Galilee (81 page)

The signs of storm damage got worse once they were on the other side of Poi'pu; the road was nearly impassable in several places, where the force of the rainwater had washed down large rocks. And once they got onto the beach road, which hugged the base of the cliffs, matters became worse still. The road was little more than a winding, rutted track, which was now largely reduced to red mud. Even driving cautiously, Niolopua several times lost momentary control of the vehicle, as its slickened wheels lost their grip.

Out to the left of the track, on the other side of a ragged band of black rocks, was the shore: and here, more than any other place along their route, was the most eloquent evidence of the storm's power. The sand was strewn with debris from the margin of the rocks to the water's edge, and the waves themselves dyed with the run-off mud. It was like a scene from a dream—the sky cerulean, the sea scarlet, the bright sand littered with dark, sodden timbers. In other circumstances she might have thought it beautiful. But all she saw now was debris and blood-red water: it enchanted her not at all.

“Here's where the climbing starts,” Niolopua announced.

She took her eyes from the shore and looked ahead. The muddy track ended a few yards from them, where the cliff face jutted out into the sea; a spit of rock against which the ruddied waves rushed and broke.

“The beach we're headed for is on the other side.”

“I'm ready,” Rachel said, and got out of the car.

The air, for all the din and motion of the sea, was curiously still close to the cliff. Almost clammy, in fact. After just a minute or so she was sweating, and once they began to clamber over the rocks her head started to throb. Niolopua had left his sandals at the car, and was climbing barefoot, making little concession to the fact that Rachel was a neophyte at this. Only when the route became particularly dangerous did he glance back at her, and once or twice offered a hand up when the rock became steep or slick. In order to avoid having to climb over boulders that were virtually unscalable he led them out onto the spit of rock. Once away from the cliff the air became fresher and every now and then an ambitious wave reached higher and farther than its fellows and broke close to them, throwing showers of icy water against their faces. She was soon soaked to the skin, her breasts so cold that her nipples hurt, her fingers numb. But they had sight of their destination now—a beach that would have looked paradisiacal
if it had not been so littered: a long, wide curve of sand bounded on its landward side not by rocks but by a verdant valley scooped from the cliff. The storm had taken its toll here too: many of the trees had been practically stripped by the wind, and the fronds were cast everywhere. But the vegetation was too lush and too impenetrable for the storm to have done more than superficial damage; behind the stripped palms were banks of glistening green, speckled with bright blossom.

There was nobody on the beach, which stretched perhaps half a mile from the spit of rock before it was bounded by another spit, far larger than the one they'd clambered over. At this distance the second spit looked to be impassable: this beach was as far as anyone could go on foot.

Niolopua was already down on the sand, and pointing out to sea. Rachel followed his gaze. No more than a few hundred yards from the shore a whale was breaching, thrusting its almighty bulk skyward, then toppling like a vast black pillar, throwing fans of creamy water up around it. She watched for the creature to rise again, but it was apparently done with its game. She saw only a glistening back, a dorsal fin; then nothing. She looked back at the beach, suddenly heavy with sorrow. He wasn't here; it was obvious he wasn't here. If the wreckage Niolopua had seen was indeed that of
The Samarkand
then its captain was out there in the deep waters of the bay, where only the whales could find him.

She crouched down on the rock for a moment and told herself in no uncertain terms to stop feeling sorry for herself, and finish what she'd come here to do. It was no use avoiding the truth, however painful it was. If there was wreckage here she should see for herself. Then she'd know, wouldn't she? Once and for all, she'd know.

She took a deep breath, and stood up. Then she clambered down over the rocks and onto the sand.

M
itchell knew where the Kaua'i house was; Garrison and he had talked about it many times over the years. But talking about the place and being there were two very different things. He hadn't expected to feel so much the trespasser. As soon as he got out of the taxi his heart quickened and his palms became clammy. He waited outside the gate for a few moments until he had government of his feelings, and only then did he venture to the step, slide the wooden bolt aside, and push the gate open.

There was nothing here that could do him any harm, he reminded himself. Just a woman who needed to be saved from her own stupidity.

He called her name as he walked up the path to the front door. A couple of startled doves rose from their perches on the roof, but otherwise there was no sign of life. Once he got to the door he called again, but she either hadn't heard him or she was trying to make her escape. He opened the door and stepped into the house. It smelled of old bed linen and stale food; not a bright place, as he'd expected, but murky, its colors muted, all tending toward brown. So much for the feminine touch. Several generations of Geary wives had occupied this house on and off over a period of sixty or seventy years, but the place felt grimy and charmless.

That fact didn't make his heart beat any the less violently. This was the house of women; the secret place, where he'd been told as an adolescent no Geary male ever ventured. Of course he'd asked why, and his father had told him: one of the qualities which distinguished the Gearys from other families, he'd said, was a reverence for history. The past, he'd said, was not always easy to understand; but it had to be respected. Needless to say, this answer hadn't satisfied the young Mitchell. He hadn't wanted vague talk of reverence; he'd wanted a concrete reason for what seemed to him an absurdity. A house where only women were allowed to go?
Why?
Why did women deserve to have such a house (and on such an island)? They weren't the moneymakers, they weren't the power brokers. All they did, to judge by the daily rituals of his mother and her friends, was to spend what the men had earned. He simply didn't understand it.

And he still didn't. There had been times, of course, when he'd seen the strength of the Geary women at work, and it could be an impressive sight. But they were still parasites; their lush, easy lives impossible without the labors of their husbands. If he'd been hoping that entering and exploring this house would offer a clue to the mystery, he was disappointed. As he moved from room to room his anxiety diminished and finally disappeared. There were no mysteries here; nor answers to mysteries. It was just a house: a little shabby, a little stale; ripe to be gutted and refurnished; or simply demolished.

He went upstairs. The bedrooms were as unremarkable as the rooms below. Only once did he feel a return of the prickling unease he'd experienced outside, and that was when he walked into the largest of the bedrooms and saw the unmade bed. This was where his wife had slept last night, no doubt; which fact would not have moved him especially, had it not been for the way the bed was fashioned. There was something about the crude elaboration of the carvings, and the way age had dulled the brightness of the colors, that unsettled him. It was like some bizarre funeral casket. He couldn't imagine why anybody would ever want to sleep there, especially a neurotic bitch like Rachel. He lingered in the room only long enough to go through the contents of her suitcase and traveling bag. He found nothing of interest. With his rifling done, he left the room, closing the door behind him, and turning the key in the lock. It was only then, when he'd put the bedroom out of sight, that he dared bring to mind its other
function. It was of course the bridal suite; the place where Galilee had come to visit his women. He stood in the gloomy hallway outside the room physically sickened at that thought, but unable to keep himself from imagining the scene. A woman, a Geary woman—Rachel, Deborah, Loretta, Kitty; all of them in one congealed form—lying naked on that morbid bed, while the lover—his hands as dark as the body he was touching was pale—played and fingered what was not his to pleasure; not under any law in any land: only here, in this godless, gloomy house, where a rule of possession held sway that Mitchell had no hope of comprehending. All that mattered to him right now was to get his wife in his hands and
shake
her. That's what he pictured when he saw them together again: his hands clamped around her arms; shaking her until her teeth rattled. Maybe he could still frighten some sense into her: make her ask him to forgive her, beg him to forgive her, and take her back. And maybe he would. It wasn't
out of the question, if she was sincere, and made him feel appreciated. That was the heart of the problem: she'd never been thankful enough. After all, he'd changed her life out of all recognition; snatched her out of her trivial existence and given her a taste of the high life. She owed him everything;
everything.
And what had she given him in return? Ingratitude, disloyalty, infidelity.

But he knew how to be magnanimous. His father had always said that when a man was blessed by circumstance, as Mitchell had been blessed, it was particularly incumbent upon that man to be generous in his dealings. To avoid envy and pettiness, which were the twin demons of those who had been denied a grander perspective; to err on the side of the angels.

It wasn't easy. He fell short of those ideals every day of his life. But here was a clear circumstance in which he could apply the principles he'd been taught; in which he could resist the call of envy and vengeance and prove to be better than his baser self.

All she had to do was let him shake her and shake her, until she begged to take him back.

“T
his is part of the hull of
The Samarkand,”
Niolopua said, pointing down at a length of battered timber in the sand. ‘There's another piece over there. And there's more in the surf.”

Rachel walked down to the water's edge. There were indeed more lengths of painted wood tumbling back and forth in the waves. And further out, beyond the surf, one or two larger pieces bobbing about, including what might have been a portion of the mast.

“What makes you so sure it's
The Samarkand?”
she asked Niolopua, who'd come to join her at the water's edge.

He stared down at his feet, curling his toes into the stained sand. “It's just a feeling,” he said. “But I trust it.”

“Isn't it possible the wreckage was washed up here, and he came ashore somewhere else?”

“Of course,” Niolopua said. “He could have swum along the coast. He's certainly strong enough.”

“But you don't think he did.”

Niolopua shrugged. “Your instincts are as good as mine where he's concerned. Better probably. You've been closer to him than I have.”

She nodded, looking past him along the littered expanse of the shore. Perhaps her beloved was lying somewhere in the shallows, she thought, too exhausted to make it the last few yards without help. The thought made her stomach turn. He could be so close, so very close, and she not know it. Dying for want of a loving hand.

“I'm going to walk along the beach,” she said to Niolopua. “See if there's any sign.

“Would you like me to come with you?”

“No,” she shivered. “No thanks.”

Niolopua fished in the breast pocket of his shirt, and took out a hand-rolled cigarette and an old-fashioned steel lighter. “Do you want a hit of Mary Jane before you go?” he asked. “It's good stuff.”

She nodded and watched as Niolopua lit a joint up, pulled on it, then passed it over to her. She drew a deep, fragrant lungful then passed it back to Niolopua.

“Take your time with your walk,” he told her. “I'm not going anywhere.”

She slowly exhaled the smoke, already feeling a pleasant but mild light-headedness, and headed off along the beach. Just a few yards on she found more wreckage—a piece of rope with the tackle still attached; what looked to be the wheelhouse window frame; the façade of an instrument panel, its gauges still intact. She went down on her haunches to examine this last item more closely. Perhaps there was some inscription on it: some sign that would confirm Niolopua's suspicions. Or better still, prove him wrong.

She lifted up the panel; seawater ran out, and a blue-backed crab, secreted in the moist sand beneath it, scuttled away. There was nothing on either side of the panel; not even a maker's name on the face of the gauges. Frustrated, she tossed it back onto the sand, and stood up again. As she did so, the drug in her system played a strange, dislocating trick She suddenly became acutely aware of how her ears were each receiving radically different information. On her left side, the sea: the rhythmic draw and crash of the waves. On her right, audible only when the sea was momentarily hushed, the sounds of the green. A little breeze had come up since she and Niolopua had started their climb over the rocks, and it gently shook the canopy, moving leaf against leaf, blossom against blossom.

She glanced back toward Niolopua, who was sitting in the sand staring out at the water. This time, she didn't follow his gaze. She wasn't interested in what the sea had to show her. Instead she turned her eyes up the slope of the beach. A few yards from where she stood a small stream emerged from between the trees, carving a zigzag path across the sand on its way to the sea. She started to climb the beach to the place from which it appeared, studying the wall of vegetation as she did so. Another gust of wind moved the canopy, and stirred the colored blossoms so that they seemed to nod at her as she approached.