The Sacred Beasts

by Bev Jafek

“Revolution! We become revolutionaries. That, too. We’ve done it all.”

  “All that’s imaginable, for sure, except we left something out, you know.”

  “What on earth is that?”

  “We completely missed out on being tourists!”

  “Oh, that, yes. We left out every dull moment.” They laughed and finally hugged one another. “Monserrat has told me wonderful things about your painting, great things!” Ruth said. “If you’re feeling especially creative here, you must feel completely free to stay on as long as you wish. She wants your best book out of you, and I know you will give her that with long hours, hard work, and unimaginable inspiration.”

  “That’s good to hear. Yes, this house has proved to be quite a stimulant. I’ve had the time of my life.”

  “Me, too. Ah, they’ve just brought in fresh hot bread. Let’s have more to eat. That was one long, satisfying Gay Pride Day.”

  They smiled. The hypothetical hotel of one year in the future has lit its “No Vacancy” sign, Ruth thought. We’re all going home.

  RUTH AND MONSERRAT were sitting outside the southern cave at Teruel in which the first human being was represented in Spanish Neolithic cave art as a woman climbing a tree. They had also been to the cave that held the matriarchal Neolithic painting Monserrat had described to Ruth, the image of a woman standing in a circle of men. It had been very difficult navigating the two caves, but they had now seen the paintings first hand, glowing in primitive but sacred lines under a flashlight that seemed an aberration if not an obscenity. They had been silent in reverence, for never before had they actually seen the women who were arguably the most important human images to be drawn in Spain, the first, at least to date. They closed their eyes briefly before the sacred, overwhelmed. In different words, they both thought yes, I know You. I have always known that You were somewhere in the world, hidden away, perhaps the earliest secret of all. She showed them their lives as secrets, signs, and messages to be divined, divulged, present before them. Now they were gratefully breathing fresh air again, outside, back in the profane world, with only moments—ambiguous, conflicting, and precious—in which the sacred returned in a shaft of light, a pool of color, two bright eyes, an animal’s graceful, instantaneous movement, an image, a truth glimmering in the world, quickly gone but beyond doubt.

  Nearly three weeks had passed since that night . . . of what? Monserrat wondered . . . of a revolution that was not to be. As soon as the last former prostitute had returned safely to her home and Pilar and Libre were living incognito in the house, Ruth and Monserrat left for Cadaqués and spent all their time there, working, swimming and loving, a life more natural to them than they any had ever known, until the last two days, when the time seemed right for a brief trip to the cave. Suddenly, Monserrat felt bemused at all that had happened, so unexpected and yet inevitable. “I wonder whether the first woman is climbing up the tree or down?” she asked.

  Ruth smiled. “Which do you prefer? It can be no more than that at this point.”

  “There goes objective reality, but I won’t miss it. Well . . . I like the idea of her going back up the tree to some kind of shelter and her real life. From what you’ve told me about the bonobo life in the trees—matriarchy, bisexuality, non-violence and relative equality—it appeals to me far more than the chimp life of patriarchy, violence and hierarchy on the ground that leads to the future. I want to think of her going back up there and staying.”

  “I can see that preference. In a way, I love it. But, I’m more inclined to bring her closer, unknown as she is. So, I want her climbing down. Ultimately, she climbs for Thee, as they say.”

  Monserrat smiled. “Except Donne didn’t quite say it like that. Would you like a glass of wine, here, in her honor?”

  “Yes, that does seem right, but let’s drink water first. It was so uncomfortable in that cave.” In fact, it was an ancient chaos of night, grit and humid cold, Ruth thought, and I had to immerse myself and breathe it in. That was the price of admission to Her company.

  “Let’s have water, then wine. The wine is appropriately spiritual.” Just then, Monserrat’s cell phone rang.

  Ruth hung her head in aggravation. “Don’t answer, though I’m afraid to say even that since it’s what I said last time, and then you couldn’t get laid on your own living room sofa ever again.”

  “The whole world intervened. But, this is one I must take. I feel it again.”

  Oh no, Ruth thought. Please, not death, jail or insanity—or even revolution on a day like this, when we found Her at last.

  Monserrat listened carefully for a long time. Intense emotion passed over her face, but it was not fear or dismay. “Oh-god, really,” she whispered from time to time, then at last softly, “all that?”

  Oh, the suspense this woman’s life generates! Ruth thought. No one is being attacked, but something unimaginable is happening again. Conflagration follows this woman around! But, I love her and will always want to be swept up in it with her. And why was that? Because there are no limits. I will never know the end, and so the adventure continues! Monserrat smiled and said her good-byes, and then she was silent and pensive.

  “No!” Ruth said. “No reverential silences! What on earth has happened?”

  “That was Tamara. Before Alex and Sylvie left for Paris, Alex apparently talked Pilar into releasing the film on the Internet. They spent a day polishing and editing it and adding more translations. It’s now the most popular Youtube hit ever, translated into seventy languages and more coming, causing a worldwide sensation. There is talk of governments going down in Spain and several other countries. The Mafia data is on Wikileaks. Pilar is the most famous woman in Spain, and everyone is looking for her. Women have been painting their faces and arms and going out to protest human trafficking in the streets. Painted men have joined them, too, in major cities all over the world, San Francisco to Sri Lanka. Alex has been negotiating international book contracts for the both of them, and huge sums of money are being offered for movie rights. An American actress, Angelina Jolie, has expressed interest in playing the part of Pilar . . .”

  Ruth suddenly exploded with laughter. She had been agape in wonder before that. Then they both couldn’t stop laughing. They hugged one another and laughed, tried to discuss it and continued laughing, began to feel exhausted but not enough to stop laughing, then kissed passionately and that stopped their laughter. They nearly made love outside the cave, then found it too uncomfortable and decided to drink wine instead. “Let’s climb down from this cave and drink below while watching the sunset,” Ruth said. “The road is close and the hotel not far off. We’ve sprinted over the whole history of civilization today.”

  “We have indeed. We need to assimilate.”

  When they reached the bottom and were opening the bottle of wine, Ruth said, “You know, we now have an answer to your question about whether the first woman is climbing up or down the tree.”

  “How so? Which is it?”

  “She’s coming down. Fast!”

  ALEX WAS SILENTLY thinking beside Sylvie in bed. They had made love and it was very late in Paris. She was trying to assimilate the preposterous events that had occurred—fame, book contracts and movie rights for more money than she thought she would ever earn, and an incendiary worldwide women’s movement. The whole world was looking for Pilar and, not finding her, trying to track Alex down in Paris. Yet Alex could only think, what more is possible? You must return, after all, to your self. It was a great ride, she thought, but we’re still back to Yeats’ old rag and bone shop of the heart. She wanted to write a novel, the one that reflected the trauma of our time, beginning with the end, proceeding to the beginning and ending in the middle, since that was now chronological time. It would take classical liberal and feminist theories but bring them to life and place them into an original narrative structure with an original scientific theory about the origin of our contemporary political conflicts. It would have characters as vivid as Sylvie and Pilar, as comple
x and unique as Ruth. It would look directly into the mind of an artist and find the moment of creation, then return to the preoccupations of Ruth for we are, above all, living in a time of great danger and our political systems will not acknowledge it. Would she ever write that novel? Alex wondered. This had actually been her first choice, and she had to admit that she wanted it more than fomenting a revolution. Revolution is only the spark, the beginning of change left to other hands, not the meaning, the synthesis, the gift most richly given. That could only be art. Perhaps she was more like Pilar than she had imagined. What they had done was potentially hollow and unfulfilled. It led everywhere and nowhere.

  How to begin on that novel? Alex got up and went into the next room and began to write in her journal:

  It is my heart, I said.

  But it is covered with cockle-burrs, seashells, bits of trash and shit. It has fur in embarrassing places and mirrors that, far from reflecting, make things disappear. It’s a bag of things to discard, but it sticks to you. It is shapeless, useless, up to no good.

  But it is my heart, I said.

  But it whines, it hums ridiculous tunes, snores, quacks like a duck, has romantic nineteenth century suicide symphonies playing forever in its ears, can do a pitch-perfect imitation of Bob Dylan singing that can embarrass a whole room full of people. It has suspenders but no shirt, no elegance or grace, for that matter. It’s a used band-aid that must be thrown out; in fact throw it out. Please!

  But it is my heart, I said. I can’t throw it out.

  But it gets drunk too often, throws tantrums that no one can hear and will never grow up, loves and hates to excess, knows nothing, spits on itself, is more animal than human and that is a compliment. I am certain it has been urinated on by a cat and even then, it only curses and yells. It tried to fuck on every flat surface in Barcelona, it farts, is intrinsically unlovable but has a gorgeous woman who will fuck with it anywhere on earth.

  But it is only what it can be, what it is, my heart, I said.

  Alex stared off into space. My heart is bitter, she thought. This will have to be the secret beginning of my novel. When it is done, no one will ever suspect that it had such an ignominious start. I must be content with that and yet . . .

  SYLVIE HAD NEARLY fallen asleep in Alex’s arms, in Paris. Her last thoughts were very slow; in fact, they were hardly thoughts at all, only images and phrases, something like . . . however to describe that trip to Spain, the one that changed my life; but then, it was a return, really, to what I always was but did not know . . . is it what I did not know or a fulfillment of all I had wanted, yearned for so I knew it all-too-well . . . It was the time when a tectonic shift occurred in my life . . . everything seen in a new way . . . or merely an outburst, a volcano, but no . . . not a single thing . . . not exactly, unless an explosion . . . a woman’s mind exploding . . . yes, that has the color, movement, dance to it. The center of the painting is pure red against pure black becoming orange and yellow further out, very hot . . . the movement outward is a double helix but it keeps circling back upon itself . . . out beyond that, the universe . . . what are the particles? Impossible states of energy and heat . . . ah, but so tender, soft, full of love they are, now multiple flickering colors . . . every one becoming another, so faint now that they are voices singing, yes, all the intensity everywhere suddenly but softer, singing and vibrating . . . then it is everything I must know and create . . . what is the last stage . . . vibrating, singing filaments, only that . . . I can ask for no more but I do and . . .

  MONSERRAT AND RUTH were sleeping together in the house in Barcelona. It was very late, and the house was empty and silent; but no, there were a few diffuse, guttural sounds circling about. Something bubbled; then popped. There was more than one barbaric yawp. Everyone thinks it’s haunted and so it is. But more than that, it is full of something, perhaps virtual particles and even virtual people going in and out of existence. But of course, it’s the universe, the strangest house of all and greatest storyteller, where anything can happen in some version of itself, and perhaps the story has wandered into another version. Look there: the house contorts into ungodly shapes to accommodate so many dimensions, curves space and time and then perhaps goes on contorting for the fun of it. It has changed the lives of all that come to it; this much is known. It induces passion, uncontrollable urges and laughter; that much is certain. It is a vast expanse for a house, probably endless—more of a fountain, a mountain, a circular canyon leading up and down. It is a sacred place, known and unknown. It’s the spark, the beginning of things and one day perhaps . . .

  MONSERRAT WAS NEARLY asleep in Ruth’s arms, but still thinking. They are all safe now, she thought. Alex and Sylvie are home together in Paris, sleeping. Pilar has shaved her head and painted herself in different patterns for her present disguise. She can go anywhere and be taken for another protester. Earlier, she and Libre had dinner at a popular Barcelona restaurant, and she heard talk of her exploits all around her. No one but Libre knew that the most famous woman in Spain and perhaps the world was there with them, in plain sight. She has used the Internet to be everywhere but, like the natural feline she is, leaped out of the world entirely. Yet the entire world is looking for her, especially in Spain where she is expected to be, but they are looking for her in Borneo and Mongolia, too. Such is the result of the amazing accomplishment of all those women, working together in my house, three weeks ago. Those sworn to secrecy about Pilar’s identity and whereabouts will keep their secret. No one else will know about the metamorphosis that occurred here that night. Only that criminal young man running his brothel, whose naked ass Pilar filmed, has divulged all of his secrets. I will never know if Pilar has achieved the result she intended. Angelina Jolie would rather play a mystery woman; it will give her greater creative license. Ruth’s mood is very turbulent again, but I believe I have saved her, too. My house is full of something. It is full of love and art, but mercurial, devious and metamorphic are the ways of these, always, always . . .

  NOW I AM lying here with my love beside me, at rest and at home, Ruth thought. How great the peace yet how brief, for the future will not leave me at peace. The terrible world I see in the making speaks to me in a wild cry both angelic and bestial. It is the cry of an animal in pain, and my spirit is joined with it. In the world to come, where will the heron, the avocet, the grebe, all the big birds of Doñana and Antarctica, go? Where will they nest in the spring? Where will the elephant, the big cats of the savanna, the rhinoceros rest their great heads on a soft spot of earth? In the ocean, where will the whale, the dolphin, all of the fish find that oceanic breast on which they rest and find nurturance? They will love one another in their way, give birth to their families and love them in their way as we do ours, but where will they go? We will live on our tiny plots of land and defend them to the teeth and they, they! the animals I have studied and loved all my life will be dying, homeless, vagrant, hunted, strangers to the earth.

  What then of our humanity? There are none so oppressed, distorted, stunted, none so poor in spirit that they cannot go away from cities into forests, mountains, into wilderness, and not be refreshed, renewed, at peace again. None! There are none so poor in spirit that they cannot feel their need for a primordial forest, a jungle, wilderness, a valley that opens endlessly to a horizon, an animal’s glowing, unblinking eye, the thing that must always be there or we are not human anymore. Yet, so few will give something up for that beauty, wildness, otherness in the world. Few will question their covetousness, their hunger for obeisance from others, so that they can give something up. If I were a god, I would tear that out of every living creature of my kind. I would leave them whole and full of love. But there is no god, no one who can do this and religions have all compounded the wrong. Who will say, the world is my family, the world is my beloved? I will touch it only as a lover, as a parent, as one who cares for it at least as much as my own body. Who will give birth to a new world if it is necessary? Who will give birth to the sacred, who
lives in the sacred, who will not fail it because it is leaving us, leaving, the animals, the wilderness that belongs to us all is leaving, our humanity is leaving us.

  I speak as a parent who is terrified at what will happen to my child. I speak as a child becoming cynical at all it hears. I speak as a scientist who can see a clear inevitable future that is abhorrent. I speak as an artist afraid of an empty canvas and an encroaching darkness in which no art can live. I speak as a prophet who cries out at the shadow of what is to come. What is my voice and what are my questions? I speak in a voice falling to a whisper because it has become a prayer, not to a god but to a cumulative humanity, a greater self that still must exist below thought. I speak only to it. It is angry, fierce, full of fire and so are my words. It is our humanity that is at stake, for we are the weak ones, the sick ones who cannot adapt. The earth will always survive and regenerate. We are the ones who will not, and you will know that when you look deeply into yourself and feel that your spirit is leaving, leaving, is nearly gone, you have so little humanity left to save, it is less by the day, you are that changed, you are that close to what has already vanished, and that immensity and power in its violent beauty and strangeness, that greater earth I have always loved, protected, worshipped as I do my love, that last vestige of beauty and humanity left in the world is leaving, leaving, is about to disappear . . .

  Afterward, Bibliography & Acknowledgements

  For the Patagonia section of The Sacred Beasts, I used Bruce Chatwin’s famous travelogue, In Patagonia. The material is wonderful and particularly appropriate for a character in Ruth’s position, widowed and tormented, ruminating about history, politics and the past with her lover and all the moments they experienced together in Ruth’s original home. If Chatwin had ever used this material in a novel, of course, I wouldn’t have touched it. But, his work remains travelogue. I used a less inspired book by a geologist, Patagonia: Windswept Land to the South by Roger Perry, even more extensively than Chatwin (since it covered flora and fauna in greater depth) as well as various TV documentaries on Patagonia. I discovered on a Globetrekker episode, for example, that there is a man living in Northern Patagonia who did become something of a celebrity by creating a garbage art display over his substantial acreage and a sign that read, “A Garden of Garbage Art from One Who Has Lost Everything but His Mind.” This provocative, colorful fact acted as the first glimmering of my own very different story.