Imajica is a Webnovel created by Clive Barker.
This lightnovel is currently completed.
“No, he’s alive. But the problem lies with him.”
“Always has. Always has. Will you fetch my goods and chattels out of the folly? We’ll talk as we walk. Go on in, will you? There’s nothing there that’s going to bite.”
Dowd had stayed out of the Retreat all the time he’d waited for G.o.dolphin (a wearisome three days), even though it would have given him some measure of protection against the bitter cold. Not that his system was susceptible to such discomforts, but he fancied himself an empathic soul, and his time on Earth had taught him to feel cold as an intellectual concept, if not a physical one, and he might have wished to take shelter. Anywhere other than the Retreat. Not only had many esoterics died there (and he didn’t enjoy the proximity of death unless he’d been its bringer), but the Retreat was a pa.s.sing place between the Fifth Dominion and the other four, including, of course, the home from which he was in permanent exile. To be so close to the door through which his home lay, and be prevented by the conjurations of his first keeper, Joshua G.o.dolphin, from opening that door, was painful. The cold was preferable.
He stepped inside now, however, having no choice in the matter. The Retreat had been built in neocla.s.sical style: twelve marble pillars rising to support a dome that called for decoration but had none. The plainness of the whole lent it gravity and a certain functionalism which was not inappropriate. It was, after all, no more than a station, built to serve countless pa.s.sengers and now used by only one. On the floor, set in the middle of the elaborate mosaic that appeared to be the building’s sole concession to prettification but was in fact the evidence of its true purpose, were the bundles of artifacts G.o.dolphin brought back from his travels, neatly tied up by Hoi-Polloi Nuits-St-Georges, the knots encrusted with scarlet sealing wax. It was her present delight, this business with the wax, and Dowd cursed it, given that it fell to him to unpack these treasures. He crossed to the center of the mosaic, light on his heels. This was tremulous terrain, and he didn’t trust it. But moments later he emerged with his freight, to find that G.o.dolphin was already marching out of the copse that screened the Retreat from both the house (empty, of course; in ruins) and any casual spy who peered over the wall. He took a deep breath and went after his master, knowing the explanation ahead would not be easy.
“So they’ve summoned summoned me, have they?” Oscar said, as they drove back into London, the traffic thickening with the dusk. “Well, let them wait.” me, have they?” Oscar said, as they drove back into London, the traffic thickening with the dusk. “Well, let them wait.”
“You’re not going to tell them you’re here?”
“In my time, not in theirs. This is a mess, Dowdy. A wretched mess.”
“You told me to help Estabrook if he needed it.”
“Helping him hire an a.s.sa.s.sin isn’t what I had in mind.”
“Chant was very discreet.”
“Death makes you that way, I find. You really have made a pig’s ear of the whole thing.”
“I protest,” said Dowd. “What else was I supposed to do? You knew he wanted the woman dead, and you washed your hands of it.”
“All true,” said G.o.dolphin. “She is is dead, I a.s.sume?” dead, I a.s.sume?”
“I don’t think so. I’ve been scouring the papers, and there’s no mention.”
“So why did you have Chant killed?”
Here Dowd was more cautious in his account. If he said too little, G.o.dolphin would suspect him of concealment. Too much, and the larger picture might become apparent. The longer his employer stayed in ignorance of the scale of the stakes, the better. He proffered two explanations, both ready and waiting.
“For one thing, the man was more unreliable than I’d thought. Drunk and maudlin half the time. And I think he knew more than was good for either you or your brother. He might have ended up finding out about your travels.”
“Instead it’s the Society that’s suspicious.”
“It’s unfortunate the way these things turn out.”
“Unfortunate, my a.r.s.e. A total b.a.l.l.s-up is what it is.”
“I’m very sorry.”
“I know you are, Dowdy,” Oscar said. “The point is, where do we find a scapegoat?”
“Your brother?”
“Perhaps,” G.o.dolphin replied, cannily concealing the degree to which this suggestion found favor.
“When should I tell them you’ve come back?” Dowd asked.
“When I’ve made up a lie I can believe in,” came the reply.
Back in the house in Regent’s Park Road, Oscar took some time to study the newspaper reports of Chant’s death before retiring to his treasure house on the third floor with both his new artifacts and a good deal to think about. A sizable part of him wanted to exit this Dominion once and for all. Take himself off to Yzordderrex and set up business with Peccable; marry Hoi-Polloi despite her crossed eyes; have a litter of kids and retire to the Hills of the Conscious Cloud, in the Third, and raise parrots. But he knew he’d yearn for England sooner or later, and a yearning man could be cruel. He’d end up beating his wife, bullying his kids, and eating the parrots. So, given that he’d always have to keep a foot in England, if only during the cricket season, and given that as long as he kept a presence here he would be answerable to the Society, he had to face them.
He locked the door of his treasure room, sat down amid his collection, and waited for inspiration. The shelves around him, which were built to the ceiling, were bowed beneath the weight of his trove. Here were items gathered from the edge of the Second Dominion to the limits of the Fourth. He had only to pick one of them up to be transported back to the time and place of its acquisition. The statue of the Etook Ha’chiit, he’d bartered for in a little town called Slew, which was now, regrettably, a blasted spot, its citizens the victims of a purge visited upon them for the crime of a song, written in the dialect of their community, suggesting that the Autarch of Yzordderrex lacked t.e.s.t.i.c.l.es.
Another of his treasures, the seventh volume of Gaud Maybellome’s Encyclopedia of Heavenly Signs Encyclopedia of Heavenly Signs, originally written in the language of Third Dominion academics but widely translated for the delectation of the proletariat, he’d bought from a woman in the city of Ja.s.sick, who’d approached him in a gaming room, where he was attempting to explain cricket to a group of the locals, and said she recognized him from stories her husband (who was in the Autarch’s army in Yzordderrex) had told.
“You’re the English male,” she’d said, which didn’t seem worth denying.
Then she’d shown him the book: a very rare volume indeed. He’d never ceased to find fascination within its pages, for it was Maybellome’s intention to make an encyclopedia listing all the flora, fauna, languages, sciences, ideas, moral perspectives-in short, anything that occurred to her-that had found their way from the Fifth Dominion, the Place of the Succulent Rock, through to the other worlds. It was a herculean task, and she’d died just as she was beginning the nineteenth volume, with no end in sight, but even the one book in G.o.dolphin’s possession was enough to guarantee that he would search for the others until his dying day. It was a bizarre, almost surreal volume. Even if only half the entries were true, or nearly true, Earth had influenced just about every aspect of the worlds from which it was divided. Fauna, for instance. There were countless animals listed in the volume which Maybellome claimed to be invaders from the other world. Some clearly were: the zebra, the crocodile, the dog. Others were a mixture of genetic strands, part terrestrial, part non. But many of these species (pictured in the book like fugitives from a medieval bestiary) were so outlandish he doubted their very existence. Here, for instance, were hand-sized wolves with the wings of canaries. Here was an elephant that lived in an enormous conch. Here was a literate worm that wrote omens with its thread-fine half-mile body. Wonderment upon wonderment. G.o.dolphin only had to pick up the encyclopedia and he was ready to put on his boots and set off for the Dominions again.
What was self-evident from even a casual perusal of the book was how extensively the unreconciled Dominion had influenced the others. The languages of earth-English, Italian, Hindustani, and Chinese particularly-were known in some variation everywhere, though it seemed the Autarch-who had come to power in the confusion following the failed Reconciliation-favored English, which was now the preferred linguistic currency almost everywhere. To name a child with an English word was thought particularly propitious, though there was little or no consideration given to what the word actually meant. Hence Hoi-Polloi, for instance; this one of the less strange namings among the thousands G.o.dolphin had encountered.
He flattered himself that he was in some small part responsible for such blissful bizarrities, given that over the years he’d brought all manner of influences through from the Succulent Rock. There was always a hunger for newspapers and magazines (usually preferred to books), and he’d beard of baptizers in Patashoqua who named children by stabbing a copy of the London Times Times with a pin and bequeathing the first three words they p.r.i.c.ked upon the infant, however unmusical the combination. But he was not the only influence. He hadn’t brought the crocodile or the zebra or the dog (though he would lay claim to the parrot). No, there had always been routes through from Earth into the Dominions, other than that at the Retreat. Some, no doubt, had been opened by Maestros and esoterics, in all manner of cultures, for the express purpose of their pa.s.sing to and fro between worlds. Others were conceivably opened by accident, and perhaps remained open, marking the sites as haunted or sacred, shunned or obsessively protected. Yet others, these in the smallest number, had been created by the sciences of the other Dominions, as a means of gaining access to the heaven of the Succulent Rock. with a pin and bequeathing the first three words they p.r.i.c.ked upon the infant, however unmusical the combination. But he was not the only influence. He hadn’t brought the crocodile or the zebra or the dog (though he would lay claim to the parrot). No, there had always been routes through from Earth into the Dominions, other than that at the Retreat. Some, no doubt, had been opened by Maestros and esoterics, in all manner of cultures, for the express purpose of their pa.s.sing to and fro between worlds. Others were conceivably opened by accident, and perhaps remained open, marking the sites as haunted or sacred, shunned or obsessively protected. Yet others, these in the smallest number, had been created by the sciences of the other Dominions, as a means of gaining access to the heaven of the Succulent Rock.
In such a place, this near the walls of the Iahmandhas in the Third Dominion, G.o.dolphin had acquired his most sacred possession: a Boston Bowl, complete with its forty-one colored stones. Though he’d never used it, the bowl was reputedly the most accurate prophetic tool known in the worlds, and now-sitting amid his treasures, with a sense growing in him that events on earth in the last few days were leading to some matter of moment-he brought the bowl down from its place on the highest shelf, unwrapped it, and set it on the table. Then he took the stones from their pouch and laid them at the bottom of the bowl. Truth to tell, the arrangement didn’t look particularly promising: the bowl resembled something for kitchen use, plain fired ceramic, large enough to whip eggs for a couple of souffles. The stones were more colorful, varying in size and shape from tiny flat pebbles to perfect spheres the size of an eyeball.
Having set them out, G.o.dolphin had second thoughts. Did he even believe in prophecy? And if he did, was it wise to know the future? Probably not. Death was bound to be in there somewhere, sooner or later. Only Maestros and deities lived forever, and a man might sour the balance of his span knowing when it was going to end. But then, suppose he found in this bowl some indication as to how the Society might be handled? That would be no small weight off his shoulders.
“Be brave,” he told himself, and laid the middle finger of each hand upon the rim, as Peccable, who’d once owned such a bowl and had it smashed by his wife in a domestic row, had instructed.
Nothing happened at first, but Peccable had warned him the bowls usually took some time to start from cold. He waited and waited. The first sight of activation was a rattling from the bottom of the bowl as the stones began to move against each other; the second a distinctly acidic odor rising to jab at his sinuses; the third, and most startling, the sudden ricocheting of one pebble, then two, then a dozen, across the bowl and back, several skipping higher than the rim. Their ambition increased by the movement, until all forty-one were in violent motion, so violent that the bowl began to move across the table, and Oscar had to take a firm hold of it to keep it from turning over. The stones struck his fingers and knuckles with stinging force, but the pain was made sweeter by the success that now followed, as the speed and motion of the multifarious shapes and colors began to describe images in the air above the bowl.
Like all prophecy, the signs were in the eye of the beholder, and perhaps another witness would have seen different forms in the blur. But what G.o.dolphin saw seemed quite plain to him. The Retreat, for one, half hidden in the copse. Then himself, standing in the middle of the mosaic, either coming back from Yzordderrex or preparing to depart. The images lingered for only a brief time before changing, the Retreat demolished in the storm of stones and a new structure raised in the whirl: the tower of the Tabula Rasa. He fixed his eyes on the prophecy with fresh deliberation, denying himself the comfort of blinking to be certain he missed nothing. The tower as seen from the street gave way to its interior. Here they were, the wise ones, sitting around the table contemplating their divine duty. They were navel-defluffers and snot rollers to a man. Not one of them would be capable of surviving an hour in the alleyways of East Yzordderrex, he thought, down by the harbor where even the cats had pimps. Now he saw himself step into the picture, and something he was doing or saying made the men and women before him jump from their seats, even Lionel.
“What’s this?” Oscar murmured.
They had wild expressions on their faces, every one. Were they laughing? What had he done? Cracked a joke? Pa.s.sed wind? He studied the prophecy more closely. No, it wasn’t humor on their faces. It was horror.
“Sir?”
Dowd’s voice from outside the door broke his concentration. He looked away from the bowl for a few seconds to snap, “Go away.”
But Dowd had urgent news. “McGann’s on the telephone,” he said.
“Tell him you don’t know where I am.” Oscar snorted, returning his gaze to the bowl. Something terrible had happened in the time between his looking away and looking back. The horror remained on their faces, but for some reason he’d disappeared from the scene. Had they dispatched him summarily? G.o.d, was he dead on the floor? Maybe. There was something glistening on the table, like spilled blood. “Sir!”
“f.u.c.k off, Dowdy.”
“They know you’re here, sir.”
They knew; they knew they knew. The house was being watched, and they knew.
“All right,” he said. “Tell him I’ll be down in a moment.”
“What did you say, sir?”
Oscar raised his voice over the din of the stones, looking away again, this time more willingly, “Get his whereabouts. I’ll call him back.”
Again, he returned his gaze to the bowl, but his concentration had faltered, and he could no longer interpret the images concealed in the motion of the stones. Except for one. As the speed of the display slowed he seemed to catch-oh, so fleetingly-a woman’s face in the melee. His replacement at the Society’s table, perhaps; or his dispatcher.
He needed a drink before he spoke to McGann. Dowd, ever the antic.i.p.ator, had already mixed him a whisky and soda, but he forsook it for fear it would loosen his tongue. Paradoxically, what had been half revealed by the Boston Bowl helped him in his exchange. In extreme circ.u.mstances he responded with almost pathological detachment; it was one of his most English traits. He had thus seldom been cooler or more controlled than now, as he told McGann that yes, indeed, he had been travelling, and no, it was none of the Society’s business where or about what pursuit. He would of course be delighted to attend a gathering at the tower the following day, but was McGann aware (indeed did he care?) that tomorrow was Christmas Eve?
“I never miss Midnight Ma.s.s at St. Martin-in-the-Field,” Oscar told him, “so I’d appreciate it greatly if the meeting could be concluded quickly enough to allow me time to get there and find a pew with a good view.”
He delivered all of this without a tremor in the voice. McGann attempted to press him as to his whereabouts in the last few days, to which Oscar asked why the h.e.l.l it mattered.
“I don’t ask about your private affairs, now, do I?” he said, in a mildly affronted tone. “Nor, by the way, do I spy on your comings and goings. Don’t splutter, McGann. You don’t trust me and I don’t trust you. I will take tomorrow’s meeting as a forum to debate the privacy of the Society’s members and a chance to remind the gathering that the name of G.o.dolphin is one of the cornerstones of the Society.”
“All the more reason for you to be forthright,” McGann said.
“I’ll be perfectly forthright,” was Oscar’s reply. “You’ll have ample evidence of my innocence.” Only now, with the war of wits won, did he accept the whisky and soda Dowd had mixed for him. “Ample and definitive.” He silently toasted Dowd as he talked, knowing as he sipped it that there’d be blood shed before Christmas Day dawned. Grim as that prospect was, there was no avoiding it now.
When he put the phone down he said to Dowd, “I think I’ll wear the herringbone suit tomorrow. And a plain shirt. White. Starched collar.”
“And the tie?” Dowd asked, replacing Oscar’s drained gla.s.s with a fresh one.
“I’ll be going straight on to Midnight Ma.s.s,” Oscar said.
“Black, then.”
“Black.”
10
The afternoon of the day following the a.s.sa.s.sin’s appearance at Marlin’s apartment a blizzard descended upon New York with no little ferocity, conspiring with the inevitable seasonal rush to make finding a flight back to England difficult. But Jude was not easily denied anything, especially when she’d set her mind firmly on an objective; and she was certain-despite Marlin’s protestations-that leaving Manhattan was the most sensible thing to do.
She had reason on her side. The a.s.sa.s.sin had made two attempts upon her life. He was still at large. As long as she stayed in New York she would be under threat. But even if this had not been the case (and there was a part of her that still believed that he’d come that second time to explain, or apologize), she would have found an excuse for returning to England, just to be out of Marlin’s company. He had become too cloying in his affections, his talk as saccharine as the dialogue from the Christmas cla.s.sics on the television, his every gaze mawkish. He’d had this sickness all along, of course, but he’d worsened since the a.s.sa.s.sin’s visit, and her tolerance for its symptoms, braced as she’d been by her encounter with Gentle, had dropped to zero. Once she’d put the phone down on him the previous night she’d regretted her skittish way with him, and after a heart-to-heart with Marlin in which she’d told him she wanted to go back to England, and he’d replied that it would all seem different in the morning and why didn’t she just take a pill and lie down, she’d decided to call him back. By this time, Marlin was sound asleep. She’d left her bed, gone through to the living room, put on a single lamp, and made the call. It felt covert, which in a way it was. Marlin had not been pleased to know that one of her ex-lovers had attempted to play hero in his own apartment, and he wouldn’t have been happy to find her making contact with Gentle at two in the morning. She still didn’t know what had happened when she’d been put through to the room. The receiver had been picked up and then dropped, leaving her to listen with increasing fury and frustration to the sound of Gentle making love. Instead of putting the phone down there and then she’d listened, half wishing she could have joined the escapade. Eventually, after failing to distract Gentle from his labors, she’d hung up and traipsed back to her cold bed in a foul humor.
He’d called the next day, and Marlin had answered. She let him tell Gentle that if he ever saw hide or hair of Gentle in the building again he’d have him arrested as an accomplice to attempted murder.
“What did he say?” she’d asked when the conversation was done.
“Not very much. He sounded drunk.”
She had not discussed the matter any further. Marlin was already sullen enough, after her breakfast announcement that she still intended to return to England that day. He’d asked her over and over: why? Was there something he could do to make her stay more comfortable? Extra locks on the doors? A promise that he wouldn’t leave her side? None of these, of course, filling her with renewed enthusiasm for staying. If she told him once she told him two dozen times that he was quite the perfect host, and that he wasn’t to take this personally, but she wanted to be back in her own house, her own city, where she would feel most protected from the a.s.sa.s.sin. He’d then offered to come back with her, so she wasn’t returning to an empty house alone, at which point-running out of soothing phrases and patience-she’d told him that alone was exactly what she wanted to be.
And so here she was, one snail crawl through the blizzard to Kennedy, a five-hour delay, and a flight in which she was wedged between a nun who prayed aloud every time they hit an air pocket and a child in need of worming, later. Her own sole possessor, in an empty flat on Christmas Eve.
The painting in four contrary modes was there to greet Gentle when he got back to the studio. His return had been delayed by the same blizzard that had almost prevented Judith from leaving Manhattan, and put him beyond the deadline Klein had set. But his thoughts had not turned to his business dealings with Klein more than once during the journey. They’d revolved almost entirely around the encounter with the a.s.sa.s.sin. Whatever mischief Pie’oh’pah had worked upon his system it had cleared by the following morning-his eyes were operating normally, and he was lucid enough to deal with the practicalities of departure-but the echoes of what he’d experienced still reverberated. Dozing on the plane he felt the smoothness of the a.s.sa.s.sin’s face in his fingertips, the tumble of hair he’d taken to be Jude’s over the back of his hands. He could still smell the scent of wet skin and feel the weight of Pie’oh’pah’s body on his hips, this so persuasive he had an erection apparent enough to draw a stare from one of the flight attendants. He reasoned that perhaps he would have to put fresh sensation between these echoes and their origins: f.u.c.k them out, sweat himself clean. The thought comforted him. When he dozed again, and the memories returned, he didn’t fight them, knowing he had a means of scouring them from his system once he got back to England.
Now he sat in front of the painting in four modes and flipped through his address book looking for a partner for the night. He made a few calls but couldn’t have chosen a worse time to be setting up a casual liaison! Husbands were home; family gatherings were in the offing. He was out of season.
He did eventually speak to Klein, who after some persuasion accepted his apologies and then went on to tell him there was to be a party at Taylor and Clem’s house the following day, and he was sure Gentle would be welcome if he had no other plans.
“Everyone says it’ll be Taylor’s last,” Chester said. “I know he’d like to see you.”
“I suppose I should go, then,” Gentle said.
“You should. He’s very sick. He’s had pneumonia, and now cancer. He was always very fond of you, you know.”
The a.s.sociation of ideas made fondness for Gentle sound like another disease, but he didn’t comment on it, merely made arrangements to pick up Klein the following evening; and put down the phone, plunged into a deeper trough than ever. He’d known Taylor had the plague but hadn’t realized people were counting the days to his demise. Such grim times. Everywhere he looked things were coming apart. There seemed to be only darkness ahead, full of blurred shapes and pitiful glances. The Age of Pie’oh’pah, perhaps. The time of the a.s.sa.s.sin.
He didn’t sleep, despite being tired, but sat up into the small hours with an object of study that he’d previously dismissed as fanciful nonsense: Chant’s final letter. When he’d first read it, on the plane to New York, it had seemed a ludicrous outpouring. But there had been strange times since then, and they’d put Gentle in an apter mood for this study. Pages that had seemed worthless a few days before were now pored over, in the hope they’d yield some clue, encoded in the fanciful excesses of Chant’s idiosyncratic and ill-punctuated prose, that would lead him to some fresh comprehension of the times and their movers. Whose G.o.d, for instance, was this Hapexamendios Hapexamendios that Chant exhorted Estabrook to pray to and praise? He came trailing synonyms: the Unbeheld, the Aboriginal, the Wanderer. And what was the greater plan that Chant hoped in his final hours he was a part of? that Chant exhorted Estabrook to pray to and praise? He came trailing synonyms: the Unbeheld, the Aboriginal, the Wanderer. And what was the greater plan that Chant hoped in his final hours he was a part of?
I AM ready for death in this DOMINION, he’d written, if I know that the Unbeheld has used me as His INSTRUMENT. All praise to HAPEXAMENDIOS. For He was in the Place of the Succulent Rock and left His children to SUFFER here, and I have suffered here and AM DONE with suffering if I know that the Unbeheld has used me as His INSTRUMENT. All praise to HAPEXAMENDIOS. For He was in the Place of the Succulent Rock and left His children to SUFFER here, and I have suffered here and AM DONE with suffering.
That at least was true. The man had known his death was imminent, which suggested he’d known his murderer too. Was it Pie’oh’pah he’d been expecting? It seemed not. The a.s.sa.s.sin was referred to, but not as Chant’s executioner. Indeed, in his first reading of the letter Gentle hadn’t even realized it was Pie’oh’pah who was being spoken of in this pa.s.sage. But on this rereading it was completely apparent.
You have made a covenant with a RARE thing in this DOMINION or any other, and I do not know if this death nearly upon me is my punishment or my reward for my agency in that. But be circ.u.mspect in all your dealings with it, for such power is capricious, being a stew of kinds and possibilities, no UTTER thing, in any part of its nature, but pavonine and prismatic, an apostate to its core.
I was never the friend of this power-it has only ADORERS AND UNDOERS-but it trusted me as its representative and I have done it as much harm in these dealings as I have you. More, I think; for it is a lonely thing, and suffers in this DOMINION as I have. You have friends who know you for the man you are and do not have to conceal your TRUE NATURE. Cling to them, and their love for you, for the Place of the Succulent Rock is about to shake and tremble, and in such a time all a soul has is the company of its loving like. I say this having lived in such a time, and am GLAD that if such is coming upon the FIFTH DOMINION again, I will be dead, and my face turned to the glory of the UNBEHELD.
All praise to HAPEXAMENDIOS.
And to you sir, in this moment, I offer my contrition and my prayers.
There was a little more, but both handwriting and the sentence structure deteriorated rapidly thereafter, as though Chant had panicked and scrawled the rest while putting on his coat. The more coherent pa.s.sages contained enough hints to keep Gentle from sleep, however… The descriptions of Pie’oh’pah were particularly alarming: “A RARE thing… a stew of kinds and possibilities.”
How was that to be interpreted, except as a verification of what Gentle’s senses had glimpsed in New York? If so, what was this creature that had stood before him, naked and singular, but concealed mult.i.tudes; this power Chant had said possessed no friends (it has only ADORERS and UNDOERS, he’d written) and had been done as much harm in these dealings (again, Chant’s words) as Estabrook, to whom Chant had offered his contrition and his prayers? Not human, for certain. Not born of any tribe or nation Gentle was familiar with. He read the letter over and over again, and with each rereading the possibility of belief crept closer. He felt its proximity. It was fresh from the margins of that land he’d first suspected in New York. The thought of being there had made him fearful then. But it no longer did, perhaps because it was Christmas morning, and time for something miraculous to appear and change the world.
The closer they crept-both morning and belief-the more he regretted shunning the a.s.sa.s.sin when it had so plainly wanted his company. He had no clues to its mystery but those contained in Chant’s letter, and after a hundred readings they were exhausted. He wanted more. The only other source was his memory of the creature’s jigsaw face, and, knowing his propensity for forgetting, they’d start to fade all too soon. He had to set them down! That was the priority now: to set the vision down before it slipped away!
He threw the letter aside and went to stare at his Supper at Emmaus Supper at Emmaus. Was any of those styles capable of capturing what he’d seen? He doubted it. He’d have to invent a new mode. Fired up by that ambition, he turned the Supper Supper on end and began to squeeze burnt umber directly onto the canvas, spreading it with a palette knife until the scene beneath was completely obscured. In its place was now a dark ground, into which he started to gouge the outline of a figure. He had never studied anatomy very closely. The male body was of little aesthetic interest to him, and the female was so mutable, so much a function of its own motion, or that of light across it, that all static representation seemed to him doomed from the outset. But he wanted to represent a protean form now, however impossible; wanted to find a way to fix what he’d seen at the door of his hotel room, when Pie’oh’pah’s many faces had been shuffled in front of him like cards in an illusionist’s deck. If he could fix that sight, or even begin to do so, he might yet find a way of controlling the thing that had come to haunt him. on end and began to squeeze burnt umber directly onto the canvas, spreading it with a palette knife until the scene beneath was completely obscured. In its place was now a dark ground, into which he started to gouge the outline of a figure. He had never studied anatomy very closely. The male body was of little aesthetic interest to him, and the female was so mutable, so much a function of its own motion, or that of light across it, that all static representation seemed to him doomed from the outset. But he wanted to represent a protean form now, however impossible; wanted to find a way to fix what he’d seen at the door of his hotel room, when Pie’oh’pah’s many faces had been shuffled in front of him like cards in an illusionist’s deck. If he could fix that sight, or even begin to do so, he might yet find a way of controlling the thing that had come to haunt him.
He worked in a fair frenzy for two hours, making demands of the paint he’d never made before, plastering it on with palette knife and fingers, attempting to capture at least the shape and proportion of the thing’s head and neck. He could see the image clearly enough in his mind’s eye (since that night no two rememberings had been more than a minute apart), but even the most basic sketch eluded his hand. He was badly equipped for the task, He’d been a parasite for too long, a mere copier, echoing other men’s visions. Now he finally had one of his own-only one, but all the more precious for that-and he simply couldn’t set it down. He wanted to weep at this final defeat, but he was too tired. With his hands still covered in paint, he lay down on the chilly sheets and waited for sleep to take his confusions away.
Two thoughts visited him as he slipped into dreams. The first, that with so much burnt umber on his hands he looked as though he’d been playing with his own s.h.i.t. The second, that the only way to solve the problem on the canvas was to see its subject again in the flesh, which thought he welcomed, and went to dreams relieved of his frauds and pieties, smiling to think of having the rare thing’s face before him once again.
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