Galilee. Clive Barker

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СКАЧАТЬ for far too long, would stand up like an adolescent’s and demand milking twice an hour. Lord, I thought, was it any wonder she’d been worshiped? She could probably raise the dead if it pleased her to do so.

      “Come away, Tansy,” she said to the porcupine.

      Tansy ignored the instruction, which I will admit pleased me. Even she might be disobeyed.

      “I don’t mind it,” I said.

      “Just be careful. The spines—”

      “I know.” I still had the scars where one of her quill-pigs, as she preferred to call them, had taken against me. And I think it had distressed Cesaria to see me bleed. I remember the look on her face quite clearly: her eyes like liquid night in that obsidian head of hers; her sympathy terrifying to me, because I suppose I feared her touch, her healing. Feared it would transform me, make me her devotee forever. So we’d stood, neither one of us moving, both distressed by something essential to the other (her power, my blood) while the quill-pig had sat on the floor between us and scratched its fleas.

      “This book…” she said.

      “Marietta told you about it?” I said.

      “I don’t need telling, Maddox.”

      “No. Of course not.”

      What she said next astonished me. But then of course she would never be who she is—she could not trail the legends she trails—if she were not a constant astonishment.

      “You must write it fearlessly,” she said. “Write out of your head and out of your heart and never care about the consequences.”

      She spoke more softly than I’d ever heard her speak before. Not weakly, you understand, but with a kind of tenderness I’d always assumed she would never feel toward me. In truth, I hadn’t believed she felt it toward anybody.

      “So the business about the Gearys—?”

      “Must go in. All of it. Every last detail. Don’t spare any of them. Or any of us, come to that. We’ve all made our compromises over the years. Treated with the enemy instead of stopping their hearts.”

      “Do you hate the Gearys?”

      “I should say no. They’re only human. They know no better. But yes, I hate them. If they didn’t exist I’d still have a husband and a son.”

      “It’s not as though Galilee’s dead.”

      “He’s dead to me,” she said. “He died the moment he sided with them against your father.” She snapped her fingers lightly, and her quill-pig turned round and waddled back to her. Throughout this entire conversation I’d seen only glimpses of her, but now, as the porcupine approached her, she bent down to gather it up into her arms, and the moonlight, washing up off the boards, momentarily showed me her entirely. She was not, as Marietta had reported, frail or sickly; far from it. She looked like a young woman to my eye; a woman prodigiously gifted by nature: her beauty both refined and raw at the same time, the planes of her face so strong she seemed almost the idol of herself, carved out of the silver light in which she stood. Did I say that she was beautiful? I was wrong. Beauty is too tame a notion; it evokes only faces in magazines. A lovely eloquence, a calming symmetry; none of that describes this woman’s face. So perhaps I should assume I cannot do it justice with words. Suffice it to say that it would break your heart to see her; and it would mend what was broken in the same moment; and you would be twice what you’d been before.

      With the quill-pig in her arms, she was moving toward the door. But as she reached it she halted (all this I only heard; she was again invisible to me).

      “The beginning is always the hardest,” she said.

      “Well actually I’ve already begun…” I said, a little tentatively. Despite the fact that she’d neither said nor done anything to intimidate me, I was still—perhaps unfairly—anxious that she’d blindside me with some attack or other.

      “How?” she said.

      “How did I begin?”

      “Yes.”

      “With the house, of course.”

      “Ah…” I heard the smile in her voice. “With Mr. Jefferson?”

      “With Mr. Jefferson.”

      “That was a good idea. To begin in the middle that way. And with my glorious Thomas. He was, you know, the love of my life.”

      “Jefferson?”

      “You think it should have been your father?”

      “Well—”

      “It was nothing like love with your father. It became love, but that’s not how it began. When such as I, and such as he, mate, we do not mate for the sake of sentiment. We mate to make children. To preserve our genius, as your father would have said.”

      “Perhaps I should have begun there.”

      She laughed. “With our mating?”

      “No I didn’t mean that.” I was glad of the darkness, to cover my blushes—though with her eyes she probably saw them anyway. “I…I…meant with the firstborn. With Galilee.”

      I heard her sigh. Then I heard nothing; for such a time I thought perhaps she’d decided to leave me. But no. She was still there in the room.

      “We didn’t baptize him Galilee,” she said. “He took that name for himself, when he was six.”

      “I didn’t know that.”

      “There’s a great deal you don’t know, Maddox. A great deal you can’t even guess. That’s why I came to invite you…when you’re ready…to see some of the past…”

      “You have more books?”

      “Not books. Nothing so tangible…”

      “I’m sorry, I don’t really understand.”

      Again, she sighed, and I was afraid this offer, whatever it was, would be snatched away again because I was making her impatient. But she sighed not out of irritation, rather out of a heaviness of the heart.

      “Galilee was everything to us,” she said. “And he became nothing. I want you to understand how that came about.”

      “I’ll do my best, I swear.”

      “I know you will,” she said gently. “But it may take more courage than you have. You’re so human, Maddox. I’ve always found that hard to like.”

      “I can’t do much about it.”

      “Your father loved you for that very reason, you know…” Her voice trailed away. “What a mess it all is,” she said. “What a terrible, tragic mess. To have had so much, and let it go through our fingers…”

      “I want to understand how that happened,” I replied, “more than anything, I want to understand.”

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