Galilee

I won’t begin with one of his great voyages, or one of his notorious romances. I will begin with what happened the day of his baptism. I would not have known any of this before I entered the room beneath the dome. But I know it now, as clearly as my own life. More clearly perhaps, because it’s only a day since I walked out of that chamber, and these memories seem to me but a few hours old.

PART TWO The Holy Family

I

Two souls as old as heaven came down to the shore that ancient noon. They wandered, accompanied by a harmonious baying of wolves, out of the forest which in those days still spread to the very fringes of the Caspian Sea, its thicket so dense and its reputation so dire that no sane individual ventured into it more than a stone’s throw. It was not the wolves that people feared meeting between the trees, nor was it bears, nor snakes. It was another order of being entirely; one not made by God; some unforgivable thing that stood to the Creator as a shadow stands to the light.

The locals had legends aplenty about this unholy tribe, though they told them only in whispers, and behind closed doors. Tales of creatures that perched in the branches devouring children they’d tempted out of the sun; or squatted in foetid pools between the trees, adorning themselves with the entrails of murdered lovers. No story-teller along that shore worth his place at the fire failed to invent some new abomination to enrich the stew. Tales begot tales, bred upon one another in ever more perverted form, so that the men, women and children who passed their brief lives in the space between the sea and trees did so in a constant state of fearfulness.

Even at noon, on a day such as this, with the air so clear it rang, and the sky as polished as the flanks of a great fish; even today, in a light so bright no demon would dare show its snout, there was fear.

As proof, let me take you into the company of the four men who were working down at the water’s edge that day, mending their nets in preparation for the evening’s fishing. All were in a state of unrest; this even before the wolves began their chorus.

The oldest of the fishermen was one Kekmet, a man of nearly forty, though he looked half that again. If he had ever known joy there was no sign of it on his furrowed, leathery face. His warmest expression was a scowl, which he presently wore.

“You’re talking through your shithole,” he remarked to the youngest of this quartet, a youth called Zelim, who at the tender age of sixteen had already lost his cousin to a miscarriage. Zelim had earned Kekmet’s scorn by suggesting that as their lives were so hard here on the shore, perhaps everyone in the village should pack up their belongings, and find a better place to live.

“There’s nowhere for us to go,” Kekmet told the young man.

“My father saw the city of Samarkand,” Zelim replied. “He told me it was like a dream.”

“That’s exactly what it was,” the man working alongside Kekmet said. “If your father saw Samarkand it was in his sleep. Or when he’d had too much wine…”

The speaker, whose name was Hassan, raised his own jug of what passed for liquor in this place, a foul-smelling fermented milk he drank from dawn to dusk. He put the jug to his mouth, and tipped it. The filthy stuff overran his lips and dribbled into his greasy beard. He passed the jug to the fourth member of the group, one Baru, a man uncommonly fat by the standards of his peers, and uncommonly ill-tempered. He drank from the jug noisily, then set it down at his side. Hassan made no attempt to reclaim it. He knew better.

“My father…” Zelim began again.

“Never went to Samarkand,” old Kekmet said, with the weary tone of one who doesn’t want to hear the subject at hand spoken of again.

Zelim, however, was not about to allow his dead father’s reputation to be impugned this way. He had doted on Old Zelim, who had drowned four springs before, when his boat had capsized in a sudden squall. There was no question, as far as the son was concerned, that if his father claimed he’d seen the numberless glories of Samarkand, then he had.

“One day I’ll just get up and go,” Zelim said. “And leave you all to rot here.”

“In the name of God go!” fat Baru replied. “You make my ears ache the way you chatter. You’re like a woman.”

He’d no sooner spat this insult out than Zelim was on him, pounding Baru’s round red face with his fists. There were some insults he was prepared to take from his elders, but this was too much. “I’m no woman!” he yelped, beating his target until blood gushed from Baru’s nose.

The other two fishermen simply watched. It happened very seldom that anyone in the village intervened in a dispute. People were allowed to visit upon one another whatever insults and blows they wished; the rest either looked the other way or were glad of the diversion. So what if blood was spilled; so what if a woman was violated? Life went on.

Besides, fat Baru could defend himself. He had a vicious way with him, for all his unruly bulk, and he bucked beneath Zelim so violently the younger man was thrown off him, landing heavily beside one of the boats. Gasping, Baru rolled over on to his knees and came at him afresh.

“I’m going to tear off your balls, you little prick!” he said. “I’m sick of hearing about you and your dog of a father. He was bom stupid and he died stupid.” As he spoke he reached between Zelim’s legs as though to make good on the threat of unmanning, but Zelim kicked out at him, and his bare sole hit the man in his already well-mashed nose. Baru howled, but he wasn’t about to be checked. He grabbed hold of Zelim’s foot, and twisted it, hard, first to the right, then to the left. He might have broken the young man’s ankle—which would have left Zelim crippled for the rest of his life—had his victim not reached into the shallow hull of the boat, and grasped the oar lying there. Baru was too engaged in the task of cracking Zelim’s ankle to notice. Grimacing with the effort of his torment, he looked up to enjoy the agony on Zelim’s face only to see the oar coming at him. He had no time to duck. The paddle slammed against his face, breaking the half dozen good teeth left in his head. He fell back, letting go of Zelim’s leg as he did so, and lay sprawled on the sand with his hands clamped to his wounded face, blood and curses springing from between his fat fingers.

But Zelim hadn’t finished with him. The young man got up, yelping when he put weight on his tortured leg. Then, limping over to Baru’s prone body, he straddled the man, and sat down on his blubbery belly. This time Baru made no attempt to move; he was too dazed. Zelim tore at his shirt, exposing great rolls of flesh.

“You…call me a woman?” Zelim said. Baru moaned incoherently. Zelim caught hold of the man’s blubbery chest. “You’ve got bigger tits than any woman I know.” He slapped the flesh. “Haven’t you?” Again, Baru moaned, but Zelim wasn’t satisfied. “Haven’t you got tits?” he said, reaching up to pull Baru’s hands away from his face. He was a mess beneath. “Did you hear me?” Zelim demanded.

“Yes…” Baru moaned.

“So say it.”

“I’ve…got tits…”

Zelim spat on the man’s bloody face, and got to his feet. He felt suddenly sick, but he was determined he wasn’t going to puke in front of any of these men. He despised them all.

He caught Hassan’s lazy-lidded gaze as he turned.

“You did that well,” the man remarked appreciatively. “Want something to drink?”

Zelim pushed the proffered jug aside and set his sights beyond this little ring of boats, along the shore. His leg hurt as though it were in a fire and burning up, but he was determined to put some distance between himself and the other fishermen before he showed any sign of weakness.

“We haven’t finished with the nets,” Kekmet growled at him, as he limped away.

Zelim ignored him. He didn’t care about the boats or the nets or whether the fish would rise tonight. He didn’t care about Baru or old Kekmet or drunken Hassan. He didn’t care about himself at that moment. He wasn’t proud of what he’d done to Baru, nor was he ashamed. It was done, and now he wanted to forget about it. Dig himself a hole in the sand, till he found a cool, damp place to lie, and forget about it all. A hundred yards behind him now, Hassan was shouting something, and though he couldn’t make sense of the words there was sufficient alarm in the drunkard’s tone that Zelim glanced back to see what the matter was. Hassan had got to his feet, and was gazing off toward the distant trees. Zelim followed the direction of his gaze, and saw that a great number of birds had risen from the branches and were circling over the treetops. It was an unusual sight to be sure, but Zelim would have paid it little mind had the next moment not brought the baying of wolves, and with the wolves, the emergence of two figures from the trees. He was about the same distance from this pair as he was from the men and the boats behind him, and there he stayed, unwilling to take refuge in the company of old Kekmet and the others, but afraid to advance towards these strangers, who strode out of the forest as though there was nothing in its depths to fear, and walked, smiling, down towards the glittering water.

II

To Zelim’s eyes the couple didn’t look dangerous. In fact it was a pleasure to look at them, after staring at the brutish faces of his fellow fishermen. They walked with an ease that bespoke strength, bespoke limbs that had never been cracked and mismended, never felt the ravages of age. They looked, Zelim thought, as he imagined a king and a queen might look, stepping from their cool palace, having been bathed in rare oils. Their skins, which were very different in color (the woman was blacker than any human being Zelim had ever set eyes upon, the man paler), gleamed in the sunlight, and their hair, which both wore long, seemed to be plaited here and there, so that serpentine forms ran in their manes. All this was extraordinary enough; but there was more. The robes they wore were another astonishment, for their colors were more vivid than anything Zelim had seen in his life. He’d never witnessed a sunset as red as the red in these robes, or set eyes on a bird with plumage as green, or seen with his mind’s eye, in dream or daydream, a treasure that shone like the golden threads that were woven with this red, this green. The robes were long, and hung on their wearers voluptuously, but still it seemed to Zelim he could see the forms of their bodies beneath the folds, and it made him long to see them naked. He felt no shame at this desire; just as he felt no fear that they would chasten him for his scrutiny. Surely beauty like this, when it went out into the world, expected to be doted on.

He hadn’t moved from that place on the bank where he’d first spotted the couple, but their path to the water’s edge was steadily bringing them closer to him, and as the distance between them narrowed his eyes found more to beguile them. The woman, for instance, was wearing copious ornaments of jewelry—anklets, wristlets, necklaces—all as dark as her skin, yet carrying half-concealed in their darkness an iridescence that made them shimmer. The man had decoration of his own: elaborate patterns painted or tattooed upon his thighs, which were visible when his robe, which was cut to facilitate the immensity of his legs, parted.

But the most surprising detail of their appearance did not become clear until they were within a few yards of the water. The woman, smiling at her mate, reached into the folds of her robe, and with the greatest tenderness, lifted out into view a tiny baby. The mite bawled instantly at being parted from the comfort of its mother’s tits—nor did Zelim blame the thing; he would have done the same—but it ceased its complaints when both mother and father spoke to it. Was there ever a more blessed infant than this, Zelim thought. To be in such arms, to gaze up at such faces, to know in your soul that you came from such roots as these? If a greater bliss were possible, Zelim could not imagine it.

The family was at the water now, and the couple had begun to speak to one another. It was no light conversation. Indeed from the way the pair stood facing one another, and the way they shook their heads and frowned, there was some trouble between them.

The child, who had moments before been the center of its parents’ doting attentions, now went unnoticed. The argument was starting to escalate, Zelim saw, and for the first time since setting eyes on the couple he considered the wisdom of retreat. If one of this pair—or God Almighty help him, both—were to lose their temper, he did not care to contemplate the power they could unleash. But however fearful he was, he couldn’t take his eyes off the scene before him. Whatever the risk of staying here and watching, it was nothing beside the sorrow he would feel, denying himself this sight. The world would not show him such glories again, he suspected. He was privileged beyond words to be in the presence of these people. If he went and hid his head, out of some idiot fear, then he deserved the very death he would be seeking to avoid. Only the brave were granted gifts such as this; and if it had come to him by accident (which it surely had) he would surprise fate by rising to the occasion. Keep his eyes wide and his feet planted in the same spot; have himself a story to tell his children, and the children of his children, when this event was a lifetime from now.

He had no sooner shaped these thoughts, however, than the argument between the couple ceased, and he had cause to wish he had fled. The woman had returned her gaze to the baby, but her consort, who’d had his back to Zelim throughout most of the exchange, now cast a look over his shoulder, and fixing his eyes upon Zelim, beckoned to him.

Zelim didn’t move. His legs had turned to stone, his bowels to water; it was all he could do not to befoul his pants. He suddenly didn’t care whether or not he had a tale to tell his children. He only wanted the sand to soften beneath him, so he could slide into the dark, where this man’s gaze could not find him. To make matters worse the woman had bared her breasts and was offering her nipple to the babe’s mouth. Her breasts were sumptuous, gleaming and full. Though he knew it wasn’t wise to be staring past the beckoning husband and ogling the wife, Zelim couldn’t help himself.

And again, the man summoned him with the hook of his fingers, but this time spoke.

“Come here, fisherman,” he said. He didn’t speak loudly, but Zelim heard the command as though it had been spoken at his ear. “Don’t be afraid,” the man went on.

“I can’t…” Zelim began, meaning to tell the man his legs would not obey him.

But before the words were out of his mouth, the summons moved him. Muscles that had been rigid a few heartbeats before were carrying him toward his summons, though he had not consciously instructed them to do so. The man smiled, seeing his will done, and despite his trepidation Zelim could not help but return the smile, thinking as he walked toward his master that if the rest of the men were still watching him they would probably think him courageous, for the casual measure of his stride.

The woman, meanwhile, having settled the infant to sucking, was also looking Zelim’s way, though her expression—unlike that of her husband—was far from friendly. What radiance would have broken from her face had she been feeling better tempered Zelim could only guess. Even in her present unhappy state she was glorious.

Zelim was within perhaps six feet of the couple now, and there stopped, though the man had not ordered him to do so.

“What is your name, fisherman?” the man said.

Before Zelim could reply, the woman broke in. “I’ll not call him by the name of a fisherman.”

“Anything’s better than nothing,” the husband replied.

“No it’s not,” the wife snapped. “He needs a warrior’s name. Or nothing.”

“He may not be a warrior.”

“Well he certainly won’t be a fisherman,” the woman countered.

The man shrugged. The exchange had taken the smile off his face; he was plainly running out of patience with his lady.

“So let’s hear your name,” the woman said.

“Zelim.”

“There then,” the woman said, looking back at her husband. “Zelim! Do you want to call our child Zelim?”

The man looked down at the baby. “He doesn’t seem to care one way or another,” he remarked. Then back at Zelim. “Has the name treated you kindly?” he asked.

“Kindly?” Zelim said.

“He means are you pursued by women?” the wife replied.

“That’s a consideration,” the husband protested mildly. “If a name brings good fortune and beautiful women, the boy will thank us for it.” He looked at Zelim again. “And have you been fortunate?”

“Not particularly,” Zelim replied.

“And the women?”

“I married my cousin.”

“No shame in that. My brother married my half-sister and they were the happiest couple I ever met.” He glanced back at his wife, who was tenderly working the cushion of her breast so as to keep the flow of milk strong. “But my wife’s not going to be content with this, I can see. No offense to you, my friend. Zelim is a fine name, truly. There’s no shame in Zelim.”

“So I can go?”

The man shrugged. “I’m sure you have…fish to catch…yes?”

“As it happens, I hate fish,” Zelim said, surprised to be confessing this fact—which he had never spoken to anyone—in front of two strangers. “All the men in Atva talk about is fish, fish, fish—”

The woman looked up from the face of the nameless child.

“Atva?” she said.

“It’s the name of—”

“—the village,” she said. “Yes, I understand.” She tried the word again, several times, turning the two syllables over. “At. Va. At. Vah.” Then she said: “It’s plain and simple. I like that. You can’t corrupt it. You can’t make some little game of it.”

Now it was her husband’s turn to be surprised. “You want to name my boy after some little village?” he said.

“Nobody will ever know where it came from,” the woman replied. “I like the sound, and that’s what’s important. Look, the child likes the sound too. He’s smiling.”

“He’s smiling because he’s sucking on your tit, wife,” the man replied. “I do the same thing.”

Zelim could not keep himself from laughing. It amused him that these two, who were in every regard extraordinary beings, still chatted like a commonplace husband and wife.

“But if you want Atva, wife,” the man went on, “then I will not stand between you and your desires.”

“You’d better not try,” the woman replied.

“You see how she is with me?” the man said, turning back to Zelim. “I grant her what she wants and she refuses to thank me.” He spoke with the hint of a smile upon his face; he was clearly happy to have this debate ended. “Well, Zelim, I at least will thank you for your help in this.”

“We all of us thank you,” the woman replied. “Especially Atva. We wish you a happy, fertile life.”

“You’re very welcome,” Zelim murmured.

“Now,” said the husband, “if you’ll excuse us? We must baptize the child.”

III

Life in Atva was never the same after the day the family went down to the water.

Zelim was of course questioned closely as to the nature of his exchange with the man and woman, firstly by old Kekmet, then by just about anybody in the village who wanted to catch his arm. He told the truth, in his own plain way. But even as he told it, he knew in his heart that recounting the words he had exchanged with the child’s mother and father was not the whole truth, or anything like it. In the presence of this pair he had felt something wonderful; feelings his limited vocabulary could not properly express. Nor, in truth, did he entirely wish to express them. There was a kind of possessiveness in him about the experience, which kept him from trying too hard to tell those who interrogated him the true nature of the encounter. The only person he would have wished to tell was his father. Old Zelim would have understood, he suspected; he would have helped with the words, and when the words failed both of them, then he’d have simply nodded and said: “It was the same for me in Samarkand,” which had always been his response when somebody remarked upon the miraculous. It was the same for me in Samarkand…

Perhaps people knew Zelim was not telling them all he knew, because once they’d asked all their questions, he began to notice a distinct change in their attitude to him. People who’d been friendly to him all his life now looked at him strangely when he smiled at them, or looked the other way, pretending not to see him. Others were even more obvious about their distaste for his company; especially the women. More than once he heard his name used loudly in conversation, accompanied by spitting, as though the very syllables of his name carried a bitter taste.

It was, of all people, old Kekmet who told him what was being said.

“People are saying you’re poisoning the village,” he said. This seemed so absurd Zelim laughed out loud. But Kekmet was deadly serious. “Baru’s at the heart of it,” he went on. “He hates you, after the way you spoiled that fat face of his. So he’s spreading stories about you.”

“What kind of stories?”

“That you and the demons were exchanging secret signs—”

“Demons?”

“That’s what he says they were, those people. How else could they have come out of the forest, he says. They couldn’t be like us and live in the forest. That’s what he says.”

“And everyone believes him?” Here Kekmet fell silent. “Do you believe him?”

Kekmet looked away toward the water. “I’ve seen a lot of strange things in my life,” he said, the coarseness going from his voice. “Out there particularly. Things moving in the water that I’d never want to find in my net. And in the sky sometimes…shapes in the clouds…” He shrugged. “I don’t know what to believe. It doesn’t really matter what’s true and what isn’t. Baru’s said what he’s said, and people believe him.”

“What should I do?”

“You can stay and wait it out. Hope that people forget. Or you can leave.”

“And go where?”

“Anywhere but here.” Kekmet looked back at Zelim. “If you ask me, there’s no life for you here as long as Baru’s alive.”

That was effectively the end of the conversation. Kekmet made his usual curt farewell, and left Zelim to examine the two available options. Neither was attractive. If he stayed, and Baru continued to stir up enmity against him, his life would become intolerable. But to leave the only home he’d ever known, to stray beyond this strip of rock and sand, this huddled collection of houses, and venture out into the wide world without any clue as to where he was going—that would take more courage than he thought he possessed. He remembered his father’s tales of the hardships he claimed to have suffered on his way to Samarkand: the terrors of the desert; the bandits and the djinns. He didn’t feel ready to face such threats; he was too afraid.

Almost a month passed; and he persuaded himself that there was a softening in people’s attitudes to him. One day, one of the women actually smiled at him, he thought. Things weren’t as bad as Kekmet had suggested. Given time the villagers would come to realize how absurd their superstitions were. In the meantime he simply had to be careful not to give them any cause for doubt.

He had not taken account of how fate might intervene.

It happened like this. Since his encounter with the couple on the shore he had been obliged to take his boat out single-handed; nobody wanted to share it with him. This had inevitably meant a smaller catch. He couldn’t throw the net as far from the boat when he was on his own. But this particular day, despite the fact that he was fishing on his own, he was lucky. His net was fairly bursting when he hauled it up into the boat, and he paddled back to the shore feeling quite pleased with himself. Several of the other fishermen were already unloading their catches, so a goodly number of villagers were down at the water’s edge, and inevitably more than a few pairs of eyes were cast his way as he hauled his net out of the boat to study its contents.