Sacrament (52 page)

Authors: Clive Barker

What now? he wondered. He wanted to be away from this city, back into the painless river from which he'd
been hauled; that torrent where loss could not touch him, and he could swim inviolate. But how did he get
there? Perhaps he should go back to Lewis's house, he thought; perhaps the fox, who had plotted to bring him
on this sad trek, was still sorting through the rubbish, and could be persuaded to reverse the process; unmake his
memories and return him to the flow of things.

Yes, that's what he'd do; go back to Cumberland.

The streets were busier than ever, and at the intersection of Castro and 19th, where the foot-traffic was
particularly heavy, Will caught sight of a face he recognized. It was Drew, moving through the crowd on his
own, doing his best to present a contented face to the world, but not doing a very good job of it. He came to the
corner and could not seem to make up his mind which way he wanted to go. People pushed on past him, on their
way to this bar or that; a few glanced his way, but getting no reciprocal smile from him, looked elsewhere. He
didn't seem to care much. He simply stood in the flow, while party-goers moved on about the business of the
evening.

Will started in his direction, though it was not his intended route, moving easily through the crowd. When he
was perhaps twenty yards from the corner, Drew apparently decided he wasn't ready for a night of revelry,
because he turned and headed back the way he'd come. Will followed him, not certain why he was doing so (he
could offer neither solace nor apologies in his present state), but unwilling simply to let Drew go. The crowd thickened in front of him, and though in his present state he was able to pass through them without resistance, he had not yet got the confidence of his condition. He proceeded with more caution than was strictly necessary, and almost lost sight of Drew. He pressed his spirit forwards, however; on through the throng of men and women (and a few who were in transit), calling after Drew, though he knew he had no hope of being heard. Wait, he yelled; Drew, please wait!
And as he ran, and the figures turned to a blur around him, he remembered another such chase, pursuing a fox
through the flickering wood, while the light of wakefulness waited for him at the finishing line. This time he
didn't attempt to slow himself as he had that first time; didn't try to look over his shoulder at the street and the
crowd, fearful he would not see it again. He was happy to be leaving.
Drew had emerged from the knot of bodies at the intersection and was now no more than ten yards ahead of
Will, staring at the sidewalk as he trudged back home. As the distance between them closed, however, Drew
seemed to hear something, and raising his head, glanced back towards Will; the third and last soul to whom he
was momentarily visible tonight. Will saw him scan the crowd, his expression sweetly expectant. Then his face
grew brighter, and brighter still, and Castro, and the crowd, and the night that contained them both, went away
into the west, and he woke.

CHAPTER XVIII

He was in the wood, his head laid in the very spot where the birds had fallen. Though it was still night in
California, here in England day had come; a crisp, late-autumn day. He unknitted his aching joints and sat up,
the turmoil he'd felt leaving Patrick's side soothed somewhat by the quiet ease of his waking state. There was
quite a litter around him. Some half-eaten fruit, a couple of discarded slices of bread;much of it on its way to
rot. If these were, as he guessed, the remains of meals he'd had up here, then he'd been resident a goodly span.
He put his hand to his chin, and found what was probably a week's growth of beard. Then he cleared the gum of
sleep from his eyes and got to his feet. His left leg was numb, and it took a little while to shake it back into life.
While he did so, he looked up through the bare branches at the sky.

There were birds up there already, circling over the fells. He knew how fine it felt to have wings. He'd been in
the heads of eagles, lately; and in hummingbirds as they siphoned the blossom. The time for such bliss was past,
however. He had taken the journey - or rather his spirit had - and now he was returned into himself to be in the
world as a man. There was sorrow here, of course. Patrick was gone; so was Sherwood. But there was also the
work the fox had called him to; sacred work.

He put his full weight on his leg to test its reliability, and finding it strong enough to bear him up hobbled away
from his littered nest under the tree and out to the edge of the wood. There had been a light frost the night
before, and though the sun was showing itself between the clouds, it had too little warmth to melt the glaze; it
glistened on the slopes and fields, and roads and roofs. The scene before him, both above and below, looked
like a picture made by a miniaturist of such genius that every part of it may be scrutinized, down to the smallest
spiral of a fern or the flimsiest nuance of a cloud, and will be found to be perfectly delineated, just waiting for
the eye and soul to see it.

How long did he linger at the edge of the wood, drinking all this down? Long enough to watch a dozen little
ceremonies below. Cows brought to a trough; washing hung on a line; the postman on his early rounds. And
then, after a time, the four black cars winding in slow procession from Samson Street towards St Luke's.

'Sherwood...' Will murmured, and limping still, started the slope,

leaving a track of sharper green in the frosted grass. The church-bell had begun to toll, and its echo came off the
fells, filling the valley with its news: a man is dead. Take notice that a good soul has gone on his way; and we're
the poorer for it.

He was only halfway down the hillside by the time the funeral convoy reached the gates of the church, which
was on the far side of the valley. It would take him another half-hour at least, given his limp and his fatigue, to
reach the place, and even if he did he suspected he would not be welcome there in his present condition.
Perhaps Frannie would be happy to see him, though he couldn't be certain. For the rest of the mourners,
however, his filthy figure stumbling to the graveside would only be a distraction from the business of the hour,
which was to pay their respects to the dead. Later, when the coffin was in the ground, he'd find a quiet time to
visit the churchyard and say goodbye. For now, he would pay better service to Sherwood's memory by keeping
his distance.

The coffin had been lifted from the back of the hearse and was now being carried into the church, the mourners
filing in behind. The first figure to come after it was, he assumed, Frannie, though he could not make out her
face at this distance. He watched while the congregation entered the church, and disappeared, leaving the
drivers to lounge against the church wall and chat amongst themselves.

Only now did he continue on down the slope. He would go back to Hugo's house, he decided; there he could
bathe, shave and change his clothes, so that by the time Adele came back from the funeral (where she'd surely
be) he'd be looking more presentable.

But as he got to the bottom of the hill, he was waylaid by the sight of the village streets, which were as far as he
could see completely deserted. He could afford to put off going back to the house for a few minutes, he thought,
and took himself over the bridge.

The bell had long since ceased tolling; the valley was hushed from end to end. But as he wandered down the
street, enraptured by the stillness of the scene, he heard the sound of something behind him. He looked back.
There on the bridge stood a fox, ears pricked, tail flicking, watching him. There was nothing about its
appearance which made him think that this was Lord Fox, or even one of his innumerable descendants, except
for the fact of its presence here, defying him to question it. He'd seen better kempt creatures, to be sure; but then
the fox could have made the same observation in reply. They'd both had wild lives of late; both lost some of
their early glory; grown ragged, grown a little crazed. But they still had their wiles, they had their appetites.
They were alive, and ready for another day.

'Where are you off to?' he asked the fox.

The sound of his voice breaking the quiet of the street was enough to startle the animal, and on the instant it
turned and briskly departed back over the bridge and up the pale slope, gathering speed as it ascended, though it had no reason to run except for
pleasure's sake. He watched it until it gained the ridge of the fell. There it trotted for a little way, then
disappeared from sight.

The question he'd asked it was here answered. Where am I off to? Why, I'm away; somewhere I can be close to
the sky.

Will watched the hillside and the track upon it for a little while longer, hearing in his head what Lord Fox had
demanded when the animal had first appeared at his bedside. Wake up, it had said. Do it for the dogs, if you
must. But wake up.

Well, he had; finally. The season of visions was at an end, at least for now, and its inciter had departed, leaving
Will to take his wisdom back to the tribe. To tell what he'd seen and felt in the heart of the Domus Mundi. To
celebrate what he knew, and turn it to its healing purpose.

He looked off towards his father's house, picturing as he did so the empty study, where that last undelivered
lecture lay yellowing on the desk; then let his eyes wander to the church, and to the bleak churchyard where
Sherwood's remains would presently be laid; finally returning his gaze to the village streets.

It would be in him always, the spirit of this place. Wherever his pilgrimage took him he would carry these
sights, along with the sorrows and the ambitions that had moved in him here. But for all their significance, he
would not let them keep him from his ministry another moment. Just as the fox had taken its way off where it
could be true to its nature, so would he.

Turning from the deserted village, and from the church and the house, he walked down to the river, and
following the track that wound beside it, began his journey back to his only true and certain home, the world.

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