“It hasn’t broken you,” said Chandra.
“Exactly,” I said.
Even though we’d been talking in low voices, the Lord of Thorns still heard us. He rose slowly and painfully to his feet, as though his many centuries of existence were finally catching up with him, and turned to face us with a certain wounded gravitas. He no longer had his staff of power, supposedly grown from a sliver off the original Tree of Life. Lilith broke it, when she broke him. I could remember when just his presence was enough to make me kneel to him, but he was just a man now. Someone had cut his Old Testament prophet’s hair and beard to more manageable proportions, and it looked like someone had been feeding him. People will adopt the strangest pets, in the Nightside.
He came down the aisle to join us, taking his time, and I nodded respectfully.
“Didn’t expect to see you still here,” I said.
“I look after the church,” he said flatly. “Or it looks after me. It’s often hard to tell . . . I keep it clean, keep the candles lit . . . because someone has to, and I tell myself it’s all about learning patience and humility. I’m still waiting for an answer to my prayer, the question I put to God. If I’m not the Nightside’s Overseer, then what am I? What is my true nature and purpose?”
“Isn’t that what every man would know of his god?” said Chandra.
“Most people haven’t lived a lie for as many centuries as I have,” said the Lord of Thorns.
“Have you regained any of your power?” I asked.
“No,” said the Lord of Thorns, his voice quite matter-of-fact. “I’m just a man. I sometimes wonder if I’m supposed to work out the answer myself, before I can take up my old power and authority again. Right now I’d settle for a sign. Or even a hint.” He looked at me thoughtfully. “I could have returned to my old home, in the World Beneath. It has been largely rebuilt and repopulated, since the end of the Lilith War. But it wouldn’t feel right. It would feel too much like hiding. So here I stay, in the church named after the Patron Saint of Lost Causes. What are you doing here, John Taylor? Come to talk to God at last, and ask him what you’re supposed to be?”
“I already know,” I said. “That’s my problem.”
“A moment, please,” said Chandra. “Is this really a place where a man can speak directly with God? And get an answer? There are so many things I would dearly love to ask Him . . .”
“This is the place,” said the Lord of Thorns. “Can’t you feel it?”
“Yes . . .” said Chandra. “There are places such as this in India. Ancient and sacred places that feel like this . . . But I never considered myself worthy enough, holy enough, to approach them. But then, perhaps this is not a place to find my god.”
“God is God,” said the Lord of Thorns. “You think he gives a damn what name we choose, just as long as we talk to him and listen for his answers? This is not a Christian place, though it currently uses Christian forms . . . It’s much older than that. This is the real thing, the pure pattern, just a man and his god, and nothing to separate them. Could anything be scarier?”
Chandra looked at me. “You’ve been here before. Have you ever asked a question?”
“No,” I said. “I’ve got more sense. The last thing any sensible man wants is God taking a keen interest in him. I have no wish to be given a quest, or a duty, or a destiny. I’m not a holy warrior, or any kind of saint. I’m just a man, trying to get through life as best I can. Don’t look at me like that, Thorns. You know what I mean.”
“Sorry,” said the Lord of Thorns. “I thought you were being ironic.”
“I decide my life,” I said. “No-one else.”
“I used to think that,” said the Lord of Thorns.
Chandra approached the stone altar, his voice soft and flat with awe. “To speak directly with God, without the intervention of priest or ritual. I am khalsa, a holy warrior. I have dedicated my life to serving my god, and yet still . . . I fear to hear what he might say to me. What does that say about me?”
“That you’re still human,” I said. “Only a fool or a fanatic never has doubts about himself.” I looked at the Lord of Thorns. “What do you know about the Walking Man?”
“I’ve met a few, in my time,” he said easily. “I haven’t always been bound to the Nightside. I have met Walking Men, out in the world. Not the happiest of men, usually. Driven, desperate to make the world make sense . . . by making sure the guilty are punished. For supposedly holy men, they seem to have remarkably little faith in the justice of the world to come. They want their justice here and now, where they can see it.”
“What if I were to bring him here, to you?” I said suddenly. “Could you stop him from destroying the Nightside?”
“Even if I still had my old power, and my old certainty, I am nothing compared to the Walking Man,” said the Lord of Thorns. “He is the wrath of God, you see. And besides . . . perhaps he’s right in what he’s doing. Perhaps God has finally decided to do away with the Nightside, for the sinfulness of its inhabitants. There are precedents . . .”
“There has to be a way to stop him!” I said, almost shouting at the old man. He didn’t flinch.
“There might be a way,” he said slowly. “Not a very pleasant way, but that’s often how these things go . . . I suppose it would depend on how desperate you are.”
“Oh, I am way past desperate,” I said. “What is it?”
“To stop a man of God, you need a weapon of God,” said the Lord of Thorns. “You need the Speaking Gun.”
That stopped me. I turned away. My mouth was suddenly very dry, and there was a chill in my bones.
“What exactly is this Speaking Gun?” said Chandra.
“An ancient, terrible weapon,” I said. “It uncreates things. It could destroy everything. So I destroyed it.”
“It still exists in the Past,” said the Lord of Thorns. “If you could travel back into Time Past... Perhaps if you were to speak with Old Father Time?”
“No,” I said. “Not after . . .”
“Oh yes. Quite. Well then, I suggest you visit the Street of the Gods. Time has never been too strongly nailed down there. And that is where the Walking Man is, right now.”
“What?” I said. “Oh shit . . .”
I left St. Jude’s at a run, with Chandra pounding along behind me. I had to get to the Street of the Gods. Before the Walking Man brought the wrath of God to things that only thought they were gods.
SEVEN
The Good Man
I’d barely cleared the door of St. Jude’s when I found myself charging down the Street of the Gods, with Chandra Singh pounding along behind me. A gift from the Lord of Thorns, or from the church itself? Or maybe even from Someone higher up . . . Some questions you just don’t ask, especially in the Nightside. I skidded to a halt and looked quickly around me as I realised the Street of the Gods wasn’t in any more of an upset than usual. Gods and worshippers, strange Beings and stranger tourists, all milled about making rather more noise than was necessary, stirring up trouble for themselves and each other, but there was no sign anywhere of the Walking Man. No-one was dead and dying, there were no piled-up bodies, and no-one was screaming . . . so perhaps he hadn’t actually got here yet. I made myself take a deep breath and concentrate. I’d spent too long chasing around after the Walking Man. Now I was ahead of him for once, I had to stop and think. Find some way to stop him. The Walking Man already had two massacres to his credit. I couldn’t let him get away with a third.
Especially not here.
“It’s like a carnival!” Chandra Singh said suddenly. He was staring all around him, beaming widely. “Brightly coloured tents holding wonders within, while hawkers shout their wares, and boast of the glories to be enjoyed by braver and more adventurous souls. The scale may be different, but the spirit’s the same. Come in, come in, put your money down, for an experience that will change your life forever! I have seen this before, John Taylor, from the smallest towns to the biggest cities. Religion for sale and faith on special offer. This is just another marketplace!”
“Of course,” I said. “Why do you think the Street of the Gods has always been so closely associated with the Nightside?”
“Bit short on taste, though,” said Chandra, positively curling his lip at some of the more ostentatious displays.
He was saved from hearing my perhaps overly cynical reply when we were ambushed by a pack of pamphleteers. They seemed to jump up out of nowhere, loud and aggressive and very much in our faces, surrounding us in a moment, forcing their cheaply printed pamphlets into our hands, while keeping up a constant clamour of hard-sell conversion. I glanced reflexively at the pamphlet in my hand.
Better Living Through Urine: Drink Yourself Holy! Worship Baphomet Now—Avoid The Rush When He Finally Manifests In All His Awful Glory! Join The Church Of Smiting: Strike Down The Ones You Hate With A Truly Nasty Act Of God! Suffering And Unfairness Guaranteed Or Your Money Back! Are You Not Sure Of Anything Really? Then Join The Church Of The Undecided. Or Not. See If We Care. We’re Only Printing These Things As A Tax Dodge.
Chandra made the mistake of trying to talk kindly to these hyperventilating vultures and was immediately shouted down by a dozen competing voices. Some of them even grabbed at his silk sleeves and tried to drag him off in a dozen different directions at once. So I made a point of throwing all my pamphlets on the ground and stamping on them, and when I had the pamphleteers attention, I fixed them all with a hard stare. They fell back as one, struck suddenly dumb. It’s amazing what you can achieve with a good hard stare when you’ve got a reputation like mine. But by now more pamphleteers had arrived, scenting blood in the water, and filled the silence with their own shouts.
“I saw them first! They’re mine!”
“Don’t listen to him! Only I can bring you to Enlightenment!”
“You? You couldn’t even spell Enlightenment! I offer a tenfold path to true transcendence!”
“Ten? Ten? I can do it in eight!”
“Seven!”
“Four!”
“Dagon shall rise again!”
It got nasty after that. They fell on each other, pamphlets thrown to the winds, fluttering on the air like particularly gaudy autumn leaves. Fists were brandished, shins were kicked, and there was a lot of close grappling and unnecessary biting. I strolled off and left them to it, and Chandra hurried after me.
The Street of the Gods was being its usual strange and unnatural self, with weird shit on every corner and more manifestations than you could shake a crucible at. Chandra enjoyed the sights, like any other tourist on his first grand tour, but every now and again he’d catch himself as he remembered he wasn’t supposed to approve of things like this. Organised religions are always jealous of the up-and-comers. But there was a lot to look at and enjoy. Self-appointed saints with neon halos looked disapprovingly on other-dimensional entities playing croquet with the heads of heretics, while rival congregations shouted rap sermons at each other from the safety of their church doors.
And a long line of sad furry animals followed a large scruffy bear as he trudged down the Street, holding up a crucifix to which was nailed a small green frog.
I pointed out some of the more interesting faiths and beliefs to Chandra as they presented themselves, at least partly in the spirit of self-defence. It pays to watch your back in the Street of the Gods. You never knew when some of the more aggressive Ideas will sneak up behind you and mug your subconscious. But there are many sights to be seen in the Street of the Gods, and I enjoyed showing them off to Chandra. It was all so new to him. The glamour rubs off fast after you’ve cleaned a fallen god’s blood off your shoes, as he’s viciously ejected from his temple to make way for someone more popular.
I showed him the Church of the Blood Red God—a tall Gothic structure with spiked towers and barbed parapets, a gloomy crimson edifice made entirely out of blood. Blood and nothing but blood, gallons of the stuff shaped and held in place entirely by the will of the Blood Red God. Impressive to look at, though up close it smelled pretty bad. Attracted flies like you wouldn’t believe. The God’s disciples provide the blood, mostly voluntarily.
“And what, precisely, does the Blood Red God get out of all this?” said Chandra suspiciously. “Apart from a church that smells like a slaughterhouse?”