Galilee - Clive Barker

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left.

      In this book, as in life, nothing really passes away. Things change, yes; of course they change; they must. But everything is preserved in the eternal moment—Zelim the fisherman, Zelim the prophet, Zelim the ghost; he’s been recorded in all his forms, these pages a poor but passionate echo of the great record that is holiness itself.

      

      There must still be room for the falling note, of course. Even in an undying world there are times when beauty passes from sight, or love passes from the heart, and we feel the sorrow of partition.

      In Samarkand, which was glorious for a time, the lozenge tiles, blue and gold, have fallen from the walls, and the chestnut tree under which Zelim and Galilee talked after the prophet’s passing has been felled. The domes are decaying, and streets that were once filled with noise are given over to silence. It’s not a good silence; it’s not the hush of a hermit’s cell, or the quiet of dawn. It’s simply an absence of life. Regimes have come and gone, parties and potentates, old guards and new, each stealing a portion of Samarkand’s glory when they lose power. Now there’s only dirt and despair. The highest hope of those who remain is that one of these days the Americans will come and find reason to believe in the city again. Then there’ll be hamburgers and soda and cigarettes. A sad ambition for the people of any great city.

      And until that happens, there’s just the falling tiles, and a dirty wind.

      As for Atva, it no longer exists. I suppose if you dug deep in the sand along the shore you’d find the broken-down walls of a few houses, maybe a threshold or two, a pot or two. But nothing of great interest. The lives that were lived in Atva were unremarkable, and so are the few signs that those lives left behind them. Atva does not appear on any maps (even when it thrived it was never marked down that way), nor is mentioned in any books about the Caspian Sea.

      Atva exists now in two places. Here in these pages, of course. And as my brother Galilee’s true name.

      

      I have one additional detail to add before we move on to something more urgent. It’s about that first day, when my father Nicodemus and his wife Cesaria went down to baptize their beloved child in the water.

      Apparently what happened was this: no sooner had Cesaria lowered the baby into the water than he squirmed in her hands and escaped her, diving beneath the first wave that came his way and disappearing from view. My father of course waded in after him, but the current was particularly strong that day and before he could catch hold of his son the babe had been caught up and swept away from the shore. I don’t know if Cesaria was crying or yelling or simply keeping her silence. I do know she didn’t go in after the escapee, because she once remarked to Marietta that she had known all along Galilee would go from her side, and though she was surprised to see him leaving at such a tender age she wasn’t about to stop him.

      Eventually, maybe a quarter of a mile out from the beach, my father caught sight of a little head bobbing in the water. By all accounts the baby was still swimming, or making his best attempt at it. When Atva felt his father’s hands around him he began to bawl and squirm. But my father caught firm hold of him. He set the baby on his shoulders, and swam back to the shore.

      Cesaria told Marietta how the baby had laughed once he was back in her arms, laughed until the tears ran, he was so amused by what he’d done.

      But when I think of this episode, especially in the context of what I’m about to tell you, it’s not the child laughing that I picture. No, it’s the image of little Atva, barely a day old, squirming from the hands of those who created him, and then, ignoring their cries and their demands, simply swimming away, swimming away, as though the first thing on his mind was escape.

PART THREE An Expensive Life

       I

      i

      You remember Rachel Pallenberg? I spoke about her briefly several chapters back, when I was figuratively wringing my hands about whose story I was first going to tell. I described her driving around her hometown of Dansky, Ohio—which lies between Marion and Shanck, close to Mount Gilead. Unpretentious would be a kind description of the town; banal perhaps truer. If it once had some particular charm, that charm’s gone, demolished to make room for the great American ubiquities: cheap hamburger places, cheap liquor places, a market for soda that impersonates more expensive soda and cheese that impersonates milk product. By night the gas station’s the brightest spot in town.

      Here, Rachel was raised until she was seventeen. The streets should be familiar to her. But she’s lost. Though she recognizes much of what she sees—the school where she passed several miserable years still stands, as does the church, where her father Hank (who was always more devout than her mother) brought her every Sunday, the bank where Hank Pallenberg worked until his sickness and early demise—all of these she sees and recognizes; and still she’s lost. This isn’t home. But then neither is the place she left to drive here; the exquisite apartment overlooking Central Park where she’s lived in the bosom of wealth and luxury, married to the man of countless women’s dreams: Mitchell Geary.

      Rachel doesn’t regret leaving Dansky. It was a claustrophobic life she lived here: dull and repetitive. And the future had looked grim. Single women in Dansky didn’t break their hearts trying for very much. Marriage was what they wanted, and if their husbands were reasonably sober two or three nights a week and their children were born with all their limbs, then they counted themselves lucky, and dug in for a long decline.

      That was not what Rachel had in mind for herself. She’d left Dansky two days after her seventeenth birthday without giving it so much as a backward glance. There was another life out there, which she’d seen in magazines and on the television screen: a life of possibilities, a movie-star life, a life she was determined to have for herself. She wasn’t the only seventeen-year-old girl in America who nurtures such hopes, of course. Nor am I the first person to be recounting in print how she made that dream a reality. I have here beside me four books and a stack of magazines—the contents of most of which don’t merit the word reportage—all of which talk in often unruly metaphor about the rise and rise of Rachel Pallenberg. I will do my best here to avoid the excess and stick to the facts, but the story—which is so very much like a fairy tale—would tempt a literary ascetic, as you’ll see. The beautiful, dark-eyed girl from Dansky, with nothing to distinguish her from the common herd but her dazzling smile and her easy charm, finds herself, by chance, in the company of the most eligible bachelor in America, and catches his eye. The rest is not yet history; history requires a certain closure, and this story’s still in motion. But it is certainly something remarkable.

      

      How did it come about? That part, at least, is very simple to tell.

      Rachel left Dansky planning to begin her new life in Cincinnati, where her mother’s sister lived. There she went, and there, for about two years, she stayed. She had a brief but inglorious stint training to be a dental technician, then spent several months working as a waitress. She was liked, though not loved. Some of her fellow workers apparently considered her a little too ambitious for her own good; she was one of those people who didn’t mind voicing their aspirations, and that irritated those who were too afraid to do so for themselves, or simply had none. The manager of the restaurant, a fellow called Herbert Finney, remembers her differently from one interview to the next. Was she “a hardworking, rather quiet girl?” as he says to one interviewer, or “a bit of a troublemaker, flirting with the male customers, always looking to get something for herself?” as he tells another. Perhaps the truth is somewhere in between. Certainly waitressing didn’t suit her for very long; nor did Cincinnati. Twenty-one months after arriving there, in late August, she took a train east, to Boston. When she was later asked by some idiot magazine why she’d chosen that city, she’d replied that she’d heard the autumn months were pretty there. She found another waitressing job, and shared an apartment with two girls who

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