A ten year old boy named Harvey, bored with his life, falls to the wiles of a seductively welcoming being named Rictus, and becomes a guest at a seemingly wondrous place called Holiday House. At Holiday House, each fun filled day contains four seasons: and seasons at their very best. The springtime which comes each morning ushers in blossoming flowers and explosions of greenery; the summers that fill the afternoons are always those rare perfect kind one experiences but a few times in the school less, cloud less summertime of youth; the autumns that ripens as evening sets in sees the trees dyed with bright colors, as the air cools and the breeze smells sweetly of the bounty of unseen fields. And then winter takes over the night, cold, crisp, perfect for sleeping in or sitting beside a crackling fire. It’s all too good to be true which of course it is.
In this the imaginative Liverpudlian nearly succeeds. The one serious flaw in The Thief of Always is the same one I’ve found in nearly everything Clive Barker has written, and that is.as best I can describe it.his story lacks a soul. I don’t know any other way to put it. This registers in the ease with which Barker’s characters can later be put out of mind, and the acceptance one experiences when something terrible happens to someone we’ve just spent the last however many pages reading about. I know legions of Barker fans won’t agree with me there, but I have always sensed that about Clive Barker’s works, be it The party games of Blood, The Damnation Game, Weaveword, Cabal, or even here, in what was mostly a charming, dark little story.
The Thief of Always is good, it’s just not THAT good. It’s like a trip through a shattered looking glass; it’s flat in a few spots, it’s neither character nor plot driven, and it rushes past far too fast in places where I found myself wishing we cou …