Mister B. Gone (28 page)

Authors: Clive Barker

BOOK: Mister B. Gone

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Nothing was being stolen from me. It was simply that my nature was being changed by the forces that had judged me.

I stumbled backwards out of the Negotiation Chamber and down into the workshop. But, as above, so below. My feet were no longer able to make commonplace contact with the ground.

Like my hands and arms and face, they were being transformed into marks of light.

No, not marks. Letters.

And from the letters, in certain arrangements, words.

I was being turned into words
.

God might have been the Word at the beginning. But at the End—at least my end (and who else’s does anyone really care about? it’s only our own that matters)—the Word was with Mister B. And Mister B. was the Word.

This was the Negotiators way of silencing me without having to spill blood in a place where holy and unholy had met, upon this most propitious of days.

I didn’t need my legs to carry me. The forces that were undoing my anatomy bore me back towards Gutenberg’s printing press, which I could hear in motion behind me, its crude mechanism seized by the same engines, demonic and divine, that were carrying me towards it.

I could see with these word-eyes of mine, and I could hear in the dome of my word-skull the rhythm of the press, as it prepared to print its first book.

I remembered that Gutenberg had been laboring on making a copy of
Ares Grammatica
, a little grammar book he’d chosen to test his creation. Oh yes, and a poem, too: the
Sibylline Prophecies
. But his modest experiments had ceased with the death or the flight of those who’d been working on the press. The sheet I’d seen earlier was now on the floor, casually pulled off the press and tossed aside. A much more ambitious book was about to be created.

This book, the one in your hands
.

This life of mine, such as it was, told by me in my own flesh, blood, and being. And this death, too, which was not a death at all, but simply a sealing-up in the prison where you found me when you opened this book.

I saw for a moment the plates that were being made from me hanging in the air all around the press, like ripe, bright fruit swaying gently from the branches of some invisible tree.

And then the press began its work, printing my life. I will say it one last time: Demonation! The feeling of it!
There are no
words
—how can there be?—to describe what it feels like to
become
words, to feel your life encoded, and laid out in black ink on white paper. All my love and loss and hatred, melted into in words.

It was like the End of the World.

And yet, I live. This book, unlike any other that came from Gutenberg’s press, or from the countless presses that have followed after it, is one of a kind. As I am both in the ink and in the paper, its pages are protean.

No. I’m sorry. That was a mistake in the printing. That whole sentence a few lines above, beginning “As I am . . . ,” shouldn’t be there. I spoke out of turn.

Ink and paper,
me
? No, no. That’s not right. You know it isn’t. I’m behind you, remember? I’m a step closer to you with every page you turn. I’ve got my knife in my hand ready to cut you the same way—

the same way you read these pages—

backwards and forwards. Backwards and—

oh the blood that’s going to flow. And you begging me to stop, but I’m not—

I’m not—

I’m—

not—

DEMONATION!

Enough! Enough! There’s no use telling any more lies, trying to convince you of what things I want to half-believe myself, all in a pitiful attempt to get you to burn the book, when you knew (you did, didn’t you? I can see by the look on your face) that I was lying to you all along.

I’m not behind you with a knife, coming to cut you. I never was, never could be. I’m here and only here. In the words.

That part wasn’t a lie. The pages are protean. I was able to rearrange the words on the pages you had yet to read. They are my only substance now. And through them, I can speak with you, as I am speaking now.

All I ever wanted you to do was burn the book. Was that such a big thing to ask? I know, before you say it, I know: I was my own worst enemy, telling you stories. I should have scattered the words in all directions so that not a sentence, except for my plea to Burn the Book, would have made sense. Then you might have done it.

But it had been so long since I’d had eyes looking down at me, ready to be told a story. And I had such a story to tell: this life I’d lived. And had no one else to tell it to but you. And the more I told, the more I wanted to go on telling and the more I wanted to go on telling, the more I wanted to tell.

I was divided against myself: the part that wanted to tell my life and the part that wanted to be free.

Oh yes,
free
.

That’s what I would have won myself if I’d played a better game, and persuaded you to set fire to these volatile pages, and they would have gone up in smoke.

And in that smoke, I would have risen up, liberated from the words where I’d been imprisoned. I had no illusions that I would have a body of flesh and bones awaiting me. They were gone forever. But I told myself I could have made sense of life.

Anybody was preferable to the prison of pages.

But no. You never fell for any of my tricks. I used every deceit and subterfuge in the book, so to speak. Every stratagem I knew.

You want to know how evil works? Just run off a list of the ways I attempted to get you to burn the book. The Seductions (the house and its ancient tree); the Threats (my closing in on you with every page you turned); the Appeals to your compassion, your tender-heartedness, your empathy. They were all lost causes, of course. If any of them had worked, we wouldn’t be here now.

Instead I’m here where you found me, with nothing to live for but the possibility that one day somebody else will pick this book up, and open it to read. Only maybe I will have conceived of a better trap by then. Something foolproof. Something that guarantees my escape.

Maybe you could help me, just a little? I’ve entertained you, haven’t I? So do me this little kindness. Don’t abandon me on a shelf somewhere, gathering dust, knowing I’m still inside, locked away in the darkness.

Pass me on, please. It’s not much to ask. Give me to somebody you hate, somebody you’d be happy to hear had been cut to pieces the way a page is read. Backwards and forwards.

Until then, may I offer a word of advice? What I’ve told you here concerning the Conspiracy between those above and those below you should perhaps keep to yourself. Their agents are everywhere, and I’m sure their means of tracking down the heretical and the impious is more powerful than ever. It’s wisest to keep what you know to yourself. Trust me in this. Or if you don’t trust me, then trust your instinct. Walk with care in dark places, and do not put your faith in anyone who promises you the forgiveness of the Lord or a certain place in Paradise.

I don’t suppose that advice isn’t worth enough to earn me a burnt book, is it?

No, I thought not.

Go on then. Close the prison door and go about your life. My day will come. Paper burns easily.

And words know how to wait.

About the Author

CLIVE BARKER is the internationally bestselling author of more than twenty books for adults and children. He is also a widely acclaimed artist, film producer, screenwriter, and director. He lives with his partner, the renowned photographer David Armstrong, in Beverly Hills.

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Credits

Jacket design by Mary Schuck

MISTER B. GONE. Copyright © 2007 by Clive Barker. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins ebooks.

Adobe Acrobat eBook Reader October 2007 ISBN 978-0-06-154591-7

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