The Godling: A Novel of Masalay

by CK Collins

  It’s straight inland now, crossing the Jaya peninsula east to west. We link back up with the Trans-Mas and stop for dinner at this westernish place just off the highway. In the bathroom, I make the mistake of looking at myself in the mirror. Bags under the eyes, brown roots pushing out my red split ends, some really gorgeous zits. If he could see me now, Rika might decide he’s better off staying with Hilm Hivaa.

  When I get to the table, I find out they’ve ordered for me. A curry that’s so ungodly hot I need three glasses of water to get through it. But I’m so famished, I finish it all and take a second helping. While I’m on that second plate and Pashi’s finishing her coffee, Essio’s cell phone rings. “It’s going to be the Colonel,” she says under her breath. He goes into the parking lot to talk.

  It’s not so hot. Or maybe I’m just getting used to it. “Nothing new,” he says, closing up the phone. Then he lets me know that I’ve been invited for tea with all the whole clan on Wednesday.

  “That’s nice,” I say, even though the thought of it burns worse than the curry.

  “A friendly chat,” he says. And provides his version of a smile.

  * * *

  A year ago, Rika and Disiri went for a swim. It was daytime and hot and the air was fragrant with the most beautiful scent, and Rika felt like he could swim forever. They went far, beyond where even boats went, beyond sight of any shore, the whole lake belonging to them.

  Disiri played hide-and-seek the way she always did. Rising up behind him and planting a kiss on his neck. “Look for me,” she said and went under again.

  He was used to her taking a fraction longer than felt safe. She had strong lungs. She was stronger than him, and braver.

  But this was so long. It wasn’t right.

  And then — there she was.

  But something was off. She was far away. Treading water, staring at him. He called to her but she didn’t answer.

  He started toward her — and she recoiled.

  He stopped. He asked her what was wrong. But she just swam away. Like she was afraid.

  He waited in the house for hours. It was past dark when she came in. Trying not to be mad or too freaked, he asked where she’d been. He asked if she was alright.

  Like she’d discovered this secret, this overwhelming secret, she said, “I just have to . . .” but her voice drifted off, she let it go and it sank.

  In bed, they laid there hours. A few times he tried talking to her — he knew she was awake — but it was like her ears didn’t register the wavelength of his voice. Finally he began to sleep, so that when she spoke, her voice came frail and dream-wrapped. She said, “Rika, I’m not the one.”

  There were times in the months afterwards when things, if you looked at them from a distance, seemed almost back to normal. Cooking, shopping, gardening — Disiri did almost all the things she ever did, and they shared all the trivial conversations that married people do. But even the smallest words were soaked in this sadness. He left a thousand openings to talk about what was wrong, but she wandered past them all.

  Hours at a time she’d spend out in the garden, tearing plants out, plants she’d always cherished, and putting new stuff in. Succulents and ivies and rows of pollyander and thrace, which, she murmured to him, are fragrant and good for butterflies. But really it all just seemed an excuse to root and dig, like she was trying to carve a tunnel to a different self.

  The fact that it was all so bizarre and that it had come out of nowhere, made it easy to believe that it was only a matter of time before it disappeared the same way. But it only got deeper. And it wasn’t invisible to other people. Their friends, their families, even the neighbors — everyone commented on how she had no appetite, how distracted she was, how much she slept. That instead of her normal stack of novels and memoirs — always starting something new before she finished the last one — all she ever read anymore was the Ashmanist Bible. Always flipping through it, impatient, like she kept losing the place she wanted.

  She might be in the room when the TV was on or the radio, or maybe he might convince her to go the movies, but none of it seemed to penetrate her. And the way she breathed, her lungs didn’t ever fill up all the way. She was getting thinner and walked everywhere on the balls of her feet. Like she was trying to exist less.

  And him — he was so concerned with responding to Disiri that it was easy believing that the changes in him were an illusion. That they were just these reactions to what was happening with her. The reason he kept smelling that fragrance from the lake was that he’d been traumatized and kept going back to that morning. (Because it obviously wasn’t a real smell. No real smell can follow you that way. Get inside you that way.) And there was the sensation (it was so fleeting he could pretend it wasn’t there) that the true woman in bed with him was not Disiri at all.

  The people who saw what was going on, Pashi most of all, they all assumed that Disiri was reacting to something Rika had done. And he wished that was it. He’d have taken hate, he’d have taken punches and shouting, because at least that’s engagement. Because doing those things means you’re present, and that’s what he wanted her to be — present again. The few times he tried getting intimate she bristled, a wrong kind of shudder. He’d slide away and say goodnight. He’d say, ‘I love you,’ and she’d say, ‘I love you’ in return. But even when the words came out soft, they always were denser than affection and sank into the space between them.

  Their wedding anniversary came closer. Rika suggested a vacation to Europe or America, but he’d have taken her anywhere, Siberia or the Sahara, whatever would maybe shake her free from what was dragging her down. But she said she wanted to do like normal and go to the Nova Coast. Rocks and wind, drab food, backward people — he’d never loved the place but she did and he wasn’t going to argue.

  Their house was at the top of this cliff, and it was just a short walk down some steps to a private little cove. It was after the normal holiday season, and the other dozen cottages were empty. They had a little boat they took out on the water, just floating and enjoying the sun. A late afternoon swim and then make dinner from whatever the caretaker lady had delivered. It was easy and relaxing and Disiri was becoming more herself, almost like something had gotten stuck on her at Ghaatasira and this new water was washing it away.

  A nice dinner. Rika at the sink, hands in the soap — then — her fingertips, his neck, his ear, a feathery coo —

  She shut the bedroom door. Because she always did that, a modest woman even in an empty house.

  She laid back.

  There’s this thing that happens to a body when it’s been in motion (boat, car, roller-coaster) even after the motion stops, your body holds onto it, like stones staying warm after the fire is out. That’s how it was for Rika. As he moved to Disiri, as he moved in Disiri, the ocean wasn’t done moving in him. The current carried them both, and it was good. It was like it used to be.

  And he thought, She’s not the one.

  He turned his mind away.

  She was making the sounds he knew so well.

  She’s not the one.

  He tried to shut out that voice, to hear only Disiri’s voice, but the voice, the voice — faster, louder, louder — and he was out of himself, lifted up, and he saw her at the other end of the bed.

  A sheet wrapped around her. Crying. “Rika,” she said, “take me to Ghaatasira.”

  * * *

  The closer we get to Sagaro the sexier the billboards get. Cinnamon-skinned women with cleavage and come-hither eyes. Promising that their brand of iirik or their catamaran tour is your passport, your exclusive passport, to “the exotic heart of Masalay,” “the sensual essence of Masalay,” “the warm vagina of Masalay.” Alright not the last one. Not yet.

  A few minutes after 1:00 a.m., we come around the last wide curve and there’s Jaya, this explosion of glittering color. The Trans-Mas empties us near the Harbour, which is alive like mid-day, swarming with scooters and jibjab cabs and luxury cars, everybody lea
ning on their horns. Essio escapes onto the side streets as quick as he can and soon we’re snaking up the east hills to Rika’s house. The city comes in and out of view with each switchback, and what I keep thinking is how much I don’t fit. I don’t gleam, I’m not electric, I don’t shine.

  There’s a gate at the entrance to Rika’s neighborhood. The guard flashes his light on me. Essio talks with him in Masalayan and hands over a few bills. We roll on through and go slow through the neighborhood. Stucco houses, swimming pools, sprinklers waving over lawns — it could be Malibu or Boca Raton. Rika’s house is on a cul-de-sac, with a prime view of the city and the Harbour.

  It’s humid but cool, and my breath is short from all the butterflies. A breeze rustles the branches of the coconut trees. Essio unlocks the door.

  Pashi lets me go in first. “Welcome, Callie. This is home.”

  * * *

  Disiri had barely set down her bags at Ghaatasira before she was stripping off her clothes and telling him to come swimming. Rika had done the whole drive in one long day, and he was beat. But there wasn’t any changing her mind, and he followed her into the dark water.

  All the weight she’d lost, you’d think she wouldn’t have been so strong. But it was all he could do to keep up with her. They settled into a rhythm like they’d done so many times. It felt good. He lost track of how long they swam or where they were, and he almost didn’t notice that she’d stopped. The moon was bright, and it was perfectly still, not a ripple on the lake. She smoothed her long hair and smiled. “I love you,” she said. She kissed him. He reached for her hips, but she slipped away. She swam backward.

  “It needs to be this way.”

  “Siri . . .”

  “Shhhh . . .”

  “Siri . . .”

  “Look for me.”

  And she was gone.

  Afternoon

  Far Karsk, Masalay

  Tchori follows Brother Carodai two paces behind. Light-headed and squinting from the sun. Conscious of being watched. “How are you faring, child?”

  “I’m well, thank you.”

  “You’ve done brilliantly.”

  “Not done right much, have I?”

  “Nonsense. You’ve done more than I could have expected.”

  “You’re too kind.”

  “Dove, you needn’t come inside.”

  “I’m not afraid.”

  “I hadn’t thought you were. It simply isn’t necessary.”

  “Thanks much, but I’ve come this far.”

  They’ve reached a house, windowless with barred front door. Tchori glances round and sees that they’ve the entire village as audience. Lidayim removes the bar. They enter and he follows with lantern before pulling the door shut. Tchori tells herself to breathe, tries to coax the tension from her shoulders whilst her eyes adjust.

  There is a figure in a chair. Perfectly still. Lidayim brings the light closer. She looks freshly scrubbed, moist hair dripping on the collar of a clean white smock. Her skin is sallow and sunken about the cheeks, but it’s easy to see that she was pretty once. Hands folded neatly in her lap, she looks almost prim, an academy girl presenting for interview.

  “Hello, my child.”

  She stares.

  “I am called Brother Carodai. I’ve come to help you if I can. My novice and I, we’re afflicted to hear of your misfortune.”

  A sound like a growl.

  “It’s ever so kind of you to see us,” says Carodai as if hearing nothing. “We should like to help you if we can.”

  The growl, which seems to originate deep inside her chest, becomes louder.

  “Forgive me, dear, my ears are not what they used to be. I wonder,” he says pleasantly, “if you might speak in a human voice.”

  The woman lowers her head, chin to chest for several seconds, then lifts her face. Grinning. “We like visitors. We like Liashe.”

  “Lovely.”

  “Sit.”

  “You’re too kind. But it happens we’ve been sitting quite some time. It feels truly good to stand.”

  She laughs, a childish titter, as if he’s making a joke.

  “You’ve a true friend in Lidayim here. You’ve many friends — you ought to take strength in them.”

  “In them?” she scoffs. “Them are worms.”

  “You must not be unkind, dear.”

  “And you must not be a worm like them.” She extends her long arm toward Lidayim without taking her eyes from Carodai. “This one is the fattest worm. Fat, fat.”

  “We shall have to disagree.”

  “Fat, fat, fat.”

  “Child, I am so sorry for your misfortune.”

  “It is a blessing.”

  “Is it then?” asks Carodai with raised eyebrow. “Tell me, child, where has your dear son gone?”

  She folds her arms angrily, as if Brother is simply being difficult. “You know where.”

  “Sadly, I do not.”

  Petulance turning instantly to glee, she says in a singsong, “We’re going to find her. Foul and stinky and wretched. She’s so easy to smell.”

  She’s shaken him. But he finds his composure, “And who might that be, child?”

  Laughing as if she’s caught him in a lie, “I think you know.”

  “Humour me, won’t you?”

  “We are not humourous.”

  “Quite right. Tell me, what are you?”

  “She shouldn’t have come here. She doesn’t belong.”

  “Where is your son?”

  She turns to Tchori. Flicks her fingers as if at a mosquito. “Shoo, shoo, go away.”

  “Where has he gone?”

  Eyes unblinking, a decayed bone stare. “Your worm doesn’t know she’s a worm.”

  “Child, answer me.”

  “No. We don’t listen to Brothers of Liashe.” She turns to him, briskly superior. “It was asleep but not anymore. She should have stayed away. He tastes her already.”

  “Tell me about her.”

  “You don’t get to know that.” She turns her head to the table. “That’s where we made him. Me and Naalis. He was so deep in me.” Back to Tchori: “This one knows what I’m talking about. When they fuck you so deep.”

  Lidayim is anxious to go. “Brother . . .”

  “I’ve another question.”

  She nods sweetly, lips pursed, a child again. “Anything.”

  “Your son has a name, yes?”

  “He does.”

  “You chose it?”

  “No, Brother of Liashe. It’s old. I don’t know those words. No, no, no. It was given to us, our blessing.”

  “I see. You’ll share it won’t you?”

  “I’ll whisper it.”

  “Very well,” Carodai says and starts toward her.

  “No, not to you, silly. That one.”

  “This does not concern my novice.”

  “Oh come,” says the woman, pouting. “Yes it does.”

  “It’s all right, Brother. I don’t mind.”

  Thaadi smiles.

  “Tchori . . .”

  “It’s all right,” Tchori says, jaw set as she crosses the floor.

  The woman grins, flirtatious, and touches her knee to Tchori’s. “You need to come closer, sweetie, if I’m going to whisper.”

  Tchori lowers her ear.

  “He’s called Ikidris, worm, and he’s going to tear that tramp apart.”

  Evening

  Jaya, Masalay

  Essio goes back to the car to wait for Pashi. “Thank you,” I tell her. “You’ve been so nice, both of you.”

  “A request we couldn’t refuse.”

  “Well, I really appreciate it. And you know, I really, I mean — Rika’s going to be fine, I know he is.”

  “Of course.” She offers to help me get settled and make sure there’s food in the cupboard. “It’s fine. I’m sure I can find something.”

  “I’ll ring you come afternoon,” she says and kisses my cheek. “Give you a chance to sleep in.
”

  I stand at the entrance until their tail lights disappear. Then I come inside. And close the door. And stand at the entrance trying to get over how bizarre this is. Trying to feel like I’m not trespassing.

  I don’t want to switch on the lights, and there’s enough glow from the street for me to get by. I feel my way to the first room, a kind of living room, and there’s a couch. Too short, but it’ll do. There’s something like a shawl laid over the back. I stretch out and pull it on top of me. The thermostat must be set at freezing. I should go adjust it. Or maybe get into an actual bed. But that’s crazy talk. Instead I tug down one of the back cushions and lay it over my legs. Much better.