Clive Barker has made his mark on modern fiction by exposing all that is surreal and magical in the ordinary world - and exploring the profound and overwhelming terror that results. With its volatile mix of the fantastical and the contemporary, the everyday and the otherworldly, Weaveworld is an epic work of dark fantasy and horror a tour de force from one of today's most forceful and imaginative artists.
|Product dimensions:||5.31(w) x 8.25(h) x 1.90(d)|
About the Author
Clive Barker is the bestselling author of over twenty novels and collections, including Weaveworld, Imajica, and Galilee. He regularly shows his art in Los Angeles and New York, and produces and directs for both large screen and small. He lives in California with his partner.
Date of Birth:October 5, 1952
Place of Birth:Liverpool, England
Read an Excerpt
Chapter One: Homing
Nothing ever begins.
There is no first moment; no single word or place from which this or any other story springs.
The threads can always be traced back to some earlier tale, and to the tales that preceded that; though as the narrator's voice recedes the connections will seem to grow more tenuous, for each age will want the tale told as if it were of its own making.
Thus the pagan will be sanctified, the tragic become laughable; great lovers will stoop to sentiment, and demons dwindle to clockwork toys.
Nothing is fixed. In and out the shuttle goes, fact and fiction, mind and matter woven into patterns that may have only this in common: that hidden among them is a filigree that will with time become a world.
It must be arbitrary, then, the place at which we choose to embark.
Somewhere between a past half forgotten and a future as yet only glimpsed.
This place, for instance.
This garden, untended since the death of its protector three months ago, and now running riot beneath a blindingly bright late August sky; its fruits hanging unharvested, its herbaceous borders coaxed to mutiny by a summer of torrential rain and sudden, sweltering days.
This house, identical to the hundreds of others in this street alone, built with its back so close to the railway track that the passage of the slow train from Liverpool to Crew rocks the china dogs on the dining room sill.
And with this young man, who now steps out of the back door and makes his way down the beleaguered path to a ramshackle hut from which there rises a welcoming chorus of coos and flutterings.
His name is Calhoun Mooney, but he's universally known as Cal. He is twenty-six, and has worked for five years at an insurance firm in the city center. It's a job he takes no pleasure in, but escape from the city he's lived in all his life seems more unlikely than ever since the death of his mother, all of which may account for the weary expression on his well-made face.
He approaches the door of the pigeon loft, opens it, and at that moment for want of a better this story takes wing.
Cal had told his father several times that the wood at the bottom of the loft door was deteriorating. It could only be a matter of time before the planks rotted completely, giving the rats who lived and grew gross along the railway line access to the pigeons. But Brendan Mooney had shown little or no interest in his racing birds since Eileen's death. This despite, or perhaps because, the birds had been his abiding passion during her life. How often had Cal heard his mother complain that Brendan spent more time with his precious pigeons than he did inside the house?
She would not have had that complaint to make now; now Cal's father sat most of every day at the back window, staring out into the garden and watching the wilderness steadily take charge of his wife's handiwork, as if he might find in the spectacle of dissolution some clue as to how his grief might be similarly erased. There was little sign that he was learning much from his vigil, however. Every day when Cal came back to the house in Chariot Street a house he'd thought to have left for good half a decade ago, but which his father's isolation had obliged him to return to it seemed he found Brendan slightly smaller. Not hunched, but somehow shrunken, as though he'd decided to present the smallest possible target to a world suddenly grown hostile.
Murmuring a welcome to the forty or so birds in the loft, Cal stepped inside, to be met with a scene of high agitation. All but a few of the pigeons were flying back and forth in their cages, near to hysteria. Had the rats been in, Cal wondered? He cast around for any damage, but there was no visible sign of what had fueled this furor.
He'd never seen them so excited. For fully a half a minute he stood in bewilderment, watching their display, the din of their wings making his head reel, before deciding to step into the largest of the cages and claim the prize birds from the melee before they did themselves damage.
He unlatched the cage, and had opened it no more than two or three inches when one of last year's champions, a normally sedate cock known, as were they all, by his number 33 flew at the gap. Shocked by the speed of the bird's approach, Cal let the door go, and in the seconds between his fingers' slipping from the latch and his retrieval of it, 33 was out.
"Damn you!" Cal shouted, cursing himself as much as the bird, for he'd left the door of the loft itself ajar, and apparently careless of what harm he might do to himself in his bid 33 was making for the sky.
In the few moments it took Cal to latch the cage again, the bird was through the door and away. Cal went in stumbling pursuit, but by the time he got back into the open air, 33 was already fluttering up above the garden. At roof height he flew around in three ever larger circles, as if orienting himself. Then he seemed to fix his objective and took off in a north-northeasterly direction.
A rapping drew Cal's attention, and he looked down to see his father standing at the window, mouthing something to him. There was more animation on Brendan's harried face than Cal had seen in months; the escape of the bird seemed to have temporarily roused him from his despondency. Moments later he was at the back door, asking what had happened. Cal had no time for explanation.
"It's off!" he yelled.
Then, keeping his eye on the sky as he went, he started down the path at the side of the house.
When he reached the front the bird was still in sight. Cal leapt the fence and crossed Chariot Street at a run, determined to give chase. It was, he knew, an all but hopeless pursuit. With a tail wind a prime bird could reach a top speed of seventy miles an hour, and though 33 had not raced for the best part of a year he could still easily outpace a human runner. But Cal knew he couldn't go back to his father without making some effort to track the escapee, however futile.
At the bottom of the street he lost sight of his quarry behind the rooftops, and so made a detour to the footbridge that crossed the Woolton Road, mounting the steps three and four at a time. From the top he was rewarded with a good view of the city. North toward Woolton Hill, and off east, and southeast, over Allerton toward Hunt's Cross. Row upon row of council house roofs presented themselves, shimmering in the fierce heat of the afternoon, the herringbone rhythm of the close-packed streets rapidly giving way to the industrial wastelands of Speke.
Cal could see the pigeon, too, though he was a rapidly diminishing dot.
It mattered little, for from this elevation 33's destination was perfectly apparent. Less than two miles from the bridge the air was full of wheeling birds, drawn to the spot no doubt by some concentration of food in the area. Every year brought at least one such day, when the ant or gnat population suddenly boomed, and the bird life of the city was united in its gluttony. Gulls up from the mudbanks of the Mersey, flying tip to tip with thrush and jackdaw and starling, all content to join the jamboree while the summer still warmed their backs.
This, no doubt, was the call 33 had heard. Bored with his balanced diet of maize and maple peas, tired of the pecking order of the loft and the predictability of each day the bird had wanted out; wanted up and away. A day of high life; of food that had to be chased a little, and tasted all the better for that; of the companionship of wild things. All this went through Cal's head, in a vague sort of way, while he watched the circling flocks.
It would be perfectly impossible, he knew, to locate an individual bird among these riotous thousands. He would have to trust that 33 would be content with his feast on the wing, and when he was sated do as he was trained to do, and come home. Nevertheless, the sheer spectacle of so many birds exercised a peculiar fascination and, crossing the bridge, Cal began to make his way toward the epicenter of this feathered cyclone.
Copyright © 1987 by Clive Barker
Table of Contents
IN THE KINGDOM OF THE CUCKOO
WILD BLUE YONDER
II The Pursuers
III Who Moved the Ground?
V Before the Dark
VI Mad Mooney
BIRTHS, DEATHS, AND MARRIAGES
I A Suit of Lights
II The Skin of the Teeth
III Selling Heaven
V In the Arms of Mama Pus
VI Sick Souls
VII The Tallboy
VIII Following the Thread
IX Finders Keepers
X The Menstruum
I The River
II Waking in the Dark
III What She Told
IV Night Terrors
V From the Mouths of Babes
VI Events in a High Wind
VII The Aftermath
VIII Necessary Evils
IX On the Might of Princes
XI Three Vignettes
WHAT PRICE WONDERLAND?
I To Sell Is to Own
II Tell Me No Lies
III So Near, So Far
IV Breaking the Law
I Cal, Among Miracles
II At the Lake; and Later
V The Orchard of Lemuel Lo
VI Capra's House
VII Shadwell on High
VIII The Virgin Blooded
IX Never, and Again
X The Summons
XI At the Gazebo
XII A Vanishing Breed
XIII A Proposal
BACK AMONG THE BLIND MEN
I Time's Gone By
IV The Nomads
V Our Lady of the Bones
VI The Brittle Machine
VII Tales of Spook City
I The Messenger
II Seeing the Light
IV As Good Men Go
V The Hours Pass
VI Hello, Stranger
VII Lost Causes
VIII New Eyes for Old
IX A Secret Place
XI Cal, Traveling North
II The Burial Party
III The Horse Unharnessed
IV The Rope Dancers
VI The Flesh Is Weak
VII An Open Book
VIII The Essential Dragon
IX The Fire
X Unearthly Delights
XI A Witness
XII One Fell Swoop
XIII A Fleeting Glimpse
XIV The Narrow Bright
INTO THE GYRE
II The Temple
III The Miracle of the Loom
V A Fragile Peace
OUT OF THE EMPTY QUARTER
THE SEARCH FOR THE SCOURGE
I No Rest for the Wicked
III The Wall
THE DREAM SEASON
I Portrait of the Hero as a Young Lunatic
III No Lullabies
IV The Shrine of the Mortalities
V The Naked Flame
VI Death Comes Home
I A Chapter of Accidents
II Dust and Ashes
III The Secret Isle
IV Past Hope
II Shelter from the Storm
III On the Hill
V The Sleepwalker
What People are Saying About This
Weaveworld is pure dazzle, pure storytelling. The mixed, tricky world where fantasy and horror overlap has been visited beforethough not very oftenand Weaveworld will be a guide to everyone who travels there in the future.
Most Helpful Customer Reviews
Barker's version/vision of "The garden of Eden" totally rocked! He's a genius. This was my first Clive Barker book and I've been a devoted fan of all his work ever since. Weaveworld is a nonstop thrill ride from beginning to end; with staggering twists, sharp turns, and sudden dips. Poor Cal and Suzanna, if it wasn't one thing it was another. It seemed like those two didn't get one iota of peace throughout the yarn, but in the end, all their struggles were well worth it. Like Imajica, Barker really knows how to bring his worlds to life: they are so colorful (in every implication of the word) and vivid that they just pull you right in to its many folds. Weaveworld is such an incredible story, that I don't think my words give it the justice it deserves.
Barker takes you through an exiting roller coaster ride with many twists and turns.Up and down around every corner Barker attacks your senses.The horror genre has never been like this and never will again.This book leaves you a little shooken and wanting more.He throughs everything at you but the kitchen sink in this novel
Clive Barker is the master of making the reader believe the unbelievable. A must read for anyone who longs for a little magic in their life.
Each Clive Barker book i revisit....for it's been 15+ years since i read most of his masterpieces. They have made me a little stonger and more self aware each book I finnish. In the last 2 weeks i've finnished Sacrament, Weaveworld, and CBs First Tales....but it really started at Christmas with Thief of Always and the Abarat series. Oh and I recently finnished Damnation Game! Fabulous. Thank you Mr BARKER for helping me reconnect with myself. I reccomend thesebooks toeveryone!!
Over ten years later, this story still haunts with a relish to reread again...please enable this into a Nook Book!! Pure fantasy that grabs you and never lets go.
Weaveworld is a great book. But I wouldnt say one of his best. Weaveworld is a book about a world beyond this world. A world that imagination can take flight, and where dreams are born. Weaveworld, is a great fantasy fiction, and a wonderful book to read!! *Sp0oKy*
I thought that this novel was the best I've read yet. I am a big fan of Barker's style and I fell in love with this book. I couldn't put it down. It took my mind to places I've never imagined. If you like a mixture of horror and fantasy, you'll love this one.
Good stuff! Modern-times fantasy for the older audience. Contains some badass Revelations imagery. I likes me a fantasy author who respects his sources.
Oh my, what a read. What an exhausting journey. I read this book filled with magic and horror, hope and lack of hope.. and the always menacing Scourge, and felt all of these things. Suzanne carries the strength of mankind, and the magic of her grandmother. Calhoun is sincerity personified. And that is just the beginning, or would be if there was a beginning. Or for that matter and end. I think this was the story of what we each carry within ourselves. And the fear of losing it. I was left feeling lonely, bereft and yet hopeful. Is that possible? Is anything impossible? The story is also a reminder that no one of us can stand alone.
This is the master work of Clive Barker. This novel really keeps the tension racked up and imagines a world that is complex and dark. It takes the reader on an adrenaline fuelled journey through both the modern world and the world of magic and shows the characters inhabiting both worlds as more complex than previously imagined. The imagination here and the descriptions of the world are masterful.Highly recommended.
Quite a good book, though seems confused in places.
Being my first venture into Clive Barker's depraved mind, I must say that I was very impressed. However, this is a dark tale not for the faint of horror. The basic premise is there is a magical race, the Seerkind, that hides itself in a carpet to protect itself from the outside world and the Scourge, a monster intent on genocide. Once inside the hidden world, the carpet is guarded by a human. However, a Seerkind exile and her human associate work to find the carpet and destroy the Seerkind's world. In the process the caretaker dies and her grandaughter takes up her mantle, while fate brings Cal, a human who is destined to play a role in the future of the Seerkind, into the story and a bizarre and disjointed romance ensues. Anyone who tries to tell you this book is more fantasy than horror is delusional. Barker is a horror writer through and through and that shines in this work. The Fugue is a fantastical world with magical characters, but Weaveworld itself spins around an axis of blood and death. There are monsters galore along with some of the goriest imagery I have ever encountered. My only knock on Weaveworld is that the main antagonists, Shadwell and Immacalota, while vividly rendered are relatively flat. We know what their goals are but there is little in the way of background provided. We are never really told why they want what they want.
Very trippy, totally germinal.
There's a mixture of fantasy and horror in this book. The horror is corny but the fantasy lifts it onto a different plane. An invisible parallel race codes itself into a beautiful tightly woven carpet that lies for years in the half abandoned north of England house of it's old lady guardian. When she dies.......
Barker is a fine, fine fantasist, capable of creating and handling the most intricate plots and worlds with aplomb.
I always love his imagery
This is a complicated and masterful journey. His worlds are always thus. Takes commitment to read but is impossible to ut down.
It took me a little while to read but i am so glad that i did!!! The last 100 pages blew my mind!
This book is one of my all time favorite books and I have been reading for over 60 years. I read it many years ago and still remember it. Excellent.
This was the first book I read by Barker. I keep waiting for a movie version, which was supposed to be in the works but never came about.
This is the book that really got me hooked on fantasy. The author doesn't just write stories, he creates worlds. A true must read if you haven't already.