My introduction to the fiction of Clive Barker is The Hellbound Heart, a compulsively readable and horribly tasteful novella soaked in blood, sex and magic. It's a fast read but abounds in small delights. Published in 1986 as the third volume of the anthology Night Visions edited by George R.R. Martin and a stand-alone with the release of a film adaptation written and directed by Barker as Hellraiser, this piece excels as storytelling and prose. Character and detail fall further down the list, but my interest to read more of Barker is piqued. Is it Halloween yet?
The story begins with such wonderful opening paragraphs that I'm going to let Barker write my review for me.
So intent was Frank upon solving the puzzle of Lemarchand's box that he didn't hear the great bell begin to ring. The device had been constructed by a master craftsman, and the riddle was this--that though he'd been told the box contained wonders, there simply seemed to be no way into it, no clue on any of its six black lacquered faces as to the whereabouts of the pressure points that would disengage one piece of this three-dimensional jigsaw from another.
Frank had seen similar puzzles--mostly in Hong Kong, products of the Chinese taste for making metaphysics of hard wood--but to the acuity and technical genius of the Chinese the Frenchman had brought a perverse logic that was entirely his own. If there was a system to the puzzle, Frank had failed to find it. Only after several hours of trial and error did a chance juxtaposition of thumbs, middle and last fingers bear fruit: an almost imperceptible click and then--victory!--a segment of the box slid out from beside its neighbors.
There were two revelations.
"Frank" is Frank Cotton. On his hedonistic travels, he's bought a puzzle box that promises to summon interdimensional beings called Cenobites, an order devoted to experiments in the higher states of pleasure. Working on the puzzle box in the seclusion of his childhood home, Frank is "successful" in summoning four Cenobites, horribly dismembered and reassembled beings who warn Frank that if they give him what he came for, there will be no going back. He agrees, realizing too late that heightened sensitivity to pleasure opens the door to an endless agony of pain from which there is no escape.
Sometime later, Frank's younger brother Rory moves into the family home on 55 Lodovico Street with his posh wife, Julia. Sullen and more gloomy every day of her four-year marriage to her guileless and boring husband, Julia often entertains herself with thoughts of a frantic coupling she allowed herself with Frank a week before her wedding to Rory. Exploring her new home, Julia finds the largest of the three upper floor rooms to be chilly and uncomfortably stagnant. She also hears a bell ringing somewhere but thinks nothing of it at the time, needing to entertain a mousy co-worker of Rory's named Kirsty who's paid them a social call.
While Rory is out of the house, Julia finds herself drawn to the damp room. Chiseling paint from around the hinges of the kitchen door, Rory cuts his hand and spills his blood on the floor of the room, blood which later disappears without either one of them cleaning it. Escaping to the damp room the night of their housewarming party, Julia discovers a thing on the floor that seems to have once been human but whose flesh has been horribly stripped and corrupted. It's her ex-lover Frank and he to become whole again, begs Julia to bring him more blood. Living in the wall of the damp room somewhere between our world and one much darker, Frank dreams of escape from the Cenobites.
As it was, they had brought incalculable suffering. They had overdosed him on sensuality, until his mind had teetered on madness, then they'd initiated him into experiences that his nerves still convulsed to recall. They had called it pleasure, and perhaps they'd meant it. Perhaps not. It was impossible to know with these minds; they were so hopelessly, flawlessly ambiguous. They recognized no principles of reward and punishment by which he could hope to win some respite from their tortures, not were they touched by any appeal for mercy. He'd tried that, over the weeks and months that separated the solving of the box from today.
There was no compassion to be had on this side of the Schism; there was only the weeping and the laughter. Tears of joy sometimes (for an hour without dread, a breath's length even), laughter coming just as paradoxically in the face of some new horror, fashioned by the Engineer for the provision of grief.
There's a lot of things The Hellbound Heart is not. It doesn't have characters who are remotely compelling. Unlike the film series, the Cenobites don't even play a central role in the novella (Pinhead was created for the movie, perhaps at the request of a producer who felt the project needed a Freddy Kruger). Kirsty, Julia and Rory are three of the most boring people you could be cornered by at an office party. Maybe to Barker's credit, there's no sense of place, with the story able to take place anywhere in North America or Europe. There is a vagueness to the story that might frustrate readers like me who crave detail. When it comes to imagination and prose, though, Barker thrives.
How had he first heard about Lemarchand's box? He couldn't remember. In a bar maybe, or a gutter, from the lips of a fellow derelict. At the time it was merely a rumor--this dream of a pleasure dome where those who had exhausted the trivial delights of the human condition might discover a fresh definition of joy. And the route to this paradise? There were several, he was told, charts of the interface between the real and the realer still, made by travelers whose bones had long since gone to dust. One such chart was in the vaults of the Vatican, hidden in code in a theological work unread since the Reformation. Another--in the form of an origami exercise was reported to have been in the possession of the Marquis de Sade, who used it, while imprisoned in the Bastille, to barter with a guard for paper on which to write The 120 Days of Sodom. Yet another was made by a craftsman--a maker of singing birds--called Lemarchand, in the form of a musical box of such elaborate design a man might toy with it half a lifetime and never get inside.
Stories. Stories. Yet since he had come to believe in nothing at all it was not so difficult to put the tyranny of verifiable truth out of his head. And it passed the time, musing drunkenly on such fantasies.
The Cenobites have inspired ten movies of varying quality, but even in the films, don't get around to doing much. They appear like S&M genies, issue some very ominous threats and haul victims off for their experiments. A garden variety zombie lurching around and muttering "brains!" is more compelling to me. Rather than monsters, the Cenobites work best as ideas, and Barker's novella with its delicious ambiguities is their best venue. He sets the mood for something horrible and stretched my imagination in ways I enjoyed. The best horror swirls between beauty and ugliness, light and darkness, and Barker taps into those contrasts.
Word count: 35,344 words