by Clive Barker
“He wept, and he waited, holding his daughter’s hand all the while, rocking her in his arms sometimes, telling her how much he loved her, then—forgetting all his rational principles, going down on his knees and praying to God for a miracle. It was the first prayer he’d spoken since he was a little boy and he’d been made to pray over his mother’s casket, and thought to himself if you don’t wake her up God, then I’m never going to believe in you ever again. Of course his mother had remained dead in her casket, and the boy had become a rationalist.
“But now all his faith in reason failed him, and he prayed with more passion than the Pope, begging God to bring a miracle.
“Down by the river, the servants were praying too, sobbing as they searched the bank
“It was the smallest boy, the one who brushed away the ashes from the hearth, who saw the man in the river first. He started yelling for everyone to come and see, come and see.
“By the time the majordomo got to where the boy was standing a figure had risen out of the river, and the morning sun, striking him crossways, pierced him, and emerged again as beams of pure color. Nobody knew whether to be terrified or ecstatic, so they simply stood rooted to the spot while the creature emerged from the water. Some of the women averted their eyes when they saw his naked state, but most just stared, the tears they’d been shedding forgotten.
“ ‘I heard somebody praying for my Jerusha,’ the riverman said. ‘Is she sick?’
“To the death,’ said the boy.
“ ‘Will you lead me to her?’ the riverman asked the child.
“The boy simply took the creature’s hand, and off they went between the trees.”
“Nobody tried to stop them?” Rachel said.
“It crossed the majordomo’s mind. But he wasn’t a superstitious man. He shared his lord’s belief that there was nothing in this world that was not finally natural, that one day science would explain. So he followed the boy and the riverman at a little distance, without interfering.
“Meanwhile, in the house, Jerusha was very close to death. The fever was so high it was as though she would catch fire in the bed and burn away to nothing.
“Then her father heard a sound like somebody mopping the stairs outside the bedroom; slapping a wet mop down on the marble, then dragging it up a step and slapping it down again. He let go of his daughter’s hand for a moment and opened the door. There was a flickering light filling the hallway, like sunlight off water. And there on the stairs, mounting one torturous step after another, was the riverman. His watery body was diminished with every stair he climbed. The further from his home he strayed, the more of his life-essence he spent.
“Of course Jerusha’s father demanded to know who he was, and what he was doing in the house. But the riverman had no strength to waste answering questions. It was the boy who spoke.
“ ‘He’s come to help her,’ he said.
“Jerusha’s father didn’t know what to make of this. The rational part of him said: don’t be afraid, just because you’ve never seen anything like this before. While the part that had prayed to God for intercession now whispered: this is what heaven has sent. And that part was very much afraid, for if this was an angel—this silvery form, swaying in front of him—then what kind of God sent it? And what kind of salvation had it brought his daughter?
“He was still puzzling over this, and blocking the riverman’s way to the door, when he heard Jerusha say:
‘Please, Papa . . . let . . . him . . . in . . .’
“Amazed to hear his daughter speaking, he pushed open the door, and with a sudden rush, like a broken dam, the riverman pushed through it and went to stand at the end of Jerusha ‘s bed.
“Her eyes were still closed, but she knew her saviour was there. She started to pull at the clothes she was wearing, which were horribly dirtied with pus and blood and all the rest. She tore them with such ferocity she was lying there naked in half a minute, every inch of her wounded body exposed to her father and to the riverman.
“Then she raised her arms, like a woman welcoming her love into her bed . . . ” Galilee halted here; then began again more softly: which of course was what she was doing.
“The room was suddenly completely still. Jerusha’s arms raised, the riverman waiting at the bottom of the bed, the father staring at him, still not certain what he’d done, letting this thing into his daughter’s presence.
“Then, without a word, the riverman threw himself down onto the girl. And as he touched her he broke like a wave, splashing against her face and arms and breasts and belly and thighs. In that instant all trace of his human shape disappeared. Jerusha cried out in pain and shock, as the water seethed and hissed on her body like water thrown onto afire. Steam rose off the bed, and afoul stench filled the room.
“But when it cleared . . .”
“She was healed?” Rachel said.
“She was healed.”
“Completely?”
“Every wound she’d had was gone. Every sore, every blister. She was healed from head to foot. Even the first bite, on her thigh, had been washed away.”
“And the riverman?”
“Well of course he’d gone too,” Galilee said lightly, as though that part of the story wasn’t very important to him.
But it was to Rachel. “So he sacrificed himself,” she said.
“I suppose he did,” Galilee replied. Then, as though he were more comfortable addressing this question in the body of his story, he said:
“Jerusha’s father believed that the whole thing had been brought about by his own lack of faith; that God had visited these torments on his Jerusha in order to make him realize that he needed divine help sometimes.”
“To make him pray, in other words.”
“That’s right.”
“And if it was indeed the work of God, then it was effective work because Jerusha’s father became a very religious man. He spent all his money building a cathedral right beside the river, where the creature had first been seen. It was a magnificent place. Vast. An eighth wonder. Or it would have been if it had ever been finished.”
“Why wasn’t it finished?”
“Well . . . this part of the story’s very strange,” Galilee warned.
“Stranger than the rest?”
“I think so. You see it was the old man’s idea that the water from the river should supply the font in the cathedral. This met with some opposition from the local bishops who insisted that the water could not be used to baptize babies because it wasn’t holy water. To which Jerusha’s father said . . . well, you can imagine what he said. These were already sacred waters, he told the bishops. They’d healed his Jerusha. They didn’t need somebody mumbling Latin over them to make them holy. The bishops complained to Rome. The Pope said he’d look into it.
“Meanwhile, work went on laying the pipes from the river into the nave, where a beautiful font, carved in Florence, had been set.
“I should explain that this was very early spring. The snows in the mountains had been heavy that winter, and now that they were melting the river was high and white; more violent than it had been in living memory. People working on the cathedral could barely hear one another, even when they were shouting; the din was so great. All of which may explain what happened next . . . ”
“Which was what?”
“Jerusha’s father was taking a tour around the cathedral, and happened to be approaching the font when somebody—perhaps misunderstanding some instruction—let the water flow through the pipes for the first time.
“There was a noise like an earthquake. The cathedral shook to its highest spire. The stone flags laid over the pipes—each one of them weighing a ton or a ton and a half—were thrown up into the air like playing cards as the waters washed down the pipe toward the font—”
Rachel could see all this quite clearly: her head was filled with noise and chaos. She felt the walls shaking, heard people screaming and praying, watched them running in all directions, hoping to
escape the cataclysm. She knew they wouldn’t make it; even before Galilee had said so. They were all going to die.
“—and when the water came up through the font it came with such force, such power, the font simply shattered. A thousand pieces of stone flew—”
Oh this she hadn’t seen—
“—like bullets, some of them. Others big as cannonballs.”
—she’d imagined the roof collapsing on everyone, the walls caving in. But it was the font that was going to do the most damage—
“—splitting open skulls, piercing people’s hearts, slicing off their arms, their legs. All in a matter of seconds.
“Jerusha’s father was the closest to the font, so he. was the luckiest, because he was the first to die. A huge slab of stone, decorated with a cherub, slammed into him and carried his body out into the river. He was never found.”
“And the rest?”
“It’s as you imagine.”
“They all died.”
“Every single one. Nobody working in the cathedral that day survived.”
“Where was Jerusha?”
“Back at her father’s house, which had fallen into terrible disrepair since he’d begun to build the cathedral.”
“So she survived.”
“She, and a few of the servants. Including, by the way, the boy who’d swept the ashes from the hearth
“The one who’d led the riverman to her bed.”
There he stopped, much to her astonishment.
“Is that it?” she said.
“That’s it,” he replied. “What more could there be?”
“I don’t know . . . something more . . .” She pondered the question. “Some closure . . .”
Galilee shrugged. “I’m sorry,” he said. “If there’s more to tell I don’t have it.”
She felt faintly annoyed; as though he’d led her on, tempting her with clues as to what all this meant, but now that she was at the end—or at least as far as he claimed to be able to take her—it wasn’t clear at all.
“It’s a simple little story,” he said.
“But it hasn’t got a proper ending.”
“It’s as I said before: you could make it up for yourself.”
“I said I wanted you to tell me.”
“I’ve told all I know,” Galilee replied. He glanced toward the window. “I think it’s about time I was going.”
“Where?”
“Just back to my boat. It’s called The Samarkand. It’s anchored offshore.”
She didn’t ask him why he had to go, in part because of her irritation at the way he’d finished his story, in part because she didn’t want him to think her needy. Still she couldn’t help asking:
“Will you be coming back?”
“That depends on you,” he said. “If you want me to come back, I will.”
This was said so simply, so sweetly, that her irritation evaporated.
“Of course I want you to come back,” she said.
“Then I will,” he replied, and then he was gone. She listened for him moving away through the house, but she heard nothing—not a breath, not a footfall. She slipped out of bed and went to the window. Clouds had come in to cover the moon and stars; there was very little light on the lawn. But her eyes found him nevertheless, moving quickly down toward the beach. She watched him until he disappeared. Then she went back to her bed, and lay awake in the darkness for an hour, listening to the double rhythm of her heart and the waves, wondering idly if she’d lost her mind.
III
i
She woke at first light and headed straight down to the beach. She’d hoped to find The Samarkand moored close to the shore—perhaps even see Galilee on deck—but the bay was deserted. She scoured the horizon, looking for a sail, but there was no boat in sight. Where the hell had he gone? Just a few hours before he’d asked if she wanted him to come back, and she’d told him unequivocally that she did. Had that just been a sop to her feelings; a way to extricate himself from her presence without having to say goodbye? If so, then he was a coward.
She turned her back on the water and started up the sand toward the house. A few yards from the path she came upon the remains of the fire Galilee had made the night before: a black circle of burned timber and ash, the latter being slowly spread across the beach by the breeze. She went down on her haunches beside the pit, still quietly cursing the fire-maker for his inconstancy. A bittersweet smell rose up from the embers: the acrid smell of dead fire mingled with a hint of the fragrance she’d carried into the house with her the night before: the aroma which had set her head spinning and put such strange pictures behind her eyes.
Was it possible, she wondered, that her first instincts had been correct and Galilee had been some kind of hallucination, a waking dream induced by an inhalation of smoke?
She got to her feet, and looked out toward the empty bay. Her memory of his presence was perfect: the way he’d appeared, the sound of his voice, the intricacies of the story he’d told her: Jerusha at the water, the river god in all his glory, the beetle carrying contagion. If there was any certain proof that he’d been there in the flesh, it was the story. She hadn’t invented it, she hadn’t told it to herself; somebody had been there to put those images and ideas in her head.
Galilee was no figment of her imagination. He was just another unreliable male.
She brewed herself a very strong pot of coffee, which she drank sickly-sweet, showered, ate a miserable breakfast, made some more coffee, and then called Margie.
“Is this a good time to talk?” she asked.
“I’ve got about ten minutes,” Margie said. “Then I’m out of the house. I’ve got to be on time today.”
Rachel was surprised at this; punctuality wasn’t Margie’s strong suit. “What’s the occasion?”
“You mean: who’s the occasion?” Margie said.
“Oh . . . the Fuck Fuck Man.”
“Danny,” Margie reminded her. “He’s really good for me, honey. I mean really good. He told me last week he wouldn’t make love with me if I was drunk, so the last couple of nights I didn’t drink. We fucked instead. Oh Lord, we fucked! Then I didn’t want to drink. I just wanted to go to sleep in his arms. Oh God, listen to me.”
“It sounds wonderful, Margie.”
“It is. So wonderful it’s scary. Anyway . . . I’ve got to dash off, so just give me the highlights. How is it all?”
“It’s as you said: it’s magical.” She wanted to start talking to Margie about her visitor, but with so little time to do it in, she was afraid she’d end up trivializing the event, so she said nothing. Instead she said: “When were you last here?”
“Oh . . . sixteen or seventeen years ago. I was very happy there for a little while. I was very consoled.” The strangeness of the word was not lost on Rachel. “It was one of those times when I saw my life clearly for once. Do you know what I mean?”
“Not really . . .”
“Well that’s what happened to me. I saw my life. And instead of doing something about what I saw, I just took the path of less resistance. Oh Lord, honey, I really have to go. I don’t want to leave my lover-boy waiting.”
“I understand.”
“Let’s talk again tomorrow.”
“Before you go—”
“Yes?”
“—did anything really strange happen to you while you were here?”
There was a long silence.
At last Margie said: “When I’ve got more time we have to talk, honey. Yes, of course strange stuff happened.”
“And what did you do?”
“I told you. I took the path of least resistance. And I’ve always regretted it. Believe me, there’ll never be another time in your life like this, hon. It comes round once, and if you’re ready, then you don’t look back, you don’t worry about what other people are going to think, you don’t even wonder what the consequences are going to be. You just go.” Her voice dropped to a near-whisper. “We’ll all be jealous as
hell, of course. We’ll all curse you for doing what we didn’t do, maybe what we couldn’t do. But deep down we’ll be happy for you.”
“Who’s we?” Rachel said.
“The Geary women, honey,” Margie replied. “All of us sad, sorry and utterly fucked-up Geary women.”
ii
After lunch, Rachel went walking, not along the beach this time, but inland. There’d been a light breeze in the morning, but it had dropped away completely at noon, and the air now felt hot and stale. The atmosphere suited Rachel’s mood. She felt stagnated; unable to move very far from the house in case she missed Galilee’s return, and unable to think of very much other than him; him or his story.
There were some sizable bugs out today. Whenever one of them rose up from the shrubbery she thought of the beetle on Jerusha’s thigh; and of how Galilee had imitated its bite. That had been his only touch, hadn’t it? A cruel nip at her skin. So much for tenderness. But then as he’d retreated from her she’d caught hold of his hand, and felt the hard skin of his wide fingers, and the heat of his flesh.
She would have that again, and next time they wouldn’t just be holding hands. She’d make him put his mouth to the place he’d pinched; make him kiss her hurt better. Kiss her and keep kissing, lower and deeper, and deeper, until he’d made amends. He’d do it too. She knew he’d do it. The story had been a game; a way of deliciously postponing the inevitable moment when they made love.
She sat down at the side of the road, fanning herself with a plate-sized leaf she’d plucked, and thought about him, standing there in her doorway. The way his T-shirt had clung to his body; the way his eyes had glinted when he looked at her; the tentative smile that had come into his face now and then. These few details, and his name, were all she really knew about him. Why then, she asked herself, did she feel such a sense of loneliness, thinking she might never see him again? If she was so desperate for the physical comfort of a man then she could find it readily enough; either here on the island or back in New York. It wasn’t about the presence of another body, it was about him, about Galilee. But that was nonsensical. Yes, he was handsome, but she’d met more beautiful men. And she knew too little about him to be enchanted by his spirit. So why was she sitting here moping over him like a lovelorn fifteen-year-old?