Coldheart Canyon. Clive Barker

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ style="font-size:15px;">      ‘Is nine miles away, in that direction.’ Sandru pointed at the wall upon which the Danube’s delta was painted.

      Zeffer smiled as he grasped what the artists had achieved here. Down in the depths of the Fortress, at its lowest point, they had recreated in tile and paint what could be seen from its pinnacle.

      And with that realization came sense of the inscription he’d read on the threshold.

      Though we are in the bowels of Hell, we shall have the eyes of Angels.

      This room was the bowels of Hell. But the tile-makers and their artist masters, wherever they’d been, had created an experience that gave the occupants of this dungeon the eyes of angels. A paradoxical ambition, when all you had to do was climb the stairs and see all this from the top of the tower. But artists were often driven by such ambition; a need perhaps, to prove that it could even be done.

      ‘Somebody worked very hard to create all this,’ Zeffer said.

      ‘Oh indeed. It’s an impressive achievement.’

      ‘But you hide it away,’ Zeffer said, not comprehending the way the room had been treated. ‘You fill the place with old furniture and let it get filthy.’

      ‘Who could we show it to?’ the Father replied. ‘It’s too disgusting …’

      ‘I see nothing –’ he was about to say disgusting, when his eye alighted on a part of tile-work that he’d cleaned with his arm but had not closely studied. In a large grove a round stadium had been set up, with seating made of wood. The perspective was off (and the solution to the perspective changed subtly from tile to tile, as various hands had contributed their piece of the puzzle. There were perhaps twenty tiles that had some portion of the stadium represented upon them; the work of perhaps five artists). The steep benches were filled with people, their bustle evoked with quick, contentious strokes. Some people seemed to be standing; some sitting. Two more groups of spectators were approaching the stadium from the outside, though there was no room for them inside.

      But what drew Zeffer’s eye, and made him realize that the Father had been right to wonder aloud who he might show this masterwork to, was the event these spectators had assembled to witness. It was an arena of sexual sport. Several performances were going on at the same time, all unapologetically obscene. In one section of the arena a naked woman was being held down while a creature twice her size, his body bestial, his erection monstrous, was being roped back by four men who appeared to be controlling his approach to the woman. In another quarter, a man had been stripped of his skin by three naked women. A fourth straddled him as he lay on the ground in his own blood. The other three wore pieces of his skin. One had on his whole face and shoulders, her breasts sticking out from beneath the ragged hood. Another sat on the ground, wearing his arms and pulling on the skin of his legs like waders. The third, the queen of this quartet, was wearing what was presumably the piece de resistance, the flesh which the unhappy owner had worn from mid breast-bone to mid-thigh. She was cavorting in this garish costume like a dancer and, by some magic known only to the maker of the mystery, the usurped skin still boasted a full erection.

      ‘Good God …’ Zeffer said.

      ‘I told you,’ Sandru said, just a little smugly. ‘And that’s the least of it, believe me.’

      ‘The least of it?’

      ‘The more you look, the more you see.’

      ‘Anywhere in particular?’

      ‘Go over to the Wild Wood. Look amongst the trees.’

      Zeffer moved along the wall, studying the tiles as he went. At first he couldn’t make out anything controversial, but Sandru had some useful advice.

      ‘Step away a foot or so.’

      In his fascination with the details of the stadium, Zeffer had come too close to the wall to see the wood for the trees. Now he stepped back and to his astonishment saw that the thicket around the arena was alive with figures, all of which were in some form or other monstrous; and all unequivocally sexual. Erections were thrust between the trees like plum-headed branches, women dangled from overhead with their legs spread (a flock of birds, thirty or more, swooped out of the sex of one; another was menstruating light, which was splashing on the ground below the tree. Snakes came out of the scarlet pool, in bright profusion).

      ‘Is it like this all over?’ Zeffer said, his astonishment unfeigned.

      ‘All over. There are thirty-three thousand, two hundred and sixty-eight tiles, and there is obscene matter on two thousand, seven hundred and ninety-eight of them.’

      ‘You’ve obviously made a study,’ Zeffer observed.

      ‘Not I. An English man who worked with Father Nicholas did the counting. For some reason the numbers remained in my head. I think it’s old age. Things you want to remember, you can’t. And things that don’t mean anything stick in your head like a knife.’

      ‘That’s not a pretty image, with respect.’

      ‘With respect, there’s nothing pretty about the way I feel,’ Sandru replied. ‘I feel old to my marrow. On a good day I can barely get up in the morning. On a bad day, I just wish I were dead.’

      ‘Lord.’

      Sandru shrugged. ‘That’s what living in this place does to you after a while. Everything drains out of you somehow.’

      Zeffer was only half-listening. He was exhilarated by what he saw, and he had no patience with Sandru’s melancholy; his thoughts were with the walls, and the pictures on the walls.

      ‘Are there records documenting how this was created? It is a masterpiece, in its way.’

      ‘One of a kind,’ Sandru said.

      ‘Absolutely one of a kind.’

      ‘To answer your question, it’s believed to have been funded by Duke Goga, who had lately returned from the Crusades with a large amount of booty, claimed from the infidel in the name of Christ.’

      ‘But to build a room like this with money you’d made on the Crusades!’ Zeffer said incredulously.

      ‘I agree. It seems like an unlikely thing to do in the name of God. Of course none of this is proved. There are some people who will tell you that Goga went missing on one of his hunts, and it wasn’t him who built this place at all.’

      ‘Who then?’

      ‘Lilith, the Devil’s wife,’ the Father said, dropping his voice to a whisper. ‘Which would make this the Devil’s Country, no?’

      ‘Has anybody tried to analyse the work?’

      ‘Oh yes. The Englishman I spoke of, George Soames, claimed he had discovered evidence of twenty-two different styles amongst the designs. But that was just the painters. Then there were the men who actually made the tiles. Fired them. Sorted out the good from the bad. Prepared the paint. Cleaned the brushes. And there must have been some system to align everything.’

      ‘The rows of tiles?’

      ‘I СКАЧАТЬ