fire for fins. The sky grew green and threw down starfish blossom. The grass rippled like a tide beneath his feet; or rather beneath the mind that saw the feet, because feet were suddenly nothing to him; nor legs, not any part of the machine. In the mosaic he was mind: a pebble skipped from its place, and roving.

In this joy, a question came to trouble him. If he was only mind, what was the machine? Nothing at all? Something to be cast off? To be drowned with the fishes, burned with the words?

Somewhere in him, a tick of panic began.

I'm out of control, he told himself, I've lost my body and I'm out of control. My God. My God. My God!

Hush, somebody murmured in his head. There's nothing wrong.

He stopped walking; or hoped he had.

"Who's there?" he said; or hoped he'd said.

The mosaic was still in place all around him, inventing new paradoxes by the moment. He tried to shatter it with a shout; to be out of this place into somewhere simpler.

"I want to see!" he yelled.

"I'm here!" came the answer. "Howard, I'm here"

"Make it stop," he begged.

"Make what stop?"

"The pictures. Make the pictures stop!"

"Don't be afraid. It's the real world."

"No!" he yelled back. "It isn't! It isn't!"

He put his hands up to his face in the hope of blotting the confusion out, but they—his own hands—were conspiring with the enemy.

There, in the middle of his palms, were his eyes, looking back at him. It was too much. He unleashed a howl of horror, and started to fall forward. The fish brightened; the fires flared; he felt them ready to consume him.

As he struck the ground they disappeared, as though somebody had flipped a switch.

He lay still a moment to be certain this wasn't another trick, then, turning his hands palm upwards to confirm they were sightless, hauled himself to his feet. Even then he clung on to a low-hanging branch, to keep himself in touch with the world.

"You disappoint me, Howard," said his summoner.

For the first time since he'd heard the voice it had a clear point of origin: a spot some ten yards from him, where the trees made a glade within a glade, at its center a pool of light. Bathing there, a man with a pony-tail and one dead eye. Its living twin studied Howie with great intensity.

"Can you see me clearly enough?" he asked.

"Yes," said Howie. "I see you fine. Who are you?"

"My name is Fletcher," came the reply. "And you're my son."

Howie took even firmer hold of the branch.

"I'm what?" he said.

There was no smile on Fletcher's wasted face. Clearly what he'd said, however preposterous, was not intended as a joke. He stepped out of the ring of trees.

"I hate to hide," he said. "Especially from you. But there's been so many people back and forth—" He gestured wildly with his arms. "Back and forth! All to watch an exhumation. Can you imagine? What a waste of a day."

"Did you say son?" said Howie.

"I did," said Fletcher. "My favorite word! As above, so below, isn't that right? One ball in the sky. Two between the legs."

"It is a joke," Howie said.

"You know better than that," Fletcher replied, deadly serious. "I've been calling you for a long time: father to son."

"How did you get in my head?" Howie wanted to know.

Fletcher didn't bother to reply to the question.

"I needed you down here, to help me," he said. "But you kept resisting me. I suppose I would have done the same in your situation. Turned my back on the burning bush. We 're the same in that. Family resemblance."

"I don't believe you."

"You should have let the visions run awhile. We were tripping there, weren't we? Haven't done that in a long while. I always favored mescaline, though that's out of fashion by now I suppose."

"I wouldn't know," Howie replied.

"You don't approve."

"No."

"Well, that's a bad start, but I suppose it can only get better from here on in. Your father, you see, was addicted to mescaline. I wanted the visions so badly. You like them too. Or at least you did for a while."

"They made me sick."

"Too much too soon, that's all. You'll get used to it."

"No way."

"But you'll have to learn, Howard. That wasn't an indulgence; it was a lesson."

"In what?"

"In the science of being and becoming. Alchemy, biology and metaphysics in one discipline. It took me a long time to grasp it, but it made me the man I am"—Fletcher tapped at his lips with his forefinger—"which is, I realize, a somewhat pathetic sight. There are better ways to meet your progenitor, but I did my best to give you a taste of the miracle before you saw its maker in the flesh."

"This is just a dream," Howie said. "I stared too much at the sun and it's cooked my brains."

"I like to look at the sun too, "said Fletcher. "And no— this isn't a dream. We 're both here in the same moment, sharing our thoughts like civilized beings. This is as real as life gets." He opened his arms. "Come closer, Howard. Embrace me."

"No way."

"What are you afraid of?"

"You're not my father."

"All right," said Fletcher. "I'm just one of them. There was another. But believe me, Howard, I'm the important one."