The Holy

by Daniel Quinn

  “I don’t believe I introduced myself when we met at the Dead Man Saloon,” he said. “I am John Dee.”

  Not knowing what else to do, David weakly shook his hand.

  “Come and sit down, my boy,” the old man said, leading him to a sofa.

  When David was seated, Dee gently tilted his head up to examine the cut on his cheek. He shook his head over it and put a hand to David’s forehead.

  “You’re running a fever.”

  David said, “I know,” though he hadn’t.

  The old man sat down beside him. David looked around for Andrea and Marianne, but they were gone.

  “Andrea tells me you’ve had many adventures since we met.”

  “Yes.”

  “And what do you make of it all?”

  “I don’t know,” David said mechanically, feeling as empty as poor old Samson.

  “You really must try, you know.”

  David suddenly felt a dark cloud of depression settle over him. It seemed to isolate him from Dee—from all living things. He felt frozen and very lonely.

  “David always tries,” he said. “David is a man who tries real hard and worries a lot.”

  The old man paused, puzzled by the oddness of this locution. Then, giving up on it, he said, “Perhaps you should stop worrying entirely and try something else.”

  “Something else?”

  “Yes. Isn’t that what you wanted?”

  “Wanted?”

  Dee sighed. “It’s time now for you to think very, very seriously about what it is you want. You really must do that.”

  “All right.”

  The old man shook his head. “You’re not listening, David. You haven’t listened to any of us.”

  David’s head turned woodenly from side to side in disagreement. “David listens well. David tries real hard and worries a lot.”

  Dee frowned for a long moment, then suddenly nodded in comprehension. “Yes, I see. I understand what you’re telling me now.” David looked at him blankly. “You don’t understand?” David shook his head. “You’re telling me you’re like that pathetic mannequin upstairs. Your will can only respond to a set of messages you yourself recorded in your mind long ago. Isn’t that it? You can no more try something different than Samson can say something different.”

  David nodded thoughtfully. He’d known, of course, that he’d been imitating Samson’s style of speech, but he hadn’t consciously meant anything by it.

  “You mustn’t accept that, my child. But now at least you understand what the problem is, don’t you?”

  “Yes, I guess so.”

  “Then you must use this understanding to break free. Now. At once. We’ll help you.”

  “All right.”

  The old man breathed a sigh, his long sheep’s face heavy with concern, and stood up to leave. Then he paused for a few moments, staring into the distance as if considering a fresh idea. “Remember this, David,” he said at last. “You are ultimately not like Samson. Samson is only metal and wires and old recording cylinders.”

  David nodded absently.

  “No. You’re not listening to me. Samson is only metal and wires and old recording cylinders.”

  “I know that.”

  The old man shook his head impatiently. “Perhaps from the beginning you’ve known too much that you should have been trying to learn.”

  David was still trying to sort out this dark saying when Dee turned away to mount the stairs. After a few minutes he decided to follow him, at least to the second floor, where he intended to return to his room and his bed.

  He was halfway up the stairs when he became aware that someone was descending in the semi-darkness overhead. He didn’t know who it was, but he seemed to be making heavy work of it, clinging to the handrail, his legs splaying out awkwardly like those of a vaudeville drunk. But when he began to speak, with a whir and a clank and a crackling hiss, David knew.

  “David!” Samson squawked, lurching down a step. “Look!”

  His heart constricted as if in the grip of a powerful hand, David backed down a step.

  “Look, David! I’m walking!” The familiar muffled voice trembled with joy and pride. The mannequin stumbled down another step and would have fallen if it hadn’t been grappling the rail. David retreated in front of it.

  “I never walked! Never!” It flung out a hand. “Here! Take my hand!”

  David charged past it, knocking it off its feet and sending it tumbling down the stairs in a muddle of twisted limbs.

  “David, wait!” it groaned. “Listen to me—”

  But David was already halfway down the hall to his room. When he had the door closed behind him, he leaned on it, his breath raw in his throat, until he was sure no one was coming after him. Then he quickly struggled out of his clothes, climbed into bed, covered his head with a pillow, and let the roar of the fever drown out his thoughts.

  When he awoke to find Marianne standing beside the bed, David had the nightmarish feeling he was going to relive the day. But her message was different this time: “Andrea would like you to rake the patio.”

  “What?” He was now feeling very lightheaded indeed and was sure he’d misheard her.

  “Andrea would like you to rake the patio.”

  His laugh was half a whimper. “Rake the patio?”

  “You know. The redwood chips. She said to tell you that she’d appreciate it.”

  Laughter welled up inside him like bubbles in champagne, and he lay shaking helplessly until it all frothed away.

  “Well?” Marianne demanded. “What time is it?”

  She glanced at her wrist. “Four-thirty.”

  Exhausted, he pulled himself up onto an elbow. “Tell Andrea that I will be honored to rake the patio. Deeply honored.”

  Marianne gave him an expressionless nod and left him to stagger into his clothes.

  By now he was definitely staggering.

  He paused at the entrance to the upper living room and very nearly went back. Samson, motionless in his wheel chair, was sitting directly between him and the patio. After watching through several minutes, he risked stepping inside, and the mannequin remained silent and inert. Nevertheless, he approached it ready to flee and edged his way around it well out of reach. He was glad to be outside and able to close the sliding glass door on it.

  The rake was standing beside the door—a heavy, old-fashioned garden rake, not a leaf rake. He picked it up and looked around with a sigh at the huge expanse of redwood chips dotted with groupings of outdoor furniture. He tried out the rake and soon found the work easy enough, though it seemed to have little effect except where there were obvious mounds and gouges. In fact, after a few minutes he began to find it rather soothing. With very little effort (throw out the head of the rake and draw it back), he was restoring order to what had become chaotic.

  When this is all over, he thought muzzily, perhaps I’ll become a gardener.

  He wasn’t pleased when Andrea, Dee, and Marianne walked out of the living room and sat down around an umbrella-shaded table, distracting him from his reverie.

  As if responding to an afterthought, Andrea gave the patio a careful appraisal and said, “It looks very nice, David.”

  “I’m not finished,” he replied gruffly.

  “Don’t do more than you feel up to,” she said.

  “I’m fine.” And in fact, except for an annoyingly persistent whine in his ears, he felt better than he had all day. He went on throwing out the head of the rake and dragging it back.

  After another ten minutes, however, Andrea said, “I really think you should stop now, David. Come and sit down.”

  Grudgingly, David straightened up and walked over to join them. He set the rake down by his chair, intending to finish the job when they left.

  “Well?” he said.

  Behind him he heard the rumble of the sliding glass door and, turning around, he saw Dudley Case manhandling a heavily laden wheelbarrow out onto the patio—spoiling, David noted, work
he’d already done. He stopped after a few feet and upended the barrow to dump its contents with a crash. David blinked over them for a moment, trying to assemble the ungainly mass into a recognizable shape.

  Then he had it: it was a naked human body. He nodded, dazed.

  Of course: Mike. Naturally the old man would have brought Mike with him.

  Having parked the barrow by the house, Case parked himself beside it, arms folded, waiting.

  David looked at the faces around the table and saw Marianne give Andrea and Dee a questioning glance. They nodded encouragingly.

  She stood up, went over to the sprawled body, and looked back in hesitation. “What do I do?”

  “You have to get his attention, my dear,” Dee said. “A sharp rap on the skull works well.”

  After tugging one of Mike’s arms aside to get at it, she bent down and gave his head a blow. When nothing happened she gave it another.

  “Dudley,” Dee said, “get him up on his hands and knees. That should help.”

  The Navajo pushed himself away from the house and wrestled the body up into position. Mike’s head hung down to his chest, and the old man told him to pull it up. Case put a hand under Mike’s chin and lifted it.

  “Now, my dear.”

  Marianne gave him a sharp rap on the temple and his eyes popped open. Case removed his hand and the head stayed up.

  As Marianne bent forward to speak into Mike’s ear, the old man interrupted her. “First you have to point him, Marianne. In this condition, he’s worse than an idiot.”

  “Point him?”

  “Take his head in your hands and point it right at what you want him to see.”

  She pointed Mike’s head at David.

  “Get down and make sure you’ve got it right.”

  She put her head down alongside Mike’s and looked up into David’s eyes.

  David looked back numbly. “Good. Now tell him to see.”

  “See,” Marianne said.

  “Very forcefully, my dear.”

  “See!”

  Mike’s eyes widened and he blinked once.

  “Good. Now you may proceed.”

  Marianne moved her lips to Mike’s ear and said: “Tear him to pieces.”

  Mike lowered his head wearily for a moment, as if this were too much to ask of him. Then, as Marianne backed away, he lurched to his feet and fixed a bleary gaze on David, his head bobbing stupidly.

  David looked around helplessly at Andrea and Dee. They nodded, smiling, but their eyes were grave, full of some earnest but unreadable message.

  He picked up the rake and moved away from the table. Mike’s eyes tracked the movement, and he took a wobbly step forward.

  David swung the rake at Mike’s head but was too far away. The cast-iron teeth whistled through the air inches in front of his nose. Taking no notice of it, not even blinking, Mike staggered a pace closer, and David swung again.

  This time he was too close, and it was only the handle that met Mike’s head; nevertheless, it was enough to crush the side of his face and sweep him off his feet. He crashed into the redwood chips and lay there blinking slowly for a minute, as if pondering this unexpected reverse. Then he began to gather his limbs under him in an effort to get back on his feet.

  Before he managed it, David swung again. This time he had the range; the end of the rake-head buried itself in Mike’s skull and he sprawled into the chips, jerking the rake out of David’s hands. Grabbing the rake and working it back and forth to get it out of Mike’s head, David tore away a slab of bone, exposing the mangled brain underneath. The wound didn’t bleed.

  Only one of Mike’s eyes was blinking now, at long intervals.

  After moving around so that he had Mike’s head at his feet, David raised the rake like an axe and smashed it into his neck. Two more blows severed the head completely, and Mike stopped blinking.

  For a full minute David stood there staring down at the body, waiting for it to move. Finally satisfied that it wasn’t going to, he turned to the others.

  Case and Marianne were standing by the house, watching him without expression. Andrea, her eyes down, was listlessly tapping a cigarette ash into a tray. John Dee was slumped back in his chair, looking profoundly discouraged.

  Suddenly David began to shiver uncontrollably. The rake slipped from his hand, and he wrapped his arms around himself. His teeth were chattering as if driven by a motor.

  “Take David in, would you, Dudley?” Dee said, looking up. “He should be in bed. And Marianne, you might find some extra blankets for him.”

  In a moment David felt the Navajo’s hand on his arm, but his body was so occupied with shivering that he couldn’t get it to move. His legs were locked in place.

  “Come on, David,” Case said gently. “You’ll feel better in bed.”

  With a painful effort, David shuffled one foot forward a few inches.

  “That’s right. It’ll be easier once you get moving.” Little by little, Case guided him into the house, across the living room, and down the stairs to his room, where he helped him out of his clothes and into his bed.

  “C-c-c-old,” David said.

  “You’ve got a chill.”

  “I sure d-d-d-do,” he replied with a giggle.

  Marianne arrived with an armful of blankets they piled on top of him. Case began tucking them in around him as Marianne left.

  “Better?”

  “Y-y-yes. Thanks.”

  The Navajo nodded, smiling, and turned to go.

  “Wait,” David said. He turned back. “What was I s-s-s-supposed to do?”

  Case studied him solemnly. “Something.”

  “Like what?”

  He shrugged. “Anything.”

  “Anything?”

  “Anything but what David Kennesey of Runnell, Indiana, would do.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I know. I’m sorry.”

  David sighed as the shivering ebbed away under the warmth of the blankets. “Andrea said …”

  “Yes?”

  “Andrea said you could … teach me.”

  “Yes.”

  “Would you do that?”

  The Navajo paused. “Yes.”

  Smiling peacefully, David closed his eyes. “I’d like that.”

  Case waited for a few moments, then shook his head and walked out, closing the door quietly behind him.

  In the middle of the night David was tormented by dreams of suffocation: a great weight was pressing him down into the mattress, and his lungs were fighting for air. He awoke drenched in sweat, and found Andrea, totally nude, sitting back on her haunches in the middle of his chest.

  “Andrea,” he gasped. “I can’t breathe.”

  “You can breathe, David.”

  “Yes, barely. But why are you sitting on me?”

  “I want you to see me.”

  “I can see you.”

  “I know.”

  David tried to laugh but could only manage a choked cough.

  “Could you bring me some water?” he asked.

  She smiled. “I knew you were thirsty.”

  David passed his tongue over his parched lips. “Well … could you bring me some?”

  “I came to bring you water, David. But you mustn’t reject it.”

  “I won’t reject it.”

  “This water will wash away your fever and make you well. But you must accept it.”

  “I will, Andrea.”

  “Very well. Watch.”

  Andrea stretched out her arms, and for the first time David was really aware of her nakedness, of her strong shoulders and full breasts. As he watched, her body began to glow with a pale green phosphorescence and seemed to become gradually translucent. He blinked his eyes and shook his head to rid himself of the illusion, but it persisted and grew. Her translucency faded to transparency and the phosphorescence clarified into an emerald glow.

  She had become a statue sculpted in sea water. She looked down at him, and all her
features were there—lips, eyes, nose—but they were shaped in water now, not flesh. Behind them moved schools of tiny fish, mists of algae, trails of wavering bubbles, strands of floating vegetation.

  She nodded silently at her arms, her legs, her torso—David understood that she had no breath with which to speak now—and he saw that the whole of her body teemed with busy life. She was heavy with it, composed of it. She slowly leaned forward until her face hovered above his, and he gazed with wonderment into her sightless eyes. Her lips moved, and the word he saw formed there was: Breathe. David took a deep breath and held it.

  Then she put her lips to his and flowed into him and over him, and he was suddenly swept away and engulfed.

  When he opened his eyes, he was floating in the depths of an endless sea. Still holding his breath, he spun around slowly, expecting to find Andrea floating beside him. But he was alone. Completely alone. Except for the lazily wandering fish and the green glow of the sea all around him.

  He spun around again, and his stomach clenched in panic. A sea bass gazed at him incuriously and swam away. Looking up, David saw that the glow was brighter overhead. His arms thrashing, he began to swim upward toward what he hoped was the surface. After a few moments, he was sure he was right—but it seemed impossibly far away. He struggled on, his lungs trembling, straining toward the inevitable explosion.

  A hundred yards, he thought. He could see the sun now, smiling down on a world of clouds and trees and birds—a world just moments beyond reach.

  At thirty yards, when he was certain he wasn’t going to make it, his limbs went berserk and began flailing the water uselessly.

  At fifteen yards, his lungs burst, and, back arching in a final convulsion of agony, David gave himself up to death.

  CHAPTER 44

  After plunging into unconsciousness during Andrea’s visit, David slept fitfully, tormented by feverish, incomprehensible dreams that seemed to drag on for days. In all of them he was in pain and desperately thirsty. Around nine o’clock the aches and thirst of his dreams imperceptibly became the aches and thirst of consciousness as he wallowed in his sweat-sodden bedclothes; the sheets were silk, but under his painfully sensitive hands they were as rough as burlap. With a tremendous effort, he pulled himself upright, feeling as if his head were about to topple from his shoulders.