Galilee. Part 70

Luman's a lot smarter than a first impression might suggest. He didn't just pack the book, he packed a sheaf of plain paper, some pens, even ink. He knew I'd want to record my departure from L'Enfant; that my farewell to the house would also mark my farewell to these pages.

So here I am, sitting on the roadside maybe three miles from where he and I said our goodbyes, committing these closing thoughts to paper. The day's been kind to me. There's been a gentle breeze blowing since midmorning, and the sun's been warm, but not hot. I came upon this road after a couple of hours of walking, and decided to follow it, though I have no idea where it's going to lead me. In a sense-though I'm a very long way from the Caspian Sea-I'm still following in Zelim's footsteps; traveling blind, but in hope. Of what? Perhaps of a little wisdom; a due to the question I'd wanted answered by Nicodemus: what am I for? It's probably too much to expect; the world grants an answer to that question rarely, I think, and when it does usually makes the recipients pay dearly for the information. The tree of that knowledge has its roots at Golgotha.

In lieu of that, I have no clear agenda. I've been living under a despotic regime for a long time now, with the heel of my own ambition on my neck. Now that it's almost lifted, living free may be satisfaction enough. I am hereafter only the man who told a prodigal's story; who chronicled the return of Galilee and his beloved to the place where they could begin. Forward of that moment is an empty page. And though I will be walking there, I intend to leave no trace of my pa.s.sing; at least not in words.

All of which is not to say I won't wonder, as I go, how the lives and afterlives of those I've written about here will proceed.

I can see Garrison Geary even now, home from burying his grandfather and his brother, sitting in what used to be Cadmus's sanctum. On his lap, Charles Holt's journal. On the wall in front of him, the great Bierstadt canvas. In his mind he has become the lone pioneer on the crag in the painting; but it is not the plains of the Midwest he imagines possessing. It is L'Enfant. He plans to take it by force. He even knows what he's going to do once he's become the Lord of that house, and it will change the course of history.In Was.h.i.+ngton, Loretta is alone; also meditating on what lies before her. Seeing her men put into the ground, side by side, made her wonder if she hadn't been hasty when she'd told Rachel that these mysteries were beyond them all. We're little people, she'd said. We don't have a prayer. But in the dusk, listening to the traffic, she wonders if that's the very thing she has: a prayer; and someone to deliver it to. It will take her a little time to make sense of things; but she's a clever woman, and now she has nothing to lose, which makes her formidable.

Meanwhile, Luman's b.a.s.t.a.r.ds pa.s.s the grimy days in some city I cannot name, the wisest of them expecting nothing; though they may yet be astonished.

And the shark deities move in the clear waters around the islands.

And the dream spirits of the Geary women sit laughing under the eaves of the house in Anahola; And certain powerful men, weary from their day of politicking, come reverentially into a temple close to Capitol Hill, and pay their sullen respects; And the G.o.ds go on, in spite of themselves; and the human road stretches out before us; and we walk, like wounded children, waiting for the strength to run.

end