The Marriage of the Living Dark

PROLOGUE - SPRING 2240

the father of lies

Why was I so frightened in my dream that I awoke? Did not a child carrying a mirror come to me?

“O Zarathustra,” the child said to me, “look at yourself in the mirror!” But when I looked into the mirror I cried out and my heart was shaken: for I did not see myself, I saw the sneer and grimace of a devil.

Friedrich Nietzsche, Thus Spoke Zarathustra. 1885 the father of lies

The bee climbed the outside of the flower’s bell, lifting and dropping in the air, its jointed legs grasping the rim, the flower swaying beneath its weight, its delicate, translucent wings half-raised in balance. Ben watched. Close by, only inches from his face, the flower gaped, blood red above the rich, dark green of its leaves. Its scent was sweet, intoxicating. It had drawn him as inexorably as the bee. His hand, outstretched to touch, had paused and now rested near the flower’s base, almost cupping the petals. Leaf shadow fell across his hand, moving gently with the wind’s movement through the branches of the tree above, forming a gauze upon the fair, hairless skin. He glanced up, hearing music. A haunting Dowland melody. Lute and voice. Sighing, he looked back. The lawn was damp. Moisture had soaked through the thin material of his trousers. He watched the bee pull itself up onto the flower’s rim, then tilt forward, down into the dark red mouth. Encased, the insect’s body seemed suddenly huge, the perspective of the bell abruptly changed, grown vast and yet filled by that presence at its heart. The insect moved, its antennae searching frantically, erratically, like a blind man in a strange house, yet at the centre of that great furred body there was a perfect stillness.

And the colours. Ben shivered, drinking in the colours. The richly golden “fur” of the bee - a yellow-gold slashed through with black, the same blackness that was at the flower’s heart. Intensities of red and gold and black. Primal. And all about him in the garden, innumerable, overpowering shades of green. Colours enough within the green to frame another spectrum. How the universe once was. Vivid. A sensory explosion. Ben stood, the memory stored, and as he looked about him he was aware suddenly of the underlying silence, of that perfect realm of nothingness that underpinned the Cosmos.

A blank sheet. His eternal starting point.

In the morning light the garden seemed renewed. Long beds of flowers bordered the gentle slope of the lawn, alive with flaming tips of perse, cerise and cadmium; colours he loved for their precise shadings, for the way they varied from the primaries. Gazing at them, he felt a profound satisfaction, his eyes tracing their gradual ascent until he found he was staring at the vine-hung back wall of the old thatched cottage.

The music changed. From the dark interior of the house came the beautiful opening strains of the Seventh Symphony, the second movement - the Allegretto. Smiling, he went inside.

“Coffee?”

Ben turned, looking across the shadowed length of the dining room, past the silent, standing shapes of the dark oak table and tall-backed wooden chairs, to where Meg stood in the doorway to the kitchen. Smiling, she drew a strand of her long, dark hair behind her ear, and in his mind he saw his mother standing there, the gesture, like the outward form of both women, identical.

“Yes,” he said softly. “I’d like that”

Ben watched her turn and vanish into the kitchen, then went across and sat in the armchair by the latticed window. His workbook lay where he had left it earlier, on the floor beside the chair. He reached down and set it in his lap. It was no ordinary book. This was a big, square, leather-bound book, its large white pages filled with all manner of colourful symbols and strange, shorthand notations, as if it had been written by some ancient alchemist or archimage. Underlying the whiteness of the paper was a faint, grid-like structure, while at the top right-hand corner of each page was a number, drawn in bright vermilion ink.

Built into the arm of the chair in which Ben sat was what at first glance looked like a painter’s palette. It held Ben’s pens -special pens which he had made himself. Taking one, he paused, staring fiercely into the air, as if fixing one of the dust motes that drifted in the beam of sunlight from the nearby open window, then began to write.

For a time he worked, conscious of some vague, not-to-be-articulated shape to

the thing on the page before him. Page S.627b: 67-80. That red ink notation in

the top corner of the page provided the context in which he worked; a precise

reference on a much larger and more complex grid, most of which he held within

his head.

Returning to the room, Meg set down the coffee on the low table next to Ben, then took a chair across from him, watching her brother work. After a time he put the pens away, closed up the palette and looked up at her. He was still handsome. Clean shaven, his hair neatly trimmed, he seemed far younger than he actually was. And no youth-enhancing drugs kept him that way. In fact, he scorned their use, preferring the lines of approaching age to the smoothness of the jaded-young. Rumours abounded of some secret potion, but Ben Shepherd was young by nature.

“Your coffee ...” she said.

He stared at it a moment, observing its surface, the way the light fell on the dull, coated liquid, then looked up at her again, smiling, his eyes, which seemed forever full of seeing, studying her features as one might study a familiar landscape.

“Has Catherine called?”

Meg shook her head. Ben’s wife was rarely here these days, and even when she was, it was never a comfortable arrangement But that was scarcely Catherine’s fault She was what Ben had made her. If she chose to spend her days elsewhere, that was as much Ben’s fault for neglecting her as hers for finally abandoning the relationship.

Catherine had loved him, almost as much as she herself loved him, but in the end her patience had worn thin. So it was. And yet she herself remained. Until death. His sister-wife.

Ben was watching her now; waiting for her to ask him. Finally she succumbed.

“How’s it going?”

“Poorly,” he said, his eyes not moving from her face; gauging her, all the while appraising her. This - this unnatural watchfulness of his, this intensity of vision - was what disconcerted most people. She was quite used to it; after all, she had endured close on fifty years of being watched by him. She had nothing to hide. But others feared to meet his gaze. Some tried to brazen it out, but most of them simply wilted before that fixed and iron stare. It seemed to them that such an excess of seeing was not simply unnatural but, in a way, super-natural. To encompass so much; to see so coldly and so clearly - through to the bone, as Ben so often said.

And in a sense they were right It was unnatural.

“What’s wrong?” she asked. “I thought things were going well.” “Ifs something in the story itself,” he said, and for the briefest moment his eyes seemed to look inward; then they resumed their fierce, acquisitive gaze. “Something that no clever games with surfaces and textures can eradicate. A basic design fault, you might say.”

At that he laughed, but at the same time his right fist was clenched, and she, almost as watchful of him as he was of her, noted that and read its meaning. He looked down at the workbook in his lap and shook his head. “I mean to give it up.”

“Ben?” Meg almost stood, she was so surprised. She leaned forward, staring at him. “But you can’t. You’ve spent so long on it’ You can’t just discard it because of some momentary sense of disaffection! Persevere. Ride out the storm. You’ll feel different in a month.”

But even as she said it, she saw that her words were having no effect He had decided. In those few moments, tinkering with his notes - in the length of time it took a cup of coffee to grow cold - he had decided to abandon eight years’ work. It was all there in his face; the determination to make a break with it To start something new.

Meg sat back, sighing deeply. Mad. Her brother was mad. “I suppose I realised it earlier,” Ben said, his fist slowly unclenching; something relaxing in him even as he spoke, “when I was out in the garden. But I didn’t understand it Not until a moment ago.”

“Understand what?”

“That I was on the outside. Small, insignificant. And what I was doing was small and insignificant, too. I had to get inside. Into that dark intensity at the heart of things. Over the rim, so to speak.”

“But I thought that was what you were doing.”

“No,” he said, the boyish smile returning. But for once Meg found she couldn’t follow him. Just what exactly did he mean when he said he had to get “inside”? “But eight years, Ben. All of that careful, painstaking work ... wasted.”

He shook his head. “No. Not wasted, Meg. Think of all the things I’ve learned. All of those tricks and techniques I discovered along the way. Things no one else can do. I can use all of that Refine it Focus it all on something real, something meaningful.”

And Death? she wanted to ask. Isn’t Death meaningful? Or was that merely rhetoric?

“What will SimFic say?” she asked, changing tack, trying to bring the discussion back from its metaphysical heights and onto firmer, more practical ground. “Oughtn’t they to be in on any decision you make about the work? After all, they paid you enough for it” He smiled. Tve already thought of that I’ll give them HeadStims. Three of them. I can cut them pretty quickly, from the basic background material. They can get one of their boys to run basic plots over the top. There’s a big market for them now, especially in America.”

He paused and, for the briefest moment, looked away. It was a strangely revealing gesture. Then he looked back at her, defying her to gainsay him. “In fact,” he continued, “they’ll probably be more pleased than if I’d given them a completed shell. They could have the first of them six months from now.” “And Jack Neville?”

“Jack will go along with whatever I want” “Maybe. But he’ll be disappointed. You said ...” “It doesn’t matter what I said,” Ben said, a slight irritation creeping into his voice. “As long as he makes a profit on the deal.” “But I thought you said ...”

“Meg!’

She looked down, stung by the reprimand. It was so unlike him.

For a long time after that she sat there quietly, running it through her mind. It all seemed much too quick, much too neat to satisfy her, yet she could see that something had happened in the garden earlier; something that had crystallised his thoughts. But she knew that the real genesis of that moment lay several days back, when he had begun to re-read his workbooks. Moreover, she suspected that it was not so much to do with the meaning or direction of the work as with something else. Yet to ask Ben would be to break another of their unspoken rules. For a time she hesitated, then, her voice soft, almost apologetic, she asked:

“Were you afraid, Ben? Was that it? Afraid that you couldn’t match The Familiar?”

Ben didn’t look away. His eyes held her own. Nor did he flinch at her question, yet his stare became fixed and fierce, as though tormented. Finally, it was she who looked away.

My God, he was afraid...

Afraid. Ben, who had never been afraid of a single thing in his life Afraid of failing? Afraid, what?... of being merely human? And how long had he felt like this? Since the reading? Or before? Was that why he had failed to heed her advice? Had the crisis come long ago, and she had missed it?

It was quiet where they sat. There was only the sound of the grandfather clock in the shadowed hallway. Then, unexpectedly, he got up and walked over to the window. Standing there, looking out through the open casement, he began to talk. “If s all quite simple, really. The challenge I set myself was to try to create something better, more powerful than The Familiar. But how could I do that? The Familiar was perfect. I see that now. I said all I had to say in that, showed all I had to show. To go forward from that...”

He paused, shaking his head, then.

“I fled into complexity. Into the realm of intricacy and fine detail. I thought that somehow the answer might lie there. But I was wrong. Worse, I thought I could nail Death. Pin him down and copy him. I thought that maybe that way I could finally out-do myself, by landing the biggest fish of all. But I couldn’t. I was only fooling myself. It was all semantics and sophistry. And when I came to understand that, I had to take a step back and reassess what I was doing. That” s when the fear first came.”

“But Ben...”

“No. Hear me out, Meg. If I don’t say this ...” Ben looked down. For the first time in his life he had been humbled by something; for the first time he was in awe of something bigger than himself. And when he met her eyes again it was a different Ben Shepherd looking out at her.

“You were right, you see,” he said quietly. “I was afraid. But it wasn’t just that The fear ... well, I can live with that Whaf s much more difficult to live with is the possibility that I’m wrong. That The Familiar isn’t my final word on things. That I really can improve on what I did. But not with this. That’s why I have to throw this other thing off. That’s why I have to start anew.” “I see,” she said softly. “But what will you do? Where will you start to look?”

“I have no idea.”

“And you’re sure that this other thing ...”

“Is a dead end?” he finished for her, a slight smile at the corner of his mouth because of the pun. “Yes. Quite sure.”

She shivered, as if cold, then, stepping closer, held him to her tightly, feeling the faint tremor in him.

“You understand then?” he asked softly, whispering the words into her ear.

“No,” she answered. “But if it’s what you want to do.”

Meg set the large blue earthenware bowl down on the table among the other bowls, then slipped off the oven gloves and set them aside. “Mmmm ...” DeVore said from the far end of the table, “that smells delicious.

What is it?”

“It’s Ben’s favourite,” Meg answered, looking to where Ben sat, facing Catherine across the table. “Rabbit stew with dumplings.” “It sounds wonderful,” DeVore said, his dark eyes sparkling at his hostess.

“Oh, it is,” Catherine said, reaching across to lay her hand over DeVore’s. “There’s nothing in the city can touch Meg’s cooking. She has a genius for it” “Then I am honoured, Miss Shepherd.”

“You’re welcome,” Meg said, a slight awkwardness to her manner as she lifted off the lids and began to ladle first stew and then carrots and potatoes into the deep bowls by her elbow. “But I cannot honestly accept your praise. The rabbit was as he was made. We merely caught him. And the spices are mixed to my mother’s recipe. I but carry out her instructions.” “Very modest,” DeVore said, his eyes seeming to drink in Shepherd’s sister, “but I know there is a kind of magic in good cookery. And if Catherine praises it...” Catherine had put on weight, Meg noticed. Not much, but enough to make her seem more solid, less cat-like than she’d once appeared. As the years went by her natural beauty was being slowly swallowed up by a kind of matronly quality. Ben had commented upon it more than once - on one occasion even to her face. But just now Ben was silent, as he had been this past hour. ^ Meg lifted the first bowl and handed it across to Catherine to pass on to their chief guest.”Thank you.” DeVore unfurled his napkin and placed it on his lap, then looked about him, waiting until the others had received their bowls. When all were ready, Ben gave a little nod and they all began to eat “Oh, yes,” DeVore said after a moment, looking across at Meg with a beaming smile. “This is indeed a delight. That taste!”

“We forget,” Ben said. “Once the whole world was as fresh as the taste of a young rabbit” DeVore nodded. “Thaf s true. But things pass. New things must have their time, don’t you think?”

Ben shrugged and looked down, content, it seemed, to eat his stew and dumplings. Catherine, conscious of the awkward lull, leaned forward, determined to fill it with talk “I was in Dortmund last week, at the Klaiser Gallery. They’ve an exhibition of the new art Ifs wonderful, Ben. Such vivid colours! Such life!” “I’ve seen it,” Ben said without looking up.

“Ben’s not a fan of the new,” Meg said, looking to her chief guest “Maybe so,” DeVore said, reaching across to break a hunk of bread from the nearby loaf. “And yet he’s single-handedly revolutionised art I saw a preview of the exhibition Catherine’s talking about and must say that, personally, I found it ... regressive.”

“That surprises me,” Ben said, looking across at him.

“Surprises you?”

“Yes. I thought you of all people would be an admirer. All that brutality. All that vigorous expression of sheer will.”

DeVore laughed. “You mistake me, Ben. I admire power, certainly, but not the posturings of power. No,” he went on, offering an apologetic smile to Catherine. “I hate to disagree with you, Catty, but I found the work shallow, lacking in real understanding. They were ... how might I put this? ... propagandist in intention.”

Meg looked down. Catty, eh? She almost smiled, but reminded herself just who this was calling her best friend pet names. It was rather like finding oneself suddenly related to Genghis Khan. Raising her eyes, she studied DeVore, letting the flow of talk drift past her. She had noticed earlier how nice and neat his hands were, the nails perfectly manicured, the skin well scrubbed. In the same manner, his whole form had a pleasing neatness about it, his face a handsome cast, that lulled one into a false assumption.

The devil is a handsome man ...

As if conscious of her sudden attention, DeVore looked across the table and smiled at Meg.

“Would it be rude of me, Miss Shepherd, if I were to ask for a second helping?”

“Not at all,” she said, rising quickly to her feet and going round the table. As she stood there, ladling stew into his bowl, she could sense his eyes on her and felt a flush come to her neck.

“That perfume you’re wearing?” he asked, his voice low and intimate. “Is it something you made yourself?”

Meg forced herself to meet his eyes and smile. “It was my mother’s.”

“Ah...”

She handed him the bowl, then went back to her place, but she was no longer comfortable. In those few instants it was as if he had violated her. As if the query about the perfume -harmless in itself - masked some other question. “I saw Sergey the other day,” Catherine said, reaching out to take her wine glass, oblivious of what had transpired.

“Yes?” Ben said, with marked disinterest. “And how is he?” “He’s well,” Catherine answered. “Sasha’s staying with him. He’s been teaching her sculpture.”

Meg tensed, but the explosion she’d feared did not come. Ben dipped his bread into the stew and popped it in his mouth, as if the news were nothing special and all of the long enmity that had existed between Catherine’s first husband and himself was as nothing.

“Well?” Catherine asked after a moment “Don’t you mind?” Ben looked at her, finishing a mouthful, then answered. “Why should I? She’s a grown girl. She can make her own decisions. You do.” Catherine looked down. “You don’t care, then?”

Ben laughed, but said nothing.

“I’ll clear the plates,” Meg said, getting up as the silence descended once again. “Unless anyone wants more?”

DeVore smiled across at her, as if he alone had been addressed. “Thank you, Miss Shepherd, but no.” He put his hands flat on his stomach, like the archetypal fat burgher in one of the historical soaps that were so fashionable these days. “If s sorely tempting, but I must leave some space for pudding, mustn’t P” And as she stacked the plates beside the sink, then turned to face the oven, Meg found herself wondering just what it was in nature that could make a monster seem so human.

For she had no doubts now. Tonight they supped with the devil. And the devil had the appearance of a healthy appetite.

Meg slipped on the oven gloves, then took the apple pie from the top shelf, pushing the door closed with her knee. Straightening up, she found herself looking out through the open flap of the garden door, and saw the full moon shining brilliantly in the blue-black night, like a staring eye, watching her. And into her head came the two questions that had been hovering there at the back of her consciousness ever since the meal had begun. What are you up to, Ben? And what precisely does he want from you? She shivered, cold suddenly, and frightened for her brother. Then, forcing herself to smile, to play the perfect hostess, she turned and took the pie through.

Meg stood beside her brother, his arm about her waist, as DeVore’s craft came down in the upper meadow, its lights making her shield her eyes and look away to one side. They had already said their farewells, and it only remained for them to watch as the two dark figures climbed the ramp, briefly silhouetted against that intense white glare.

“Like the dead,” Ben murmured, as if he’d read her mind.

“Yes,” she said. ‘Td hoped she might stay.”

The figures waved. They waved back. The hatch hissed shut. The roar of the engines grew once more, gusting warm air across to them. The craft slowly rose, then accelerated away to the east As its noise receded, Ben turned to her and smiled.