Clive Barker - Sacrament

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Clive Barker

SACRAMENT

This edition published 1996

Printed and bound in Germany

For Malcolm

CONTENTS

PART ONE He Stands Before An Unopened Door

PART TWO He Dreams He Is Loved

PART THREE He Is Lost; He Is Found

PART FOUR He Meets The Stranger In His Skin

PART FIVE He Names The Mystery

PART SIX He Enters The House Of The World

I am a man, and men are animals who tell stories. This is a gift from God, who spoke our species

into being,

but left the end of our story untold. That mystery is troubling to us. How could it be otherwise?

Without the final

part, we think, how are we to make sense of all that went before; which is to say, our lives?

So we make stories of our own, in fevered and envious imitation of our Maker, hoping that we'll

tell, by

chance, what God left untold. And finishing our tale, come to understand why we were born.

PART ONE

He Stands Before An

Unopened Door

CHAPTER I

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To every hour, its mystery.

At dawn, the riddles of life and light. At noon, the conundrums of solidity. At three, in the hum

and heat of the

day, a phantom moon, already high. At dusk, memory. And at midnight? Oh then the enigma of time

itself; of a

day that will never come again passing into history while we sleep.

It had been Saturday when Will Rabjohns arrived at the weather-bullied wooden shack on the

outskirts of

Balthazar. Now it was Sunday morning, two-seventeen by the scored face of Will's watch. He had

emptied his

brandy flask an hour before, raising it to toast the Borealis, which shimmered and billowed far

beyond Hudson

Bay, upon the shores of which Balthazar stood. He had knocked on the door of the shack countless

times,

calling out for Guthrie to give him just a few minutes of his time. On two or three occasions it

had seemed the

man was going to do so; Will had heard him grumbling something incoherent on the other side of the

door, and

once the handle had been turned. But Guthrie had not appeared.

Will was neither deterred nor particularly surprised. The old man had been universally described

as crazy: this

by men and women who had chosen as their place of residence one of the bleaker corners of the

planet. If

anyone knew crazy, Will thought, they did. What besides a certain lunacy inspired people to build

a community

- even one as small as Balthazar (population: thirty-one) - on a treeless wind-battered stretch of

tidal flats which

was buried half the year beneath ice and snow, and was for two of the remaining months besieged by

the polar

bears who came through the region in late autumn waiting for the Bay to freeze? That these people

would

characterize Guthrie as insane was quite a testament to how crazy he really was.

But Will knew how to wait. He'd spent much of his professional life waiting, sitting in hides and

dugouts and

wadis and trees, his cameras loaded, his ears pricked, watching for the object of his pursuit to

appear. How

many of those animals had been, like Guthrie, crazed and despairing? Most, of course.Creatures

who'd

attempted to outrun the weeping

tide of humankind, and failed; whose lives and habitats were in extremis. His patience was not

always

rewarded. Sometimes, having sweated or shivered for hours and days he would have to give up and

move on,

the species he was seeking, for all its hopelessness, preserving its despair from his lens.

But Guthrie was a human animal. Though he had holed himself up behind his walls of weather-beaten

boards,

and had made it his business to see his neighbours (if such they could be called; the nearest

house was half a

mile away) as seldom as possible, he was surely curious about the man on his doorstep, who had

waited for five

hours in the bitter cold. This was Will's hope, at least; that the longer he could stay awake and

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upright the

likelier it became that the lunatic would surrender to curiosity and open the door.

He glanced at his watch again. It was almost three. Though he had told his assistant Adrianna not

to stay up for

him, he knew her too well to think she would not by now be a little concerned. There were bears

out there in the

dark: eight hundred, nine hundred pounds some of them, with indiscriminate appetites and

unpredictable

behaviour patterns. In a fortnight, they'd be out on the ice floes hunting seal and whale. But

right now they were

in scavenging mode; come to befoul themselves in the stinking rubbish heaps of Churchill and

Balthazar, and -

as had occasionally happened - to take a human life. There was every likelihood that they were

wandering

within sniffing distance of him right now, beyond the throw of Guthrie's jaundiced porch-light,

studying Will,

perhaps, as he waited on the doorstep. The notion didn't alarm him. Quite the reverse, in fact. It

faintly excited

him that some visitor from the wilderness might at this very moment be assessing his palatability.

For most of

his adult life he'd made photographs of the untamed world, reporting to the human tribe the

tragedies that

occurred in contested territories. They were seldom human tragedies. It was the populace of the

other world that

withered and perished daily. And as he witnessed the steady erosion of the wilderness, the hunger

in him grew

to leap the fences and be part of it, before it was gone.

He tugged off one of his fur-lined gloves and plucked his cigarettes out of his anorak pocket.

There was only

one left. He put it to his numbed lips, and lit up, the emptiness of the pack a greater goad than

either the

temperature or the bears.

'Hey, Guthrie,' he said, rapping on the blizzard-heater door, 'how about letting me in, huh? I

only want a couple

of minutes with you. Give me a break.'

He waited, drawing deep on the cigarette, and glancing back out into the darkness. There was a

group of rocks

twenty or thirty yards beyond his jeep; an ideal place, he knew, for bears to be lurking. Did

something move

amongst them? He suspected so. Canny bastards, he thought. They were biding their time; waiting

for him to

head back to the vehicle.

'Fuck this!' he growled to himself. He'd waited long enough. He was going to give up on Guthrie,

at least for

tonight; head back to the warmth of the rented house on Balthazar's Main (and only) Street; brew

himself some

coffee, cook himself an early breakfast, then catch a few hours' sleep. Resisting the temptation

to knock on the

door one final time, he left the doorstep, digging for the keys as he strode back over the

squeaking snow to the

jeep.

At the very back of his mind, he'd wondered if Guthrie was the kind of perverse old bastard who'd

wait for his

visitor to give up before opening the door. He was. Will had no sooner vacated the comfort of the

lamplight

when he heard the door grinding across the frosted steps behind him. He slowed his departure but

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didn't turn,

suspecting that if he did so Guthrie would simply slam the door again. There was a long silence.

Time enough

for Will to wonder what the bears might be making of this peculiar ritual. Then, in a worn voice,

Guthrie said: 'I

know who you are and I know what you want.'

'Do you?' Will said, chancing a backward glance.

'I don't let anybody take pictures of me or my place,' Guthrie said, as though there was an

unceasing parade of

photographers at his door.

Will turned now, slowly. Guthrie was standing back from the step, and the porchlight threw very

little

illumination upon him. All Will could make out was a very tall man silhouetted against the murky

interior of the

shack. 'I don't blame you,' Will said, 'not wanting to be photographed. You've got a perfect right

to your

privacy.'

'Well then what the fuck do you want?'

'Like I said: I just want to talk.'

Guthrie had apparently seen enough of his visitor to satisfy his curiosity, because he now stepped

back a pace

and started to push the door closed. Will knew better than to rush the step. He stayed put and

played the only

card he had. Two names, spoken very softly. 'I want to talk about Jacob Steep and Rosa McGee.'

The silhouette flinched, and for a moment it seemed certain the man would simply slam the door,

and that

would be an end to it. But no. Instead, Guthrie stepped back out onto the step. 'Do you know

them?' he said.

'I met them once,' Will replied, 'a very long time ago. You knew them too, didn't you?'

'Him, a little. Even that was too much. What's your name again?'

'Will - William - Rabjohns.'

'Well . . . you'd better come inside, before you freeze your balls off.

CHAPTER II

Unlike the comfortable, well-appointed houses in the rest of the tiny township, Guthrie's dwelling

was so

primitive it barely seemed habitable, given how bitter the winters up here could be. There was a

vintage electric

fire heating its single room (a small sink and stove served as a kitchen; the great outdoors was

presumably his

toilet) while the furniture seemed to have been culled from the dump. Its collector was scarcely

in better

condition. Dressed in several layers of grimy clothes, Guthrie was plainly in need of nourishment

and

medication. Though Will had heard that he was no more than sixty, he looked a good decade older,

his skin red-

raw in patches and sallow in others, his hair, what little he had, white where it was cleanest. He

smelt of

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sickness and fish.

'How did you find me?' he asked Will as he closed and triple-bolted the door.

'A woman in Mauritius spoke to me about you.'

'You want something to warm you up a bit?'

'No, I'm fine.'

'What woman's this?'

'I don't know if you'll remember her. Sister Ruth Buchanan?'

'Ruth? Christ. You met Ruth. Well, well. That woman had a mouth on her. . .' He poured a shot of

whisky into a

well-beaten enamel mug, and downed it in one. 'Nuns talk too much. Ever noticed that?'

'I think that's why there are vows of silence.'

The reply pleased Guthrie. He loosed a short, barking laugh, which he followed with another shot

of whisky.

'So what did she say about me?' he asked, peering at the whisky bottle as if to calculate how much

solace it had

left to offer.

'Just that you'd talked about extinction. About how you'd seen the last of some animals.'

'I never said anything to her about Rosa and Jacob.'

'No. I just assumed if you'd seen one you might have seen the other.'

'Huh.' Guthrie's face knitted up as he thought this through. Rather than be seen to be studying

him - this was not

a man who took kindly to scrutiny - Will crossed to the table to look at the books that were piled

upon it. His

approach brought a warning growl from under the table. 'Shut up, Lucy!' Guthrie snapped. The dog

hushed its

growl, and came out of hiding to ingratiate herself. She was a sizeable mongrel, with strains of

German

Shepherd and Chow in her bloodline, better fed and groomed than her master. She'd brought her bone

out with

her, and dutifully carried it to her master's feet.

'Are you English?' Guthrie said, still not looking at Will.

'Born in Manchester. But I was brought up in the Yorkshire Dales.'

'England's always been a little too cosy for me.'

'I wouldn't call the moors cosy,' Will said. 'I mean, it's not wild like this, but when the mists

come down and

you're out on the hills-'

'That's where you met them then.'

'Yes. That's where I met them.'

'English bastard,' Guthrie said. Then, finally looking at Will: 'Not you. Steep. Chilly, English

bastard.' He spoke

the three words as if cursing the man, wherever he was. 'You know what he called himself?' Will

knew. But it

would serve him better, he suspected, if he let his host have the moment. 'The Killer of Last

Things,' Guthrie

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said. 'He was proud of it. I swear. Proud of it.' He emptied the remnants of the whisky into his

mug but didn't

drink. 'So you met Ruth in Mauritius, huh? What were you doing there?'

'Taking pictures. There's a kestrel there looks like it's going to be extinct some time soon.'

'I'm sure it was grateful for your attention,' Guthrie said dryly. 'So what do you want from me? I

can't tell you

anything about Steep or McGee. I don't know anything, and if I ever did I put it out of my head.

I'm an old man

and I don't want the pain.' He looked at Will. 'How old are you? Forty?'

'Good guess. Forty-one.'

'Married?'

'No.'

'Don't. It's a rat-trap.'

'It's not likely, believe me.'

'Are you queer then?' Guthrie said, with a little tilt of his head.

'As it happens, yes.'

'A queer Englishman. Surprise, surprise. No wonder you got on so well with Sister Ruth - She Who

Must Not

Be Touched. And you came all this way to see me?'

'Yes and no. I'm here to photograph the bears.'

'Of course, the fucking bears.' What little trace of warmth or humour his voice had contained had

suddenly

vanished. 'Most people just go to Churchill, don't they? Aren't there tours now, so you can watch

them

performing?' He shook his head. 'Degrading themselves.'

'They just go where they can find a free meal,' Will said.

Guthrie looked down at the dog, who had not moved from his side since her reprimand. Her bone was

still in

her mouth. 'That's what you do, isn't it?' The dog, happy she was being addressed, whatever the

subject,

thumped her tail on the bare floor. 'Little brown-noser.' Guthrie reached down as if to take the

bone. The dog's

ragged black lips curled back in warning. 'She's too bright to bite me and too stupid not to

growl. Give it to me,

you mutt.' Guthrie tugged the bone from her jaws. She let him take it. He scratched her behind her

ear and

tossed the bone back on the floor in front of her. 'I expect dogs to be sycophants,' he said, 'we

made 'em that

way. But bears - Jesus, bears shouldn't be fucking nosing around in our garbage. They should stay

out there- he

vaguely waved in the direction of the Bay '-where they can be whatever God intended them to be.'

'Is that why you're here?'

'What, to admire the animal life? Christ no. I'm here because being with people makes me vomit. I

don't like

'em. I never did.'

'Not even Steep?' Will said.

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Guthrie shot him a poisonous look. 'What in Christ's name kind of question is that?'

'Just asking.'

'Fucking stupid question,' Guthrie muttered. Then, softening somewhat, he said: 'They were

something to look

at, both of them, and that's the truth. I mean, Christ, Rosa was beautiful. I only put up with

talking to Steep to

get to her. But he said once I was too old for her.'

'How old were you?' Will asked him, thinking as he did so that Guthrie's story was changing

slightly. He'd

claimed only to know Steep; but apparently he'd known them both.

'I was thirty. Way too old for Rosa. She liked 'em real young. And of course she liked Steep. I

mean the two of

them, they were like husband and wife and brother and sister and fuck knows what else all rolled

into one. I

didn't stand a chance with her.' He let the subject trail away, and picked up another. 'You want

to do some good

for these bears?' he said. 'Get out there on the dump and poison 'em. Teach 'em not to come back.

Maybe it'll

take five seasons, and that'll be a lot of dead bears, but they'll get the message sooner or

later.' Finally he

downed the contents of his glass, and while the liquor still burned his throat said: 'I try not to

think about them,

but I do-' He wasn't talking about the bears now, Will knew. 'I can see both of them, like it was

yesterday.' He

shook his head. 'Both of them so beautiful. So . . . pure.' His lip curled at the word, as though

he meant its

antithesis. 'It must be terrible for them.'

'What must be terrible?'

'Living in this filthy world.' He looked up at Will. 'That's the worst part for me,' he said.

'That the older I get, the

more I understand 'em.' Were those tears in his eyes, Will wondered, or simply rheum? 'And I hate

myself for it

so fucking much.' He put down his empty glass, and with sudden determination announced: 'That's

all you're

getting from me.' He crossed to the door and unbolted it. 'So you may as well just get the hell

out of here.'

'Well, thank you for your time,' Will said, stepping past the old man and into the freezing air.

Guthrie waved the courtesy away. 'If you see Sister Ruth again……'

'I won't,' Will said. 'She died last February.'

'What of?'

'Ovarian cancer.'

'Huh. That's what you get for not using what God gave you,' Guthrie said.

The dog had joined them at the threshold now, and was growling loudly. Not at Will this time, but

at whatever

lay out there in the night. Guthrie didn't hush her, but stared out at the darkness. 'She smells

bears. You'd better

not hang around.'

'I won't,' Will said, offering his hand to Guthrie. The man looked down at it in puzzlement for a

moment, as

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though he'd forgotten this simple ritual. Then he took it.

'You should think about what I told you,' he said. 'About poisoning the bears. You'd be doing them

a favour.'

'I'd be doing Jacob's work for him,' Will replied. 'That's not what I was put on the planet to

do.'

'We're all doing his work just being alive,' Guthrie replied. 'Adding to the trash-heap.'

'Well at least I won't be adding to the population,' Will said, and started from the threshold

towards his jeep.

'You and Sister Ruth both,' Guthrie called after him. There was a sudden eruption of fresh barking

from his dog,

a shrillness in its din which Will knew all too well. He'd heard camp dogs raise a similar row at

the approach of

lions. There was warning in it, and Will took heed. Scanning the darkness to left and right of him

he was at the

jeep in half a dozen quickened heartbeats.

On the step behind him, Guthrie was yelling something - whether he was summoning his guest back

inside or

urging him to pick up his pace Will couldn't make out; the dog was too loud. He blocked out the

sound of both

voices, man and animal, and concentrated on making his fingers perform the simple function of

slipping the key

into the lock. They played the fool. He fumbled, and the key slipped out of his hand. He went down

on his

haunches, the dog's barking shriller by the moment, to pluck it out of the snow. Something moved

at the limit of

his vision. He looked around, his fingers digging blindly for the key. He could see only the

rocks, but that was

little comfort. The animal could be in hiding now and on him in five seconds. He'd seen them

attack, and they

were fast when they needed to be, moving like locomotives to take their quarry. He knew the drill

if a bear

elected to charge him: drop to his knees, arms over his head, face to ground. Present as small a

target as

possible, and on no account make eye contact with the animal. Don't speak. Don't move. The less

alive you

were, the better chance you had of living. There was probably a lesson in that somewhere, though

it was a bitter

one. Live like a stone and death might pass you by.

His fingers had found the dropped key. He stood up, chancing a backward glance as he did so.

Guthrie was still

in the doorway, his dog, her hackles raised, now silenced at his side. Will hadn't heard Guthrie

hush her; she'd

simply given up on this damn fool man who couldn't come out of the snow when he was told.

On the third time of trying, the key went into the lock. Will hauled open the door. As he did so

he heard the

bear's roar for the first time. And there it was, barrelling out between the rocks. There was no

doubting its

intention. It had him in its sights. He flung himself into the driver's seat, horribly aware of

how vulnerable his

legs were, and reached back to slam the door behind him.

The roar came again, very close. He locked the door, put the key into the ignition and turned it.

The headlamps

came on instantly, flooding the icy ground as far as the rocks, which looked as flat as stage

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scenery in their

glare. Of the bear there was no sign. He glanced back towards Guthrie's shack. Man and dog had

retreated

behind the locked door. He put the jeep in gear and started to swing it round. As he did so he

heard the roar

again, followed by a thump. The bear had charged the vehicle in its frustration, and was rising up

on its hind

legs to strike it a second time. Will caught only a glimpse of its shaggy white bulk from the

corner of his eye. It

was a huge animal, no doubt of that: nine hundred pounds and counting. If it damaged the jeep

badly enough to

halt his escape, he'd be in trouble. The bear wanted him, and it had the means to get him if he

didn't outpace it.

Claws and teeth enough to pry the vehicle open like a can of human meat.

He put his foot on the accelerator, and swung the vehicle around to head it back down the street.

As he did so

the bear changed tactics and direction, dropping back onto all fours to overtake the jeep, then

cutting in front of

it.

For an instant the animal was there in the sear of the headlamps, its wedgesnouted head pointing

directly at the

vehicle. It was not one of the pitiful clan Guthrie had described, their ferality dimmed by their

addiction to

human refuse. It was a piece of the wilderness still; defying the blaze and speed of the vehicle

in whose path it

had put itself. In the instant before it was struck, it was gone, disappearing with such speed

that its departure

seemed almost miraculous; as though it had been a vision conjured by the cold, then snatched away.

As he drove back to the house, he felt for the first time the poverty of his craft. He had taken

tens of thousands

of photographs in his professional lifetime, in some of the wildest regions of the planet: the

Tomes de Paine, the

plateaus of Tibet, the Gunung Leuser in Indonesia. There he had photographed species that were in

their last

desperate days, rogues and man-eaters. But he had never come close to capturing what he had seen

in the jeep's

headlamps minutes before: the power and the glory of the bear, risking death to defy him. Perhaps

it was

beyond his talents to do so; in which case it was probably beyond anybody's talents. He was, by

general

consensus, the best of the best. But the wild was better. Just as it was his genius to wait upon

his subject until it

revealed itself, so it was the genius of the wild to make that revelation less than complete. The

rogues and man-

eaters were dying out, one by one, but the mystery continued, undisclosed. And would continue,

Will suspected,

until the end of the rogues and mysteries and the men who were fools for them both.

CHAPTER III

Cornelius Botham sat at the table with a hand-rolled cigarette lolling from beneath his blond

feather moustache,

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his third beer of the morning set at his elbow, and surveyed the disemboweled Pentax laid out

before him.

'What's wrong with it?' Will wanted to know.

'It's broken,' Cornelius dead-panned. 'I say we hack a hole in the ice, wrap it in a pair of

Adrianna's knickers and

bury it for future generations to discover.'

'You can't fix it?'

'Yes, I can fix it,' Cornelius said. 'That is why I'm here. I can fix everything. But I would

prefer to hack a hole in

the ice, wrap it in a pair of Adrianna's knickers-'

'It's given good service, that camera.'

'So have we all. But sooner or later, if we're lucky, we'll be wrapped in a pair of Adrianna's

knickers-'

Will was at the stove, making himself a ragged omelette. 'You're obsessing.'

'I am not.'

Will slid his breakfast onto a plate, tossed two slices of stale bread on top of it, and came to

sit at the table

opposite Cornelius.

'You know what's wrong with this town?' Cornelius asked.

'Give me an A, B or C.'

This was a popular guessing game amongst the trio, the trick being to dream up alternatives more

believable

than the truth.

'No problem,' Cornelius said. He sipped a mouthful of beer and then said: 'Okay. A, right? There

aren't any

good-looking women in two hundred miles, besides Adrianna, and that'd be like fucking my sister.

Okay? So,

B. You can't get any decent acid. And C

'It's B.'

'Wait, I haven't finished.'

'You don't have to.'

'Fuck, man. I got a great C.'

'It's the acid,' Will said. He leaned towards Cornelius. 'Right?'

'Yeah.' He peered at Will's plate. 'What the hell's that?'

'Omelette.'

'What did you make it with? Penguin eggs?'

Will laughed, and was still laughing when Adrianna came in out of the cold. 'Hey, we got more

bears at the

dump,' she said, her Southern drawl perfectly mismatched with every other detail of her appearance

and

manner, from her badly trimmed bangs to her heavy-booted stomp. 'At least four of 'em. Two

adolescents, a

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