Sacrament - Clive Barker

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and faintly sickened, Will approached the table, and saw that Steep’s captive was a moth, the wings of which he had caught between thumb and forefinger. Its legs and antennae flailed as it was dropped into the flames, and for an instant it seemed the draught of heat would waft it to safety, but before it could gain sufficient height its wings ignited and down it went. ‘Living and dying we feed the fire,’ Steep said softly. ‘That is the melancholy truth of things.’

      ‘Except that you just did the feeding,’ Will said, surprised by his own eloquence.

      ‘So we must,’ Jacob replied. ‘Or there’d be darkness in here. And how would we see each other then? I daresay you’d be more comfortable with fuel that didn’t squirm as you fed it to the flame.’

      ‘Yes…’ Will said, ‘…I would.’

      ‘Do you eat sausages. Will?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘You like them, I’m sure. A nicely browned pork sausage? Or a good steak and kidney pie?’

      ‘Yes. I like steak and kidney pie.’

      ‘But do you think of the beast, shitting itself in terror as it is shunted to its execution? Hanging by one leg, still kicking, while the blood spurts from its neck? Do you?’

      Will had heard his father debate often enough to know that there was a trap here. ‘It’s not the same,’ he protested.

      ‘Oh, but it is.’

      ‘No, it’s not. I need food to stay alive.’

      ‘So eat turnips.’

      ‘But I like sausages.’

      ‘You like light too, Will.’

      There are candles,’ Will said, ‘right there.’

      ‘And the living earth gave up wax and wick in their making,’ Steep said. ‘Everything is consumed, Will, sooner or later. Living and dying we feed the fire.’ He smiled, just a little. ‘Sit,’ he said softly. ‘Go on. We’re equals here. Both a little melancholy.’

      Will sat. ‘I’m not melancholy,’ he said, liking the gift of the word. ‘I’m happy.’

      ‘Are you really? Well that’s good to hear. And why are you so happy?’

      Will was embarrassed to admit the truth, but Jacob had been honest, he thought; so should he. ‘Because I found you here,’ he said.

      That pleases you?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘But in an hour you’ll be bored with me—’

      ‘No, I won’t.’

      ‘—and the sadness will still be there, waiting for you.’ As he spoke, the fire began to dwindle. ‘Do you want to feed the fire, Will?’ Steep said.

      His words carried an uncanny power. It was as though this dwindling meant more than the extinguishing of a few flames. This fire was suddenly the only light in a cold, sunless world, and if somebody didn’t feed it soon the consequences would be grim.

      ‘Well, Will?’ Jacob said, digging in his pocket and taking out another moth. ‘Here,’ he said, proffering it.

      Will hesitated. He could hear the soft flapping of the moth’s panic. He looked past the creature to its captor. Jacob’s face was utterly without expression.

      ‘Well?’ Jacob said.

      The fire had almost gone out. Another few seconds and it would be too late. The room would be given over to darkness, and the face in front of Will, its symmetry and its scrutiny, would be gone.

      That thought was suddenly too much to bear. Will looked back at the moth: at its wheeling legs and its flapping antennae. Then, in a kind of wonderful terror, he took it from Jacob’s fingers.

       XI

      ‘I’m cold,’ Sherwood moaned for the tenth time.

      ‘So go home,’ Frannie said.

      ‘On my own? In the dark? Don’t make me do that.’

      ‘Maybe I should go in and look for Will,’ Frannie said. ‘Perhaps he’s slipped, or…’

      ‘Why don’t we just leave him?’

      ‘Because he’s our friend.’

      ‘He’s not my friend.’

      Then you can wait out here,’ Frannie said, looking for the breaking-place in the hedge. A moment later she felt Sherwood’s hand slip into hers.

      ‘I don’t want to stay out here,’ he said softly.

      In truth, she wasn’t unhappy that he wanted to come with her. She was a little afraid, and therefore glad of his company. Together they pushed through the mesh of the hedge, and hand in hand climbed the slope towards the Courthouse. Once only did she feel a little shudder of apprehension pass through her brother, and glancing towards him in the murk, seeing his fearful eyes looking to her for reassurance, she realized how much she loved him.

      

      The moth was large, and though Will held its wings tight-closed, its fat, grub-like body wriggled wildly, its legs pedalling the air. It repulsed him, which made what he was about to do easier.

      ‘You’re not squeamish, are you?’ Jacob said.

      ‘No…’ Will replied, his voice far from him, like somebody else’s voice.

      ‘You’ve killed insects before.’

      Of course he had. He’d fried ants under a magnifying glass, he’d cracked beetles and popped spiders, he’d salted slugs and sprayed flies. This was just a moth and a flame. They belonged together.

      And with that thought, he did the deed. There was an instant of regret as the flame withered the moth’s legs, then he dropped the insect into the heat, and regret became fascination as he watched the creature consumed.

      ‘What did I tell you?’ Jacob said.

      ‘Living and dying…’ Will murmured, ‘…we feed the fire…’

      

      At the Courtroom door, Frannie could not quite make out what was going on. She could see Will bending over the table, studying something bright, and by the same brightness glimpsed the face of the man sitting opposite him. But that was all.

      She let go of Sherwood’s hand, and put her finger to her lips to keep him quiet. He nodded, his expression surprisingly less fearful than it had been in the darkness outside. Then she turned her gaze back in Will’s direction. As she did so she heard the man on the opposite side of the table say:

      ‘Do you want another?’

      

      Will didn’t even look up at Steep. He was still watching the fire devour the body of the moth.

      ‘Is it always like this?’ he murmured.

      ‘Like what?’

      ‘First the cold and the darkness, then the fire pushing it all away, then more darkness and cold—’

      ‘Why do you ask?’ Jacob replied.

      ‘Because I want to understand,’ Will said.

      And you’re the only one with the answers, he might have added. That was the truth, after all. He was certain his father didn’t have answers to questions like that, nor did his mother, nor any school-teacher, nor anybody he’d heard pontificate on television. This was secret knowledge, and he felt privileged to be in the company of somebody who possessed it, even if they chose not to share it with him.

      ‘Do

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