by Clive Barker
I left the front door open when we went inside, just to be sure the hyena knew she was welcome.
V
i
Why is it so much harder to describe happy times than sad? I’ve had little trouble conjuring scenes of grief and devastation for the last God knows how many pages, but now—when I come to the simple business of telling you how I passed three or four blissful hours in the company of my darling Marietta and her tribe—words fail me. I was simply content with these women, whose repartee tended toward the ribald, and whose voices—when raised in argument—were deafening. What were the bones of contention between them? I can’t remember, to tell you the truth. I know I contributed little or nothing to the debate. I sat and watched and listened to that charmed circle and I swear there was no seduction on earth that would have persuaded me to leave it.
At last, however, the drink and the hour took its toll on even the hardiest of the celebrants, and sometime after midnight the group broke up, and we all went on our way. I’d found a moment to tell Marietta about Dwight’s departure, so she invited Rolanda and Terri-Lynn to take his bed for the night. Ava had been tucked up on the sofa since the beginning of the evening, and Lucy went to join her there. Louie stayed where she was, at the dining room table, her head sunk on her hands. The newlyweds, of course, traipsed away to Marietta’s bedroom, hand in hand.
As I wandered through the house, heading back to my study, I thought about what was left for me to write. I would have to make an account of how Galilee and Rachel left the island: strictly for neatness’ sake; it was an uneventful departure. And then there was the matter of the bodies in the house. I’d have to dedicate a couple of paragraphs to how they were discovered. It was certainly a more interesting anecdote than the details of the lovers’ departure, touched as it was by an element of the grotesque. The same blind dog that had wandered up from the beach to be petted by Rachel when she’d first come to the house had been the one to raise the alarm. He had done so not by sitting on the veranda and howling, but by turning up on his owner’s porch with a portion of a human foot, chewed off at the ankle, in his mouth. It didn’t take long for the police to find the two corpses. Though the body of Mitchell Geary was inside the house, it was his body that was missing the foot. For some reason the animal had stepped over the corpse on the veranda to make dinner of the man at the bottom of the stairs.
The coroner determined that both men had been dead for forty-eight hours. Though the police began a search of the island immediately, it was assumed that the murderer was already long gone; probably back to the mainland. There was plenty of evidence pointing to Rachel, of course: her bags were up in the bedroom, her fingerprints on the banisters, close to the place where Mitchell Geary lay. Later, however, there would be good forensic reasons to doubt her culpability: the general store owner would identify Mitchell as the man who’d purchased the murder weapon; and there would be only one set of prints—Mitchell’s prints—found on the knife. But just because she hadn’t actually delivered the lethal wound didn’t exonerate her. The newspapers were soon full of theories as to what had happened at the house, the most popular being the belief that Mitchell had come to the island to get his wife back, but had suspected that she had some plot laid against his life. He’d armed himself as best he could, killed the man she’d hired to murder him, and then—in some kind of struggle with Rachel—had fallen downstairs and perished in what was essentially a freak accident.
There was no lack of commentary attending this theorizing—a few of the more perceptive journalists commenting on how dysfunctional the relationships between the Geary men and their wives seemed to be. A few even claimed that they’d seen the tragedy coming; that it had been in essence inevitable. This was a mismatch made in hell, one of the bitchier society watchers wrote, and I’m only surprised it’s taken so long for it to come to an end. That it has ended so tragically can come as no surprise to the surviving members of the Geary family, in whose ranks the course of love and marriage have seldom run smooth. A cursory glance over the history of the dynasty provides ample evidence that the men have all too often treated their wives as little more than investments with wombs, providing a return in children rather than dollars. Is it any great shock that Rachel Geary apparently resisted this life?
The family itself made no public pronouncements on the matter, except for a short statement, cautiously worded by Cecil, that put full, confidence in the police investigations.
Behind closed doors, there was no gathering of family members to discuss how things went on from here, no stirring speech from Loretta about how this adversity would allow the Gearys to demonstrate their cohesiveness. This was the third death in the family in a matter of months, and it drove everyone into their own private places, to grieve or meditate. Cadmus’s funeral was delayed by several days so that Mitchell’s body could be flown back from Hawaii, and arrangements could be made to inter Mitchell and his grandfather together. Loretta did not oversee the preparations: she left it all to Carl Linville. Instead she flew down to the house in Washington with Jocelyn, where she locked herself away, taking no calls or visitors, refusing to speak to anyone but Cecil. She had lost her last ally, now that the prince was gone. Whether her appetite for control of the family had been permanently spoiled only time would tell; for now she seemed content to let the world proceed on its weary way without her.
Only Garrison seemed untouched by all of this. No, not untouched, untroubled. When he flew to Hawaii to accompany his brother’s body home he strode through the hordes of photographers at the airport like a man who’d been given a new lease on life. It wasn’t that he smiled—nothing so crass—but to anyone who knew him, knew the brittle language of his body, and his reticence about being in the public eye, there was plainly a change in him. It was as though Garrison had taken on some of the qualities of his dead brother; inherited at the moment of Mitchell’s decease all the confidence that had been the prince’s birthright. He parted the journalists like a sea, saying nothing, but dispensing nods to right and left, as though to say: I am come into power.
When he got to the island his first duty was to go to the morgue in Lihue and confirm identification of Mitchell. This done, he was driven to Anahola to visit the house, which he was allowed to walk around alone. He wanted some time, he said, to pay his respects to the past. The police captain who was escorting him put up no objection to Garrison’s request, but when, after half an hour, Garrison had not emerged from the house, he went in to see that all was well. The house was deserted. Garrison had finished with his meditations long since, and was now standing on the beach. He cut a peculiar figure, with his black suit and his slicked hair and his hands thrust deep into his pockets. The sun was blazing; the water turquoise and white. Garrison was staring out to sea, and he stayed there, staring and staring, for perhaps fifteen minutes. When he came back in, he was smiling.
“It’s all going to be fine,” he said.
ii
There are no neat conclusions to any of this, of course. All these lives go on, past the end of this book; there’s always more to tell. But I have to draw the line somewhere, and I’m choosing to draw it here, give or take a few observations. Tempting though it is to pick at the threads of things I’ve mentioned in these pages, but left unsewn, I don’t dare touch them. Each is a garment unto itself.
So. Let me tell what happened when, having wandered about the house for a while, thinking the thoughts I’ve just set down, I came to the hallway.
I glanced up the stairs, and there, close to the top of the flight, I glimpsed a motion in the shadows.
I thought perhaps it was Zabrina, who’d been conspicuous by her absence throughout the evening (though she must certainly have heard the noise of the wedding party). I called out to her, but even as I did so I realized my error. The shape on the stairs was small, and even accounting for the fact that it was wrapped in shadow, somehow vague.
“Zelim?” I ventured.
The form rose up
from its crouching position, and came a little way down the stairs, its gait hesitant. My second guess had been correct. It was indeed Zelim, or what was left of him. His presence stood to his earlier self as that self had stood to the fisherman from Atva. He was the phantom of a phantom, his substance negligible. Like smoke, I want to say; like a soul of smoke, who only held his form because there was no wind to disperse him. I held my breath. He looked so tenuous that he’d be banished by the mildest exhalation.
But he had sufficient strength to speak: a dwindling voice, to be sure, disappearing with every syllable, yet strangely eloquent. I heard the happiness in him from the first, and knew before he told me that his wish had been granted.
“She let me go . . .” he said.
I dared that breath now. “I’m happy for you,” I said.
“Thank . . . you . . .” His eyes, in the last phase of his existence, had become huge, like the eyes of a child.
“When did this happen?” I asked him.
“Just a . . . few . . . minutes ago . . .” the infant said. His voice was so quiet I had to strain to hear what he was telling me. “As soon . . . as soon . . . as she knew . . .”
I didn’t catch the last of what he said, but I was afraid to waste a moment asking, for fear of losing him completely in that moment. So I kept my silence, and listened. He was almost gone. Not just his voice, but his physical presence, fading by the heartbeat. I felt no sorrow for him—how could I, when he’d so plainly stated his desire to be gone out of this world?—but it was still a strangely melancholy sight, to see a living soul erased before your eyes.
“I remember . . .” he murmured “ . . . how he came for me . . .”
What was this? I didn’t understand what I was being told.
“ . . . in Samarkand . . .” Zelim went on, the syllables of the city like gossamer. Oh now I understood. I’d written about the event he was remembering, I’d pictured it here on these pages. Zelim, the aged philosopher, sitting among his students, telling a story about how God’s hands worked; then looking up and seeing a stranger at the back of the room, and dying. His death had been a kind of summons; out of his self-willed existence into the service of Cesaria Yaos. Now that service was ended, and he was remembering—fondly, I thought, to judge by the tender gaze in his eyes—how he’d been called; and by whom. By Galilee, of course.
Did Zelim realize that I was still a little puzzled by what he was telling me, or did he at the last want to simply state how things had come full circle? Whichever it was, he said:
“He’s here.”
And with those two words gave up his life after death, and went away, smoke and soul.
He’s here.
That was quite a pair of words. If they were true, then I was amazed.
Galilee, here? Lord in heaven, Galilee here! I didn’t know whether to start yelling at the top of my voice, or to go hide my head. I looked up to the top of the stairs, half-expecting to see Cesaria there, demanding I go fetch him, bring him to her. But the landing was deserted, the house as still as it had been in the moment before Zelim had spoken his last. Did she not know he was here? Impossible. Of course she knew. This house was hers, from dome to foundations; the moment he’d stepped into it she’d been listening to his breath and to his heartbeat; to the din of his digestion.
She knew that he’d have to come to her sooner or later, and she was simply waiting for him to do so. She could afford to be patient, after all these long, lonely years.
I didn’t linger in the hallway, now that Zelim was gone. I headed for my study, and was a few yards from my study door when I caught the alluring whiff of a burning havana. I pushed open the door, and there, sitting in the chair behind my desk, was the great voyager himself, leafing through my book, while he puffed on one of my cigars.
He looked up when I entered, and gave me an apologetic smile.
“Sorry,” he said. “I couldn’t help myself.”
“The cigar or the book?’ I replied.
“Oh the book,” he said. “It’s quite a story. Is any of it true?”
iii
I didn’t ask him how much he’d read, or what he thought of my stylish eccentricities. Nor did I reply to his perverse question, about the veracity of what I’d written. Nobody knew the truth of it better than he.
We embraced, he offered me one of my own cigars, which I declined, and then he asked me why there were so many women in the house.
“We went from room to room,” he explained, “looking for somewhere to lay our heads, and—”
“Who’s we?”
He smiled. “Oh, come on, brother . . .”
“Rachel?” I replied. He nodded. “She’s here?”
“Of course she’s here. You think I’d ever let that woman out of my sight again after what we’ve been through?”
“Where is she?”
His eyes went to the door of my bedroom. “She’s sleeping,” he explained.
“In my bed?”
“You don’t mind?”
I couldn’t keep the grin off my face. “No, of course I don’t mind.”
“Well I’m glad I’ve pleased somebody in this damn house,” Galilee said.
“Can I . . . take a peek at her?”
“What the hell for?”
“Because I’ve been writing about her for the last nine months. I want to see—” What did I want to see? Her face? Her hair? The curve of her back? I suddenly felt a kind of desire for her, I suppose. Something I’d probably been feeling all along, I just hadn’t realized it. “I just want to see her,” I said.
I didn’t wait for him to give me permission. I got up and went to the bedroom door. A wash of moonlight lit the bed, and there, sprawled on the antiquated quilt, was the woman of my waking dreams. I couldn’t quite believe it. There she was: Rachel Pallenberg-Geary-Barbarossa, her liquid hair spread on the same pillow where I’d laid my own buzzing head so many nights, and thought about how to shape the story of her life. Rachel in Boston, Rachel in New York, Rachel convalescing in Caleb’s Creek, and walking the beach at Anahola. Rachel in despair, Rachel in extremis, Rachel in love—
“Rachel in Love,” I murmured.
“What’s that?”
I glanced back at Galilee. “I should have called the book Rachel in Love.”
“Is that what it’s really about?” he said.
“I don’t know what the hell it’s about,” I replied, quite truthfully. “I thought I knew, about halfway through, but . . .” I returned my gaze to the sleeping woman “ . . . maybe I can’t know until it’s finished.”
“You’re not done?”
“Not now you’re here,” I replied.
“I hope you’re not expecting some big drama,” Galilee said, “because that’s not what I had in mind.”
“It’ll be what it’ll be,” I said. “I’m strictly an observer.”
“Oh no you’re not,” he said, getting up from behind the desk. “I need your help.” I looked at him blankly. “With her.” He cast his eyes up toward the ceiling.
“She’s your mother not mine.”
“But you know her better than I do. You’ve been here with her all these years, while I’ve been away.”
“And you think I’ve been sitting with her drinking mint juleps? Talking about the magnolias? I’ve barely seen her. She’s stayed up there brooding.”
“A hundred and forty years of brooding?”
“She’s had a lot to brood about. You. Nicodemus. Jefferson.”
“Jefferson? She doesn’t still think about that loser.”
“Oh yes she does. She told me, at great length—”
“See? You do talk to her. Don’t try and squirm out of it. You talk to her.”
“All right, I talk to her. Once in awhile. But I’m not going to be your apologist.”
Galilee contemplated this for a moment; then he shrugged. “Then you won’t have an ending to your book, will you?’ he said. “It’s as simple as that. You’ll be sitting d
own here wondering what the hell’s going on up there, and you’ll never know. You’ll have to make it up.”
“Jesus . . .” I muttered.
“I’ve got a point, right?”
He read me well. What was worse than the prospect of going up with Galilee in tow to face Cesaria? Why, the prospect of staying here below, and not knowing what passed between them. Whatever happened between mother and son when they came face to face, I had to be there to witness it. If I failed to do so then I failed in my duty as a writer. I couldn’t bear to do that. I’ve failed at too much else.
“All right,” I said. “I’m persuaded.”
“Good man,” he said, and embraced me, pressing my body hard against his. It made me feel meager, to be sure. I realized as he wrapped his arms around me that I’d hardly expressed with a quarter the passion it deserved what the Geary women must have felt in his embrace. I envied them.
“I’m going to wake Rachel,” he said, breaking his hold on me and going to the door of my bedroom. I followed him, as far as the door, and watched him crouch beside the bed and reach out to gently shake her out of sleep.
She was obviously deep in dreams, because it took her a little time to surface. But when her eyes finally opened, and she saw Galilee, a luminous smile came onto her face. Oh, there was such love in it! Such unalloyed pleasure that he was there, at her side.
“It’s time to get up, honey,” Galilee said.
Her eyes came in my direction. “Hi,” she said. “Who are you?”
It felt odd, let me tell, to have this woman—whose life I had so carefully chronicled, and with whom I now felt quite familiar—look at me and not know me.
“I’m Maddox,” I said.
“And you’re sleeping in his bed,” Galilee said.
She sat up. The sheet fell away from her body, and she plucked it up to cover her nakedness. “Galilee told me a lot about you,” she said to me, though I suspect this was to cover a moment of embarrassment.
