by Clive Barker
She sank back against the doorjamb, shock making her nerves cavort. The dog she’d found waiting at the top of the stairs went fearlessly to the place where they’d stood. There was no further magic there, to snatch him after them. The place was dead. They’d gone, the bastards, wherever such avenues led.
The realization drew a yell of rage from her, sufficient to send the dog scurrying for cover. She dearly hoped Gentle heard her, wherever he was. Hadn’t she come here to share her revelations with him, so that they could investigate the great unknown together? And all the time he was preparing for his departure without her. Without her!
“How dare you?” she yelled at the empty space.
The dog whined in fear, and the sight of its terror mellowed her. She went down on her haunches.
“I’m sorry,” she said to it. “Come here. I’m not cross with you. It’s that little fucker Gentle.”
The dog was reluctant at first but came to her after a time, its tail wagging intermittently as it grew more confident of her sanity. She rubbed its head, the contact soothing. All was not lost. What Gentle could do, she could do. He didn’t have the copyright on adventuring. She’d find a way to go where he’d gone, if she had to eat the blue eye grain by grain to do so.
Church bells began to ring as she sat chewing this over, announcing in their ragged peals the arrival of midnight. Their clamor was accompanied by car horns in the street outside and cheers from a party in an adjacent house.
“Whoopee,” she said quietly, on her face the distracted look that had obsessed so many of the opposite sex over the years. She’d forgotten most of them. The ones who’d fought over her, the ones who’d lost their wives in their pursuit of her, even those who’d sold their sanity to find her equal: all were forgotten. History had never much engaged her. It was the future that glittered in her mind’s eye, now more than ever.
The past had been written by men. But the future—pregnant with possibilities—the future was a woman.
TWO
JOURNEYS
In Everville the travelers go by covered wagon. In Imajica Jude is carried by a stone, skipping from one vision to another. In Sacrament, Will enters the House of the World on foot. And in Galilee—a book of the sea, of course—it is Galilee’s boat, The Samarkand, that carries him away. These are all journeys of the spirit. The means of transport is, finally, neither here nor there.
Perhaps the clearest statement of this occurs in one of the passages from Imajica I selected for this section. In it, a character called Gentle comes to the deathbed of his friend Taylor. They talk about the past for a little while, but move on to discuss love and death. There are mysteries in both their lives that are presently beyond their comprehension. But the journeys they are discussing in this scene will help them solve those mysteries. And, though Clem dies, his part in assisting Gentle in his search is far from over. As is so often the case in works of the fantastique, death is an enlightenment; the revelation of a landscape that is just out of human sight, waiting to be traveled.
From Weaveworld
Before the explorers, the Rub al Khali had been a blank space on the map of the world. After them, it remained so.
Its very name, given to it by the Bedu, the desert nomads who’d lived for unnumbered centuries in the deserts of the Arab peninsula, meant: the Empty Quarter. That they, familiar with wildernesses that would drive most men insane, should designate this place empty was the most profound testament to its nullity imaginable.
But among those Europeans for whom names were not proof enough, and who had, from the beginning of the nineteenth century, gone looking for places to test their mettle, the Rub al Khali rapidly acquired legendary status. It was perhaps the single greatest challenge the earth could offer to adventurers, its barrenness unrivaled by any wasteland, equatorial or arctic.
Nothing lived there, nor could. It was simply a vast nowhere, 250,000 square miles of desolation, its dunes rising in places to the height of small mountains, and elsewhere giving way to tracts of heat-shattered stone large enough to lose a people in. It was trackless, waterless, and changeless. Most who dared its wastes were swallowed by it, its dust increased by the sum of their powdered bones.
But for that breed of man—as much ascetic as explorer—who was half in love with losing himself to such an end—the number of expeditions that had retreated in the face of the Quarter’s maddening absence, or disappeared into it, was simply a spur.
Some challenged the wasteland in the name of cartology, determined to map the place for those who might come after them, only to discover that there was nothing to map but the chastening of their spirit. Others went looking for lost tombs and cities, where fabled wealth awaited that man strong enough to reach into Hell and snatch it out. Still others, a patient, secretive few, went in the name of Academe, seeking verification of theories geological or historical. Still others looked for the Ark there; or Eden.
All had this in common: that if they returned from the Empty Quarter—even though their journey might have taken them only a day’s ride into that place—they came back changed men. Nobody could set his eyes on such a void and return to hearth and home without having lost a part of himself to the wilderness forever. Many, having endured the void once, went back, and back again, as if daring the desert to claim them; not content until it did. And those unhappy few who died at home, died with their eyes not on the loving faces at their bedside, nor on the cherry tree in blossom outside the window, but on that waste that called them as only the Abyss can call, promising the soul the balm of nothingness.
From Galilee
So Galilee sailed away; I cannot tell you where. If this were a different kind of book I might well invent the details of his route, culled from books and maps. But in doing so I would be trading on your ignorance; assuming you wouldn’t notice if I failed to get the details right.
It’s better I admit the truth: Galilee sailed away, and I don’t know where he went. When I close my eyes, and wait for an image of him to come I usually find him sitting on the rolling deck of The Samarkand looking less than happy with his lot. But though I’ve searched the horizon for some clue as to his whereabouts I see only the wastes of the ocean. To an eye more canny than mine perhaps there are clues even here, but I’m no sailor. To me, one seascape looks much like the next.
I will confess that I tried to apply what I thought would be simple logic to the question. I took down from the shelves several maps I’d been given over the years (the older ones may even have belonged to Galilee himself; long before he left to wander the world, he loved to trace imaginary journeys) and having spread them out on the floor of my study I walked among them with a book on celestial navigation in one hand and a volume on tides and currents in the other, trying to plot the likeliest course for The Samarkand to have taken. But the challenge defeated me. I set his course north past the island (that much I remember seeing, through Rachel’s eyes); I began to calculate the prevailing winds at that time, and set The Samarkand before them, but I became hopelessly distracted by the very charts that were supposed to be anchoring my imagination. They were, as I said, old charts; made at a time when knowledge was not so vigorously (some would say calamitously) divided from the pleasures of fancy. The makers of these maps had seen nothing wrong with adding a few decorative touches here and there: filigreed beasts that rose out of the painted ocean to foam at passing ships; flights of windy angels poised at every quarter, with streaming hair and trumpeter’s cheeks; even a great squid on one of the maps with eyes like twin furnaces and tentacles (so the note informed me) the length of six clippers.
In the midst of such wonders, my pathetic attempts at rational projections went south. I left off my calculations and sat in the midst of the maps like a man trading in such things, waiting for a buyer.
Galilee had been in love before, of course, and survived to tell the tale. But he’d only once before been in love with a Geary, and that made all the difference in the world. Loving a woman who belo
nged in the family of your enemy wasn’t wise; there were plenty of tragedies that testified to that. And in his experience love always ended up a bitter business. Sweet for a time yes, but never for long enough to justify the consequences: the weeks of self-recrimination, the months of lost sleep, the years of loneliness. Every time a romance ended, he’d tell himself that he’d never fall again. He’d stay out at sea, where he was safe from his own appetites.
What did he want from love anyway? A mate or a hiding place? Both perhaps. And yet hadn’t he raged again and again against the witless contentment of his animal self, smug in its nest, in its ease, in the comfort of its own dirt? He hated that part of himself: the part that wanted to be wrapped in the arms of some beloved; that asked to be hushed and sung to and forgiven. What stupidity! But even as he railed against it, fled it, out to sea, he shuddered at the thought of what lay ahead, now that love was gone again. Not just the loneliness and the sleepless nights, but the horror of being out in the fierce, hard light that burned over him, set there by his own divinity.
As he guided The Samarkand out into the ocean currents, he wondered how many more times he’d be able to sail away before the toll of partings became intolerable. Perhaps this was the last. That wouldn’t be such a terrible oath to take: to swear that after Rachel there’d be no more seductions, no more breaking of hearts. It would be his mark of respect to her, though she’d never know he’d made it: to say that after her there would only be the sea.
That said, he couldn’t readily put the woman from his mind. He sat out on deck through the night, while The Samarkand was carried further and further from land, thinking about what had passed between them. How she’d looked, lying in the carved bed that first night; how she’d talked to him as he told the story of Jerusha and the riverman, asking questions, prodding him to make the story better, finer, deeper. How she’d imitated the child bride while she lay there, pulling the sheet off her body to show herself to him; and how exquisite that sight had been. How they’d touched; how he thought of her all the time they were parted, wondering whether to risk bringing her on board the boat. He’d never let a woman set foot on The Samarkand before, holding to ancient superstition on the matter. But her presence made such fears seem nonsensical. What boat would not be blessed to have such a creature tread its boards?
Nor did he now regret the decision. Sitting under the stars he seemed to see her, turning to smile at him. There she was, with her arms open to welcome him in. There she was, saying she loved him. Whatever wonders he saw after this—and he’d seen wonders: the sea turned silver with squid, storms of gold and vermilion—there would be no vision out of sea or sky that would command his devotion as she had.
If only she hadn’t been a Geary.
So, Galilee sailed away, and—as I said—I don’t know where he wandered. I do know where he ended up, however. After three weeks The Samarkand put into the little harbor at Puerto Bueno. There had been storms all along that coast earlier in the month, and the town had taken a severe battering. Several houses close to the quay, repeatedly assaulted by waves breaking over the harbor wall, had been damaged; and one had collapsed entirely, killing the widow who’d lived there. But Galilee’s house at the top of the hill was virtually unharmed, and it was here he returned, climbing the steep streets of the town without speaking to anyone he encountered, though he knew them all, and they all knew him.
The roof of the Higgins house had leaked during the storms, and the place smelled damp. There was mildew everywhere; and much of the furniture in the upper rooms had begun to rot. He didn’t care. There was nothing here that mattered to him. Any vague dreams he might have once entertained of bringing a companion here, and living a kind of ordinary life, now seemed foolish; laughable. What a perfect waste of time, to indulge dreams of domesticity.
By chance the weather brightened the day after he appeared—which fact did nothing to harm his reputation as a man of power among the townspeople—but the scene from the windows of his house—the clouds steadily sculpted to nothingness by the wind, the sea glittering in the sun—gave him no pleasure. He’d seen it all before. This, and every other glory. There was nothing new to watch for; no surprises left in earth or heaven. He could close his eyes forever, and pass away without regret, knowing he’d seen the best of things.
Oh, and the worst. He’d seen the worst, over and over again.
He wandered from one stagnant room to the next, and up the stairs and down; and everywhere he went, he saw visions of things he wished he’d never witnessed. Some of them had seemed like brave sights at the time. In his youth, bloody business had excited him; why did its echoes now come to bruise him the way they did?
Why when he lay down on the mildewed bed did he remember a whorehouse in Chicago, where he’d chased down two men and slaughtered them like the cattle they made such profit from? Why, after all these years, did he remember how one of them had made a little speech as he lay dying, and thanked his murderer for the ease of it all?
Why when he sat down to empty his bowels did his mind conjure up a yellow dog, which had shit itself in terror, seeing its master with his throat cut on the stairs, and Galilee sitting at the bottom of the flight, drinking the dead man’s champagne?
And why, when he tried to sleep—not in the bed but on the threadbare sofa in the living room—did he remember a rainy February night and a man who had no better reason to die than that he’d crossed the will of one mightier, and he, Galilee, no better reason to commit murder than that he served that same will? Oh that was a terrible memory. In some ways—though it was not the bloodiest of his recollections—it was the most distressing because it had been such an intimate encounter. He remembered it so clearly: the car rocking as gusts of wind came off the ocean; the rain rattling on the car roof; the stale heat of the interior, and the still staler heat that came off the man who died in his arms.
Poor George; poor, innocent George. He’d looked up at Galilee with such confusion on his face; his lips trying to form some last coherent question. He’d been too far gone to shape the words; but Galilee had supplied the answer anyway.
“I was sent by your father,” he’d said.
The confounded look had slipped away and George’s face had become oddly placid, hearing that he was dying at the behest of his father; as though this were some last, wretched service he could render the old man, after which he was finally free of Cadmus’s jurisdiction.
Any ambition Galilee might have entertained of fathering a child had gone at that moment: to be the father’s agent in the murder of a son had killed all appetite in him. Not simply the appetite for parenthood—though that had been the saddest casualty of the night at Smith Point Beach—the very desire to live had lost its piquancy at that moment. Destroying a man because he stood between your family and its ascendance was one thing (all kings did it, sooner or later); but to order the death of your own child because he disappointed you: that was another order of deed entirely, and to have been obliged to perform it had broken Galilee’s heart.
And still, after all this time, he couldn’t get the scene out of his head. The hours of the whorehouse in Chicago, and his memories of the yellow dog shitting on the stairs, were bad enough; but they were nothing by comparison with the memory of the look on George Geary’s face that rainy night.
And so it went on for a week and a half: memories by day and dreams by night, and nothing to do but endure them. He ventured out of the house at evening, and went down to check that all was well with The Samarkand, but even that journey became harder as time passed; he was so exhausted.
This could not go on. The time had come to make a decision. There was no great heroism in suffering, unless perhaps it was for a cause. But he had no causes, nor ever had; not to live for, not to die for. All he had was himself.
No, that wasn’t true. If he’d just had himself he wouldn’t have been haunted this way.
She’d done this to him. The Geary woman; the wretched, gentle Geary woman, whom he
’d wanted so badly to put out of his heart, but could not. It was she who’d reminded him of his capacity for feeling, and in so doing had opened him up as surely as if she’d wielded a knife, letting these unwelcome things have access to his heart. It was she who’d reminded him of his humanity, and of all that he’d done in defiance of his better self. She who’d stirred the voice of the man on the whorehouse floor, and roused the yellow dog, and put the sight of George Geary before him.
His Rachel. His beautiful Rachel, whom he tried not to conjure but who was there all the time, holding his hand, touching his arm, telling him she loved him.
Damn her to hell for tormenting him this way! Nothing was worth this pain, this constant gnawing pain. He no longer felt safe in his own skin. She’d invaded him, somehow; possessed him. Sleeplessness made him irrational. He began to hear her voice, as though she were in the next room, and calling to him. Twice he came into the dining room and found the table set for two.
There was no happy end to this, he knew. There would be no escaping her, however patiently he waited. She had too strong a hold on his soul for him to hope for deliverance.
It was as though he were suddenly old—as though the decades in which time had left him untouched had suddenly caught up with him — and all he could look forward to now was certain decline; an inevitable descent into obsessive lunacy. He would become the madman on the hill, locked away in a world of rotted visions; seeing her, hearing her, and tormented day and night by the shameful memories that came with love: the knowledge of his cruelties, his innumerable cruelties.
Better to die soon, he thought. Kinder to himself, though he probably didn’t deserve the kindness.