Galilee by Clive Barker Page B

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.
    â€œNobody 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.”
    â€œHe’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.
    â€œBut if you want Atva, wife,” the man went on, “then I will not stand between you and your desires.”
    â€œYou’d better not try,” the woman replied.
    â€œYou 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.”
    â€œWe all of us thank you,” the woman replied. “Especially Atva. We wish you a happy, fertile life.”
    â€œYou’re very welcome,” Zelim murmured.
    â€œNow,” said the husband, “If you’ll excuse us? We must baptize the child.”
III
    L ife 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.
    â€œPeople 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.”
    â€œWhat kind of stories?”
    â€œThat you and the demons were exchanging secret