Part 18 (1/2)
I had a life.
And I lost it.Again.I have done a terrible thing.
It is of no matter. Such things do not exist in the dark.
But what if I can't slough it all off? What if the condition of nihil nihil is only incompletely achieved? What if, in the end, my sin is a very petty and human one, a routine mixture of cowardice and prideful despair? is only incompletely achieved? What if, in the end, my sin is a very petty and human one, a routine mixture of cowardice and prideful despair?
Now the stars swirl around us in a vast whirlpool, and then there are more dark dust clouds whirling, obscuring the light, and we are more dark dust clouds whirling, obscuring the light, and we pa.s.s through, borne by our captors, for I believe that is what they pa.s.s through, borne by our captors, for I believe that is what they are, the ones to whom we have surrendered ourselves. Once again are, the ones to whom we have surrendered ourselves. Once again the ice-plain stretches below us, beneath the black suns, and the enormous stone visage looms before us, and the stone jaws grind and the the ice-plain stretches below us, beneath the black suns, and the enormous stone visage looms before us, and the stone jaws grind and the stone throat howls, speaking the names of the lords of primal chaos, stone throat howls, speaking the names of the lords of primal chaos, and of the chaos itself which cannot be named at all. and of the chaos itself which cannot be named at all.
I have done a terrible thing.
History, family history, has a way of repeating itself, and the sins of the fathers are visited, etc., etc., but not precisely and not the way you think, because the terrible thing was simply this, that at the end of many long and happy years together with Marguerite, she began to leave me, not because she was unfaithful or wanted a divorce, much less because I blew her brains out with a heavy-caliber pistol or induced her to do the same to herself. More simply, she developed brain cancer, and after the seizures and delirium and withdrawals into hospital wards, where I last saw her hooked up to monitors and tubes like a thing, not the person I loved, who had taught me, quite unexpectedly, how to be human-after I no longer had the courage to visit her or whisper her name, I looked into the darkness once more and remembered all those strange things from my youth, and my companion, my mentor, my friend with the many funny names I'd made up for him and no name at all, was waiting for me as if no time had pa.s.sed.
Cowardice and despair. How terribly, disappointingly human at the last.
Falling down from out of the black sky toward the immense thing that is more of a G.o.d than anything imagined in human mytholo that is more of a G.o.d than anything imagined in human mytholo gies, I realize that my only crime is that I am a liar, that I claimed gies, I realize that my only crime is that I am a liar, that I claimed to be ready for this journey when I am not, that I have not managed to be ready for this journey when I am not, that I have not managed to slough off my humanity at all; that if anything I have suddenly to slough off my humanity at all; that if anything I have suddenly regained it. regained it.
I call out to my companion. I speak strange words, like an apostle babbling in tongues. I ask him if he is my friend, if he has been my babbling in tongues. I ask him if he is my friend, if he has been my friend all my life. I tell him that I have a name, which is Joseph. I friend all my life. I tell him that I have a name, which is Joseph. I ask him his own name, and somehow I am able to press into his ask him his own name, and somehow I am able to press into his mind. mind. I I catch catch glimpses glimpses of of his his life life and and learn learn that that he he was was an an astronomer who worked in in Arizona about 1910, named Ezra astronomer who worked in in Arizona about 1910, named Ezra Watkins, and he too has some deeply buried core of sorrow, a secret Watkins, and he too has some deeply buried core of sorrow, a secret pain that he is terrified I might uncover and force him to confront pain that he is terrified I might uncover and force him to confront before the darkness can swallow him up utterly and forever. before the darkness can swallow him up utterly and forever.
He draws away from me in something very much like panic, shouting that these things must be gotten rid of, discarded, sloughed shouting that these things must be gotten rid of, discarded, sloughed off-the phrase he uses over and over again, chanting it like a off-the phrase he uses over and over again, chanting it like a mantra-and I can feel his immeasurable, helpless, despair as mantra-and I can feel his immeasurable, helpless, despair as memories of his discarded humanity begin to awaken within him. memories of his discarded humanity begin to awaken within him.
He begins to scream, to make that unbelievable, indescribable howling noise, and for once I cannot join him in his song. From out howling noise, and for once I cannot join him in his song. From out of my mouth issue only words, like a little boy's voice, not loud of my mouth issue only words, like a little boy's voice, not loud enough to be heard, breaking, shrill. enough to be heard, breaking, shrill.
Consternation among our winged bearers.
This one is too heavy. He is not pure.
They let go of me. I am falling from them, through s.p.a.ce, burning among the stars, blinded by light, away from the stone G.o.d, away among the stars, blinded by light, away from the stone G.o.d, away from the black suns and the swirling dark. from the black suns and the swirling dark.
I call out to Ezra Watkins. I reach for his hand.
But he is not there, and I can feel my ears bleeding.
Maybe my daughter Anastasia inherited my alleged total lack of human emotions, because she disappeared about the time her mother became ill, and I never heard from her again; but I am, alas, a very poor liar, which is my single crime, of which prideful despair, cowardice, and self-delusion are mere subsets, what I have failed to slough off.
I alone have escaped to tell thee.
My eyes do not glow. That is an illusion. In the dark, there is no light. light.
I wait. I have walked too far in the dark s.p.a.ces. I have waded barefoot barefoot among among the the fiery fiery stars stars and and the the black black stars stars and and burned burned myself. I cannot walk upon the Earth again, but only wander in the myself. I cannot walk upon the Earth again, but only wander in the darkness, howling. darkness, howling.
The Christians say it is the howling of a d.a.m.ned soul. The Native peoples, who have been here longer, have other, older ideas. peoples, who have been here longer, have other, older ideas.
They're both right.
n.o.body is going to make this better with a blanket and a cup of hot chocolate. chocolate.
Now that you have come to me, you must tell the story.
The Truth about Pickman.
Brian Stableford
Brian Stableford is an acclaimed British author of science fiction and horror novels, including The Empire of Fear The Empire of Fear (Simon & Schuster UK, 1988), (Simon & Schuster UK, 1988), Young Blood Young Blood (Simon & Schuster UK, 1992), (Simon & Schuster UK, 1992), The Hunger and Ecstasy of Vampires The Hunger and Ecstasy of Vampires (Mark V.Ziesing, 1996), (Mark V.Ziesing, 1996), The Werewolves of London The Werewolves of London (Simon & Schuster UK, 1990), (Simon & Schuster UK, 1990), The Angel of Pain The Angel of Pain (Simon & Schuster UK, 1991), and (Simon & Schuster UK, 1991), and The Carnival of Destruction The Carnival of Destruction (Simon & Schuster UK, 1994). He has also edited (Simon & Schuster UK, 1994). He has also edited The Dedalus Book of Decadence The Dedalus Book of Decadence (Dedalus, 199092; 2 vols.) and is the author of such critical studies as (Dedalus, 199092; 2 vols.) and is the author of such critical studies as Scientific Romance in Britain 18901950 Scientific Romance in Britain 18901950 (Fourth Estate, 1985) and (Fourth Estate, 1985) and The Sociology of Science Fiction The Sociology of Science Fiction (Borgo Press, 1987). (Borgo Press, 1987).
*he doorbell didn't ring until fifteen minutes after the time we'd agreed on the telephone, but I hadn't even begun to get impatient. Visitors to the island-even those who've only come over the Solent from Hamps.h.i.+re, let alone across the Atlantic from Boston-are always taken by surprise by the slower pace of life here. It's not so much that the buses never run on time as the fact that you can't judge the time of a walk by looking at the map. The map is flat, but the terrain is anything but, especially here on the south coast, where all the chines are.
”Do come in, Professor Thurber,” I said, when I opened the door. ”This is quite a privilege. I don't get many visitors.”
His face was a trifle blanched, and he had to make an effort to unclench his jaw. ”I'm not surprised,” he muttered, in an accent that was distinctly American but by no means a drawl. ”Who ever thought of building a house here, and how on earth did they get the materials down that narrow track?”
I took his coat. There were scuff-marks on the right sleeve because of the way he'd hugged the wall on the way down rather than trust the hand-rail on the left. The cast-iron struts supporting it were rusted, of course, and the wood had grown a fine crop of fungus because we'd had such a wet August, but the rail was actually quite sound, so he could have used it if he'd had the nerve.
”It is a trifle inconvenient nowadays,” I admitted. ”The path was wider when the house was built, and I shudder to think what the next significant landslip might do to it, but the rock face behind the house is vertical, and it's not too difficult to rig a blockand-tackle up on top. The biggest thing I've had to bring down recently is a fridge, though, and I managed that on the path with the aid of one of those two-wheeled trolleys. It's not so bad when you get used to it.”
He'd pulled himself together by then and stuck out his hand. ”Alastair Thurber,” he said. ”I'm truly glad to meet you, Mr. Eliot. My grandfather knew your. . . grandfather.” The hesitation was perceptible, as he tried to guess my age and estimate whether I might conceivably be Silas Eliot's son rather than his grandson, but it wasn't so blatant as to seem impolite. Even so, to cover up his confusion, he added: ”And they were both friends of the man I wrote to you about: Richard Upton Pickman.”
”I don't have a proper sitting-room, I'm afraid,” I told him. ”The TV room's rather cluttered, but I expect you'd rather take tea in the library in any case.”
He a.s.sured me, quite sincerely, that he didn't mind. As an academic, he was presumably a bibliophile as well as an art-lover and a molecular biologist: a man of many parts, who was prob ably still trying to fit them together neatly. He was, of course, younger than me-no more than forty-five, to judge by appearances.
I sat him down and immediately went into the kitchen to make the tea. I used the filtered water and put two bags of Sainsbury's Brown Label and one of Earl Grey in the pot. I put the milk in a jug and the sugar in a bowl; it was a long time since I'd had to do that. that. On the way back to the library I had a private bet with myself as to which of the two salient objects he would comment on first, and won. On the way back to the library I had a private bet with myself as to which of the two salient objects he would comment on first, and won.
”You have one of my books,” he said, before I'd even closed the door behind me. He'd taken the copy of The Syphilis Transfer The Syphilis Transfer off the shelf and opened it, as if to check that the words on the page really were his and that the book's spine hadn't been lying. off the shelf and opened it, as if to check that the words on the page really were his and that the book's spine hadn't been lying.
”I bought it after you sent the first letter,” I admitted.
”I'm surprised you could find a copy in England, let alone the Isle of Wight,” he said.
”I didn't,” I told him. ”The public library at Ventnor has Internet connections. I go in twice a week to do the shopping and often pop in there. I ordered it from the U.S. via Amazon. I may be tucked away in a chine, but I'm not entirely cut off from civilization.” He seemed skeptical-but he had just walked the half a mile that separated the house from the bus stop on the so-called coast road, and knew that it wasn't exactly a stroll along Shanklin sea-front. His eyes flickered to the electric light bulb hanging from the roof, presumably wondering at the fact that it was there at all rather than the fact that it was one of the new curly energy-saving bulbs. ”Yes, I said, ”I even have mains electricity. No gas, though, and no mains water. I don't need it-I actually have a spring in my cellar. How many people can say that?”
”Not many, I suppose,” he said, putting the book down on the small table beside the tea-tray. ”You call this place a chine, then? In the U.S., we'd call it a gully, or maybe a ravine.”
”The island is famous for its chines,” I told him. ”Blackgang Chine and Shanklin Chine are tourist traps nowadays-a trifle gaudy for my taste. It's said that there are half a dozen still unspoiled, but it's difficult to be sure. Private land, you see. The path isn't as dangerous as it seems at first glance. Chines are, by definition, wooded. If you were to slip, it would be more a slide than a fall, and you'd probably be able to catch hold of the bushes. Even if you couldn't climb up again you could easily let yourself down. Don't try it at high tide, though.”
He was already halfway through his first cup of tea, even though it was still a little hot. He was probably trying to calm his nerves, although he had no idea what real real acrophobia was. Finally, though, he pointed at the painting on the wall between the two free-standing bookcases, directly opposite the latticed window. acrophobia was. Finally, though, he pointed at the painting on the wall between the two free-standing bookcases, directly opposite the latticed window.
”Do you know who painted that, Mr. Eliot?” he asked.