Harry remembered Nonna's wisdom about the world. was that true of the lad too? Changing, but inextinguishable?
"And of course it's just a tiny part of what's waiting on the other side." ive ar er
"I'm glad I won't be here to see it," Harry said.
"Are you giving up then? That's wise. You don't know up from down any longer, do you, and that fills you with terror. Better to surrender. Go watch TV until the 'end of the world."
"You hate the world that much?"
"I was taken from a tree by wolves, D'Amour. I woke up in the dark with a rope around my neck being fought over. And when I'd gutted them-when I was standing among the bodies, drenched in their blood-I thought: These were not my enemies. These were not the creatures that took me naked from my bed, and hanged me. It's their blood I have to bathe in.
It's their throats I have to take out. The question was: How? How was a half-crazy nobody, with a brothel-keeper for a mother and a drunken freak for a father to find a way to take out the throat of Sapas Humana?" He stopped. Turned. Smiled. "Now you know."
"Now I know."
"One question for you, D'Amour, before we get there." "Yes?"
"Tesla Bombeck."
"What about her?"
"Where is she?"
"Dead."
Kissoon studied Harry for a little time, as if looking for some sign of deception. Finding none, he said, "She was quite remarkable, you know. I look back on our time together in the Loop almost fondly." He made a tiny smile at the foolishness of this. "Of course finally she was a featherweight. But disarming, in her way." He paused, staring past Harry at the lad. "Do you know why it eats its own tail?" he said.
"No." "to prove its perfection," Kissoon replied, and turning his back on Harry strode on to the next intersection. Turning it, they finally came in sight of the crossroads, and of the house that Maeve had built there. It looked almost solid; like a drawing made of light, worked over and over and over again, obsessively. A figure added here, a window there; some steps, some guttering; memory upon memory. Kissoon made no audible response to the spectacle, but proceeded towards it, his stride somewhat slower than it had been.
"Where's my mother?" he wanted to know.
"Somewhere inside, I suppose," Harry replied.
"Go fetch her for me. I don't want to go in."
"It, s just an illusion," Harry said.
"I know that," Kissoon replied. was there a subtle tremor in his voice? Again he said, "I want you to go fetch her for me."
"Okay," Harry replied, and walked on past Kissoon to the front steps.
The door before him seemed to stand open, and he slipped through it into a kind of erotic wonderland. The walls were covered with brocade now, and hung with paintings., most of them titillative works passing themselves off as classical subjects: The Judgement of Paris, Leda and the Swan, The Rape of the Sabine Women. And all around him, the feminine flesh so lovingly daubed on these canvases rendered in light, seemingly more real than when he'd left. Women in their camisoles and knickers, chattering in the parlot. Women with their hair unbraided, bathing their breasts. Women lying in bed, their hands between their legs, toying and smiling for their phantom clients.
Moving down the thronged passageway in search of Maeve, Harry's spirits rose, despite all that reason dictated. Doubtless life had been hard here. There had been disease and brutality and bastard children. Doubtless these women had endured the contempt of the very men who'd paid for their services, and longed, while they plied their trade, to escape. But that was not recorded here. It was the joy of this house Maeve had chosen to remember, and though Harry knew none of this was permanent it didn't matter. He accepted the pleasure this illusion offered him with gratitude.
"Harry?"
There, in the kitchen, idling in the midst of a group of chattering women, was Raul. "Where did you get to?" "I went to find Maeve's offspring. Where is she?"
"She's out back," Raul said. "Did you say offspring?"
"Kissoon, Raul," Harry said, heading on towards the back of the house.
"He's Clayton O'Connell." Raul came after him, forsaking the company of the women.
"Does he know?" he said.
"Of course he knows! Why wouldn't he?"
"I don't know, it's just... it's difficult imagining Maeve's kid being the one who murdered the Shoal, or created the Loo@,
"Everyone begins somewhere," Harry said to him. "And everyone has their reasons."
"Where is he now?"
"At the front of the house," Harry replied, "with the lad." He was out the back door now, into the garden. Maeve had remembered it the way it must have looked some distant spring, the cherry trees heavy with blossom, the air as heady as liquor. She wasn't alone out here. One of the women was sitting on the grass, star-watching.
"Her name's Christina," Maeve said. "She knows all the constellations."
"I've found Clayton," Harry told Maeve.
"You've what?"
"He's here."
"Impossible," she said. "Impossible. My son's dead." 11 "It might be better for us all if he was," Harry replied. "He's the one who brought the lad through, Maeve. It's his revenge for what happened to you all."
"And... are you expecting me to teach him some compassion?"
"If you can."
She looked away. First to the star-watcher, then up to the stars. "I was having such a time out here. It was almost as though I'd never left-"
"He wants me to bring you to him."
She looked towards Raul, who was standing on the back doorstep. "is my Coker here?" Raul nodded. "So he knows?" Again, Raul nodded. "And what does he think?"
Raul listened for the dead man to speak. "He says be careful; the boy was always wicked." "Not always," Maeve said quickly, moving back towards the house. "He wasn't wicked in my belly. We taught him, Coker. Lord knows how, but we taught him."
She stepped inside, her face stony, and refusing Harry's aid made her way back through the kitchen and the parlor towards the front door.
It was still open. Mssoon was at the threshold, and by the stare on his face it was clear he'd been watching his mother for some time, through the veils of the whorehouse. The monkish face he'd worn was tainted now. He looked pinched and bitter.
"Look at you," he said, as Maeve approached the door.
"Clayton?" she said, halting to study him.
"How sick you look," the sight of her frailty apparently giving him courage. He stepped inside. "You should be dead, Mama," he said.
"So should you."
"Oh," he cooed, "I am, Mama. All that's left alive is the hate in me." He was picking up his speed, raising his left hand as he closed on her. In it, the rod he'd wielded twice before, the murderous rod.
Yelling a warning, Harry raced to intercept the blow, but Kissoon was too quick. He struck his mother's head with the rod, and down she went, an arc of blood splashing on the carpeted ground.
In the bright grave below, Tesla felt the murder like a second death. Her spirit shaken, she looked up to see a stain spreading across her sky, while a woman's voice unleashed a sob of agony....
Harry caught hold of Kissoon's arm, and @ to pull him away from his mother, but the man was too strong. With a simple shrug he flung Harry off him, sending him stumbling through the gossamer walls to land on his back beneath the kitchen table. As he got to his feet he saw Raul throw himself upon Mssoon, but his assault was of such little consequence Kissoon didn't bother to dislodge his attacker. He simply fell to his knees beside Maeve, his rod raised to finish his matricide. Once, twice, three, four times the weapon fell, the house shaking with each blow as the mind that had conjured it was snuffed out By the time Harry reached Kissoon it was over. Spattered with Maeve's blood, his eyes spilling tears, he hauled himself to his feet. He wiped his nose like any backstreet thug, and said to Harry, "Thank you. I enjoyed that."