Wonders of a Godless World

by Andrew McGahan

  When I woke again I had skin, and arms and legs—and although I was otherwise an empty shell, I could feel sunlight on me.

  I was lying on a beach.

  I was here.

  The orphan opened her eyes.

  For a moment she didn’t know where she was. Then she saw that it was her own room, she was on the bed, and through the window it was nearly dawn. She was wholly awake, after her long dream and the foreigner’s tale…

  A sudden, inexplicable thrill ran through her.

  She sat up, stark naked, her body feeling charged with energy. What was it? Why was she so excited? The foreigner’s story?

  Yes, there was something he’d said, something amid all the woders of rockets and machines in space and his fiery descent…

  No, it was something he hadn’t said!

  He had told his tale in full now. The story of all his lives. Every place he had been. And he had not been to her island before. Not in his last life. Especially not twenty-one years ago. He had never met her mother.

  She leapt up. She had to go to him. She had to be near him now, to touch him. And even as she threw on some clothes, his laughter echoed in her.

  Very well then, dear orphan, come if you must. Come straight to me, do not wander. Talk to no one. But you are right.

  Whatever else I am, I am not your father.

  23

  The orphan hurried across the compound. The lower sky was aflame with red, but it was night yet. Nothing around her seemed quite real. The hospital, the jungle, the mountain—they were two-dimensional, pretend things made of paper. It was only the dream world, the foreigner’s world, that was vivid anymore.

  And ah, his presence was like a ball of heat she could sense even out in the yard, right through the crematorium walls, as if she was freezing and he was the only life-saving fire. He was her bright saviour who had fallen, burning, from the sky to illuminate her. And the excitement in her gut was almost a nausea.

  Then she was in the back wards, the darkness no impediment. She came through the dayroom—empty now, the television useless with no power cord—to the doorway of his cell. He was there, alone in the gloom, prone and helpless in his bed. But to her special sight his body glowed luminous beneath the sheet.

  He did not speak. She moved to his side, lifted a corner of the sheet, then tugged it away completely. For the first time, she looked upon his naked form with full understanding of who and what he was. It was all so clear now—the delicate, bare sheen of his skin, clean of any hair or mark or scar. It was new, that was why. His old flesh had burnt away in the sky as he hurtled down to earth, and this skin was freshly grown, too young to be anything but smooth and pale.

  Yet he was not young. He was age and strength and wisdom. He had lived so many lives and seen so much. Pain had seared him, yes, but it had refined him down to something sparse and beautiful. She wanted to possess him, to absorb him, to encompass his inner vitality tighter and tighter, until it shone within her too.

  But did he feel the same way? Doubt pierced her. There was nothing new about her skin, there was no sparse beauty about her body.

  His laughter was gentle in her mind. How many times do I have to tell you…

  And that only fed the hunger already awake in her. But the doubt persisted. She had seen herself through the eyes of others too many times—patients, nurses, doctors—and beheld the squat, awkward child they all saw.

  Look through my eyes then.

  Startled, the orphan lifted her gaze and saw that, while his eyes had been closed when she’d entered the room, they were open now.

  See what I see.

  The offer was irresistible, and she flowed into him. The world spun, and then she was blinking at—herself. The perspective was low, from the bed. His perspective. She wasn’t fully inside his body—she was still in her own, upright—but it was through his eyes that she saw. And she was unrecognisable to herself.

  It wasn’t that she was a different shape. She was still square and stumpy, her hair cropped short by hospital scissors, her dour face glowering at the foreigner in stubborn puzzlement. But to his eyes, there was no dullness or stupidity in her—there was only strength. And her flesh strained against her drab clothes not because she was fat, but because she was bursting with hidden light and power, more than her body could contain. And the only emotion she could detect in the foreigner was a desire to see that power unveiled, to glory in every inch of her.

  Yes. Take off your clothes.

  Instantly, everything she was wearing seemed too restrictive to bear. She didn’t hesitate. Still inhabiting his eyes, she watched as her hands fumbled to undress. It was confusing, the double viewpoint—to still be inside her body by touch, but outside of it by sight. But soon enough her clothes were gone.

  Ah, the foreigner breathed.

  She had never stood naked in front of anyone before; she would have been too ashamed. But now it felt wonderful. Cooler, as if the temperature had rapidly dropped, and free, as if she was suddenly half her normal weight.

  And, through his eyes, it looked wonderful, too. Her clothes had been so ugly. Without the constrictions of sleeves and straps and waistbands, her body had taken its natural shape, and it was right. She wasn’t square at all. She was round, she was made up of circles—the circle of her hips, the circles of her breasts and, within them, the smaller, protruding circles that terminated in her nipples—all of them proper, all of them in proportion, all of them swollen with a particularly female potency. And all of them, to his gaze, focused around the great orb of her belly, and the mound partly hidden below it, where a whole new world of curves and circles opened…

  You see?

  She saw. And she felt. Her hands were moving over herself, and the sensations were so maddeningly pleasant that it made the world spin again, and then she was back behind her own eyes. The foreigner lay naked on the bed before her, and she was acutely aware of the contrast between her body and his, how angular he was—his shoulders wide, his torso narrowing into his hips—and how particularly male that made him.

  A shudder ran through her of outright…starvation? Yes, it was a physical need, a deprivation. It wasn’t like it was when she played in her room alone, just for fun, fingering the little button of sensitive flesh between her legs. That wasn’t going to be nearly enough to satisfy what she felt now.

  She reached out, finally, and touched him. And yes, she had touched him before, but never like this, never so gently. His skin was cool and firm, and her fingers trailed along his side, defining his chest and his hip and his upper thigh, sensing the muscles there, unused, passive, yet promising so much.

  But her fingers wouldn’t do. She needed to smell him too, and taste him. She sank to her knees and lowered her head so that her mouth followed just above her roving fingers. And then, right where his hip bone pushed against his skin, she bit him, her mouth opening to absorb as much flesh as she could.

  She shuddered again, tasting salt on her tongue, the thrill of consuming him setting her alight down low. He could feel it too, she knew. Excitement steamed from his mind and made the air tingle. And yet his skin did not flinch or quiver or respond in any way. And when she raised her mouth, her gaze fell upon his penis, lying pallid against his leg. It had not stirred since she’d entered the room.

  The orphan did not know much about sex, but she knew that if the foreigner was like other men, then his cock—if he was truly aroused—was supposed to be erect. And the peculiar hunger in her wanted it erect.

  Alas, my orphan…

  She understood, of course. His body was rebuilding itself. He had told her. Nerves and muscles were not yet connected.

  But oh, the disappointment!

  What can I say? I’m free to roam with my mind, but to affect reality, to shift flesh and bone, that’s not something I can do.

  And yet, you…

  Yes? She stared at his blank face, alert. Was there a way?

  When you called to the breeze, up on the hill, you w
ere very close to success. Perhaps, here and now, if you tried again…

  Ah! Was it possible? Calling the breeze had been a basic procedure, a matter of warming air to make it rise, and she had failed. To do something like this, to influence someone else’s body—she didn’t know how to even attempt it.

  Look within, beyond the skin. You’ll find systems and patterns and order there as you would with any natural thing.

  The orphan nodded. She swung herself onto the bed, her legs astride his shins, her breasts hanging down over his thighs. She stared at his penis, smooth and pale, and at his balls beneath, as hairless as the rest of him.

  How did it all work? That was the question.

  Blood. The blood must flow and fill.

  Blood…Yes, she could see the veins, faint blue, running along the soft tube of flesh. And then, deeper in—there. Tissue. Like a sponge, ready to absorb blood and engorge to hardness. Ha. It was all so simple.

  Only no…there were nerves too, clusters of them radiating out from the sheathed head, running to his groin and his balls and his spine. Not simple at all, but complex! Those nerves were the key, she saw, for they would send the signals that would make the blood flow. At least, they would in a normal man, where the nerves were connected. But in the foreigner those impulses had nowhere to go. The way was closed.

  You will have to move the blood yourself.

  The orphan bent low, so that her mouth hovered above his cock, and she breathed warm air on it, preparing it for life. Then she reached out with her mind, exploring the byways of his arteries and veins, and the reservoirs of his heart. His heart, she began there—heating it with her thoughts, and squeezing it, so that it beat deeper and faster. Then she hunted through the tangle of vessels in his groin and found those that needed to be relaxed and those that needed to be tightened until at last the blood was allowed to pump into the waiting chambers of his penis.

  The flesh trembled. Shifted against his thigh.

  Then, magically, it began to rise.

  Yes…

  Yes! His pale body flushed with colour. Tremors ran down the length of him, his muscles twitching in the sudden surge of heat. He was coming to life, his essence concentrated into his stiffening prick. It had lifted now, so that it almost brushed against her lips—caused by her, existing uniquely for her.

  Yes…

  She heard a hoarse edge to his voice that suggested he wanted something more. And so did she—only, what exactly? What was supposed to happen next? She stared in frustration at his erection, straight as a broom handle.

  And then she was remembering what she had witnessed in the virgin’s memories, the things the men had done when the virgin was a girl. And she was remembering too the night nurse as he had thrust his hips against her. The very idea had seemed so disgusting then, but now, extraordinarily, it seemed the opposite. There was the obvious hardness of the foreigner, and in comparison her own urgent desire to enfold something, to clutch at something—something hard. So, what if she…?

  The foreigner was laughing softly at her ignorance, but she didn’t care about that. The hunger was too great. In one compulsive movement she slid up his thighs, her legs spread, and lowered herself, using one hand to guide him straight into the middle of her. For an awkward moment it did not seem that it would go, the angle was wrong, or there was an inner resistance. But in her mind she was already wide open to receive him, and with a strange spasm, her cunt suddenly agreed.

  He slid in. And in.

  A formless sound came from him. The orphan held her breath, not knowing what to make of the sensation, whether it was pleasure or pain. But then a delicious warmth grew in her. She felt they were both rising off the bed. Not their shadow selves but their real selves—as if his paralysed hips were actually alive and thrusting upwards, pushing his cock in deeper and deeper, lifting her up and splitting her apart.

  And oh, but it was nice.

  Then, behind her, someone sniggered. She whirled about and saw a shadow in the doorway. A mocking face. It was the night nurse, grinning at her. She caught a vicious glimpse of herself through his eyes; she was stupid and ugly again, a ludicrous sight, hunched grossly over the foreigner’s body.

  The orphan grunted in embarrassment and fury, but the night nurse ignored the warning, standing there with his eyes roaming cruelly, until she heaved herself up and off the bed, lunging at him. His grin turned to a snarl and he yelled something she couldn’t understand. Then he dashed away. She followed him out into the dayroom, but by then he was already scampering off down the hall to the back wards, and she paused. She couldn’t pursue him naked through the entire hospital.

  She gave it up and stood there a moment, feeling angry and excited and cheated all at once. All she had to do was rush back to the foreigner and resume the wonderful thing they had started…and yet she lingered, staring about at the darkness, not knowing why. The sweat was cooling on her skin, leaving her cold. And it was so quiet. The whole crematorium might have been deserted of life.

  Well, the duke was gone, she reminded herself. And the witch. There were only the archangel and the virgin left. And they would be sleeping. That explained it. Except it didn’t. Not the sense of vacancy. Cautiously, the orphan pushed open the door to one of the bedrooms, the one the witch and the virgin had shared. Both of the beds were empty. Frowning, she turned to the other bedroom. The virgin must be in there with the archangel. But that was against the rules…

  Forget them, orphan. Come back to me.

  But it nagged at her too strongly. If the nurses found them that way, there would be trouble. She crossed to the door.

  Please. Don’t go in there. Not yet.

  But she went. And yes, there they were, two shapes in the darkness stretched on one of the beds, the smaller figure cradled in the other’s arms.

  Only…why were the sheets black?

  And then she was really seeing. The swollen, battered face, the bloodstains around the mouth and eyes, the bruised throat. The virgin, dead, and—judging by the way the blood had crusted stiff—dead for hours.

  And the archangel, rocking slightly as he held her close.

  24

  All through the morning, the sandy driveway leading up to the hospital was crowded with vehicles. Some of them the orphan recognised—the police captain’s car, and the mayor’s car. But others were unfamiliar. Especially the vehicles with flashing lights. She guessed that these came from the big town, and that the men in them, uniformed and sombre, were the big town police.

  Two vans came also. One was blue, and into it they put the archangel. His hands were bound and he had to be carried out by the police. He was crying and struggling, pleading to the sky, a skinny, fearful youth. The other van was grey, and into that they put the body of the virgin, on a stretcher, wrapped in a sheet.

  The orphan saw it all from the front office. She spent most of the morning there, with the old doctor and the police captain and the night nurse. The three men talked from time to time, and even though the orphan couldn’t understand a word, she was certain they were talking about her. The night nurse in particular—he was telling the other two about what he’d seen in the foreigner’s room, she was sure; about her being naked on top of the patient, and all the while the dead body next door. The old doctor and the captain would listen, and then they would turn and stare at her.

  It was frightening.

  She could have reached out to the foreigner and asked him to translate what was being said, but she did not want to talk to him. Not yet. She was too unsure. All the previous night, while she had lazed in her hut dreaming on the bed, the foreigner whispering his tale in her mind—all that time, the virgin had already been killed. And he must have known. He always knew everything. But he’d said nothing. Instead he’d let the orphan come to him, and they had done those things together, and ten feet from them the virgin was cold and staring, her blood gone black.

  That, too, was frightening.

  Late in the morning, after the arch
angel and the virgin had been taken away, the big town police themselves came into the office. They addressed the old doctor briefly. Then they turned to the night nurse, eyes hardening. He shook his head at their questions, sweating nervously, and finally pointed his finger at the orphan. Then the police, incomprehensible, were asking her the questions.

  Even then, the orphan didn’t call on the foreigner. It was all too plain anyway. The idiot night nurse—she would make him suffer for this. But her anger flared only a moment, then faded. He was scared, that was all. He was the one who would be most in trouble. It was his responsibility to monitor the wards at night. They couldn’t blame a poor retarded girl for this—let alone a comatose patient.

  So she merely waited, staring at the police blankly until they gave up, foiled by her silence. They turned back to the old doctor, who shrugged. He began to explain—no doubt—that she was only a simple, stupid thing. They conversed a few moments more, then it was all over. The police departed, and the captain with them, and the night nurse too slunk away. The orphan rose to go. But the old doctor held up a finger to her—wait—before he followed the others out. He was back shortly afterwards, and to the orphan’s dismay, he was carrying a bowl of soup.

  Oh, not this again.

  He put the bowl down on the desk and made the orphan sit in front of it. He wanted her to eat. And she took up the spoon, but…

  She wasn’t hungry. More than that, she simply didn’t need the food. She’d scarcely eaten in days now, or drunk any water, but it was obvious to her that she was not suffering for it. Indeed, she’d never felt so strong and light. Looking at the soup, all she could think of was how heavily it would sit in her stomach, how much it would slow her down, and how it would only make her urinate, and shit…and she felt past all that, somehow. She shook her head, shoved the bowl away.

  The old doctor gazed at her, disappointed. She realised that this was about more than just the food, that it was about her entire behaviour through these last days. But she couldn’t possibly explain. She nodded at the door, asking if she could go, and he nodded back, eyes full of sadness. There was a finality about that sadness that disturbed the orphan deeply. But she went anyway.