Galilee

by Clive Barker

  She was right. The door slid open, and she stepped into the house. It smelled musty, though not unpleasantly so. And it was nicely cool after the oppressive heat of the air outside. She closed the door behind her, and went straight to the kitchen, where she filled a glass with cold water, and drank. Glass in hand she made a quick tour of the rooms to reacquaint herself with the place. She hadn’t anticipated how much pleasure she’d take in simply being back here; that pleasure sharpened by the illicitness of her presence.

  The big bed had been stripped after her departure and not remade. She went to the linen closet, found some fresh sheets and pillowcases and made it up again. She was sorely tempted just to lie down and sleep, but she resisted. Instead she had a shower, made herself some sweet, hot tea and went outside to smoke a cigarette and watch the last of the day’s light. She had no sooner brushed the leaves off the antiquated furniture and sat down than the gloomy heavens unleashed a torrent. Geckos zigzagged for cover, a panicked hen was blown across the lawn like a feathered balloon. For some reason, the rain’s percussion made her want to laugh; so laugh she did. Sat there on the veranda laughing like some crazy woman who’d lost her mind waiting for her lover; laughing, laughing while the rain beat down and obscured from sight the ocean that had failed to give him up.

  VIII

  Galilee had not expected to ever wake again—at least not into this world—but wake he did.

  His eyes, which were encrusted, opened painfully, and he raised his head to look at the water.

  Somebody had called his name. It wasn’t the first time he’d heard somebody speak to him in his solitude, of course; there’d been plenty of talkative delusions. But this was something different; this was a voice that made his heart shake itself like a wet animal, and roused him with its motion. He looked up. The sky was the color of heated iron.

  Sit up, child.

  Child? Who called him child? Only one woman in all the world.

  Sit up and attend to me.

  He opened his mouth to speak. The sound that emerged was pitiful. But she understood.

  Yes you can, she told him.

  Again, he complained. He was too weak, too close to death.

  I’m just as tired as you are, child his mother said, and just as ready to die. Believe me. Perfectly ready. But if I take the trouble to come and search for you, the least you can do is sit up and look at me.

  There was no doubting the authenticity of this voice. Somehow, she was here. The woman who’d warmed him in the oven of her womb; who’d fed him off her body, and shaped his soul; the woman who’d raged against him for his folly, and told him—in what was surely the defining moment of his youth—that he was flawed beyond fixing; a thing that would only ever bring harm and hurt—that woman had found him, and he had no place to hide, except to throw himself into the sea. And who was to say she wouldn’t follow him there, elemental that she was? She had no fear of death, whatever she might claim about her readiness.

  I don’t come here on my own account, she went on.

  “Why are you here then?”

  Because I met your woman. Your Rachel.

  Now, finally, he raised his head. His mother, or rather her projection, stood at the stern of The Samarkand. Despite all her demands that he look at her, now that he had done so he found her own gaze averted. She was looking at the setting sun; at that molten sky. A day had passed, he vaguely thought, since he’d counted off the last moments of his life against the decaying light. He and the boat had survived another twenty-four hours.

  “Where did you see her? She didn’t come to—”

  L’Enfant? No, no. I saw her in New York

  “You went to New York. Why?”

  To see Old Man Geary. He was dying, and I promised myself I’d be there when his last moments were upon him.

  “You went to kill him?”

  Cesaria shook her head. No. I simply went to bear witness to the passing of an enemy. Of course once I got there it was difficult not to cause a little trouble.

  “What did you do?”

  Cesaria shook her head. Nothing of consequence.

  “But he’s dead?”

  Yes, he’s dead. She looked up, directly above her head. The first stars were appearing. But I didn’t come here to talk about him. I came for Rachel’s sake.

  Galilee laughed; or did his best, given how dry his throat was.

  What’s so funny? Cesaria demanded.

  Galilee reached for his brandy bottle, which had rolled into the gunnel, and drank from it. “The thought of you doing anything for anybody’s sake but your own,” he replied.

  Cesaria ignored the barb. This is shameful behavior, she said. Turning your back on a woman who feels something for you, the way Rachel does.

  “Since when have you given a damn what a human being felt?”

  Maybe I’m getting sentimental in my old age. You’ve found an extraordinary woman. And what do you do? You try to kill yourself. I despair of you. Her voice dropped as she spoke these last words, and the boards of The Samarkand trembled at their timbre. I truly despair of you.

  “So despair,” Galilee replied. “I don’t give a shit. Leave me alone and let me die.” He waved her away as he spoke, his head sinking down so that his face was pressed to the boards of the deck. He was no longer looking at her, but he knew of course that she hadn’t departed. He felt the emanations of her power coming against him, subtle and rhythmical. Though she was just a vision here, she’d carried with her a measure of her physical authority.

  “What are you waiting for?” he said to her, without raising his head.

  I don’t exactly know, she replied. I suppose I keep hoping you’ll remember who you are.

  “I know who I am . . .” he growled.

  THEN RAISE YOUR HEAD. The boat shook from bow to stern when she uttered these words; fish in the deeps below convulsed. But Galilee was unimpressed; at least, he didn’t obey the instruction. He stayed put, face down.

  You’re a wretch, she told him.

  “No doubt,” he murmured.

  A selfish, willful—

  “No doubt,” he said again. “I’m the worst piece of shit that ever floated on the ocean. So now will you please leave me the fuck alone ?”

  The boat shook again when he spoke, though not as violently. There was a few moments of silence between them. Finally he glanced sideways at her. “You’ve got plenty of other children,”

  Galilee said. “Why don’t you torment them?”

  They don’t mean what you mean to me, Cesaria said. You know that. Maddox is a half-breed, Luman’s crazy, and the women . . . She shook her head. Well, they’re not what I had in mind when I raised them.

  Galilee lifted his head a little. “Poor mother. What a disappointment we are. You wanted perfection and look what you got.” He raised himself up now, into a kneeling position. “Of course none of it’s your fault is it? You’re never to blame for anything.”

  If I were guiltless I wouldn’t be here, she said. I made my mistakes, especially with you. You were the first, so I spoiled you. I indulged you. I loved you too much.

  “You loved me too much?”

  Yes! Too much! I couldn’t see what a monster you were.

  “Now I’m a monster?”

  I know what you’ve done all these years—

  “You don’t know the half. I’ve got more innocent blood on my hands—”

  I don’t care about that! It’s the squandering that appalls me. The time you’ve wasted.

  “And what should I have been doing instead? Raising horses?”

  Don’t bring your father into this. This has nothing to do—

  “It has everything to do with him.” He reached out and caught hold of the toppled mast, hauling himself to his feet. “He’s the one who really disappointed you. We’re just getting the aftermath.”

  Now it was Cesaria who averted her eyes, staring off across the water.

  “Did I touch a nerve?” Galilee said. Cesaria didn’t
reply. “I did, didn’t I?”

  Whatever happened between your father and me is over and done with. Lord knows I loved him. And I worked to make him happy.

  “Well you failed.”

  She narrowed her eyes. He was certain another boat-shaking assault was on its way, but no: when she replied she did so softly, the sound of her voice almost drowned out by the slop of the waves against the hull.

  Yes I failed . . . she said . . . . and I’ve paid for my failure with years of loneliness. Years when I might have expected my firstborn to be some comfort to me.

  “You drove me out, mother. You told me if I set foot in L’Enfant ever again you’d kill me.”

  I never said that.

  “Oh yes you did. You ask Marietta.”

  I don’t trust her opinion on anything. She’s as willful as you. I should have torn you both out of my womb with my own hands.

  “Oh Christ, mother, not the womb speech! I’ve heard it all before! You regret having me and I regret being born. So where does that leave us?”

  Where it always leaves us, Cesaria said after a moment, at each other’s throats. She sighed, and the sea shuddered. I can see this is a waste of time. You’re never going to understand. And maybe it’s better this way. You’ve done enough damage for a hundred men—

  “I thought you didn’t care about the blood I’d spilled?”

  It’s not spilled blood I’m talking about. It’s the broken hearts. She paused, touching her fingers to her lips, stroking them. She deserves someone who’ll care for her. Stay with her. Right to the end. You don’t have what it takes to do that. You’re all talk Just like your father.

  Galilee had no reply to this. Just as his earlier remark about “the aftermath” had struck a nerve, this little stab found its place. She saw what she’d done too; and made it her cue to depart.

  I’ll leave you to your martyrdom, she said, turning from him. Her image, which had appeared quite solid until now seemed to shake like a torn sail. In a few gusts it would be carried away.

  “Wait,” Galilee said.

  Cesaria’s image continued to flutter, but her eyes fixed upon her son like driven nails. The moment she looked away, he knew, she’d be gone. Only her scrutiny was keeping her here.

  What now? she said.

  “Even if I wanted to go back to her . . .”

  Yes?

  “ . . . I don’t have the means. I destroyed everything on board.”

  You didn’t leave yourself so much as a raft?

  “I didn’t plan to change my mind.”

  Cesaria raised her chin two or three inches, regarding him imperiously down her nose. But now you have?

  Galilee couldn’t stand the piercing stare any longer. He looked down at the deck. “I suppose . . . if I could . . .” he said quietly, “I’d like to see Rachel again . . .”

  She’s waiting for you, not six hundred miles from here.

  “Six hundred?”

  On the island.

  “What’s she doing there?”

  I sent her there. I told her I’d do my best to send you to her.

  “And how do you intend to do that?”

  I’m not certain I can. But I can try. If I fail, you’ll drown. But you were ready for that anyway. Galilee gave her a troubled glance. You’re not so ready now, are you?

  “No,” he confessed. “I’m not so ready.”

  You ‘d like to live.

  “Yes . . . I suppose I would . . .”

  But, Atva—

  This was the first time in the exchange she’d used the name he’d been baptized with; it made what followed ring like an edict.

  If I do this and you grow bored with her and desert her—

  “I won’t.”

  I’m saying: if you do, Atva, and I hear about it, I swear I’ll find you and I’ll drag you back to the shore where we baptized you and I will make it my business to drown you. Do you understand me? She said none of this with great drama; it was simply a statement of fact.

  “I understand you,” he replied.

  I won’t do this because I bear Rachel any great affection, I don’t. She’s a damn fool for feeling what she feels for you. But I will not have you leave another soul dying for love of you. I know how it feels, and I’d rather slaughter my own child than have him visit that hurt on one more heart.

  Galilee opened his arms, palms up, like a saint surrendering. “What do I need to do?” he said.

  Prepare yourself . . . Cesaria replied.

  “For what?”

  I’m calling up a storm, she said, which will drive what’s left of this little boat of yours back toward the islands.

  “It won’t survive a storm,” Galilee warned her.

  Do you have a better idea?

  “No,” he replied.

  Then shut up and be thankful you’re getting another chance.

  “You don’t know your own strength when you do these things, Mama.”

  Well it’s too late to stop it now, Cesaria said. Even as she spoke Galilee felt the wind come with fresh power against his face. It was veering, south-southeast.

  He looked up. The clouds above The Samarkand were in uncanny motion, as though they were being stirred up by an invisible hand. The newly shown stars were abruptly eclipsed.

  He felt a distinct quickening in his own veins; plainly whatever force of divine will Cesaria was using to stir the elements had some casual government over his blood.

  The Samarkand bucked, broadsided by a wave; he felt its timbers shudder beneath his feet. The short, wiry hairs at the nape of his neck prickled; his stomach began to churn. He knew what feeling this was, though it was many, many years since he’d last experienced it. He was afraid.

  The irony of this was not lost on him. Half an hour ago he’d been resigned to his demise. Not simply resigned; happy at its imminence. But Cesaria had changed all that. She’d given him hope, damn her. Despite her bullying and her threats (or perhaps in some part because of them) he wanted a chance to be back with his Rachel, and the prospect of death, which had seemed so comforting just minutes before, now made him afraid.

  Cesaria was not indifferent to his unease. She beckoned to him. Come here, she said. Partake of me.

  “What?”

  You’ll need all the strength you can get in the next few hours. Take some of mine.

  She made quite a sight there at the bow, her arm extended to him, her body—lit by the flickering lamps—gleaming against the murderous sky.

  Make it quick, Atva! she said, her voice raised now against the wind, which was whipping up spume off the waves. I can’t stay here much longer.

  He didn’t need another invitation. He stumbled toward her along the pitching deck, reaching out to catch hold of her hand.

  She’d promised him strength, and strength he got, but in a fashion that made him wonder if his mother had not changed her mind and decided instead upon infanticide. His marrow seemed to catch fire—a profound and agonizing heat that rose from the core of his limbs and spread out, through sinew and nerve, to his skin. He didn’t simply feel it, he saw it; at least his eyes reported a brightness in his flesh, blue and yellow, which spread out through his body from his stomach; coursing through his wasted limbs, and revivifying them with its passage. This was not the only sight he saw, however. The blaze climbed into his head, running around his skull like wine swilled in a cup, and as it brightened there he saw his mother in a different place: in her room in the house Jefferson had built for her, lying on her temple-door bed with her eyes closed. Zelim was at the foot of the bed—loyal Zelim, who’d hated Galilee with a fine, fierce hate—his shaved head bared as if in prayer or meditation. The windows were open, and moths had fluttered in. Not a few: thousands, tens of thousands. They were on the walls and on the bed, on Cesaria’ s clothes and hands and face. They were even on Zelim’s pate, crawling around.

  This domestic vision was short, supplanted in a couple of heartbeats by something entirely stranger. The moths grew m
ore agitated, and the flickering darkness of their wings unsealed the scene from ceiling to floor. The only form that remained was that of Cesaria, who now, instead of lying on the bed, hung suspended in a limitless darkness.

  Galilee experienced a sudden, piercing loneliness: whatever void this was—real or invented—he had no wish to be there.

  “Mother . . .” he murmured.

  The vision remained, his gaze hovering uncertainly above Cesaria’s body as though at any moment it, and he, might lose their powers of suspension and fall away into the darkness.

  He called to his mother again, this time by name. As he called to her, the form before him shimmered and the third and final vision appeared. The darkness didn’t alter, but Cesaria did. The robes in which she was wrapped darkened, rotted, and fell away. She was not naked beneath; or at least his eyes had no chance to witness her in that state. She was molten, laval; her humanity, or the guise of that humanity, flowing out of her into the void, trailing brightness as it went. He glimpsed her face as it melted into light; saw her eyes open and full of bliss; saw her burning heart fall like a star, brightening the abyss as it went.

  The insufferable loneliness was burned away in the same ecstatic moment. The fear he’d felt hanging in this nowhere seemed suddenly laughable. How could he ever be alone in a place shared with so miraculous a soul? Look, she was light! And the darkness was her foil, her other, her immaculate companion; they were lovers, she and it, partners in a marriage of absolutes.

  And with that revelation, the vision went out of him, and he was back on the deck of The Samarkand.

  Cesaria had gone. Whether in the process of tending him her strength had exhausted her, and she’d withdrawn her spirit to a place of rest—the bedroom where he’d seen her lying, perhaps—or she’d simply made her departure because she was done with him and had nothing more to say (which was perfectly in keeping with her nature) he didn’t know. Nor did he have time to ponder the question. The storm she’d stirred up was upon him, in all its ferocity. The waves would have been high enough to match the mast, if he’d had a mast, and the wind enough to tatter his sails, if he’d had sails. As it was—and by his own choosing—he had nothing. Just his limbs, no longer wasted by denial, and his wits, and the creaking hull of his boat.