I asked him why he thought it had done that. (I didn't argue with his basic assumption. I think he's right: all the Barbarossas are a little mad.) He said he thought it was because we were just minor gods.
"We're not that much better than them out there, when you come to think of it," he said. "Sure, we live longer. And we can do a few tricks. But it's not the deep stuff. We can't make stars. Or unmake 'em."
"Not even Nicodemus?" I said.
"Nah. Not even Nicodemus. And he was one of the First Created. Like her." He pointed up to Cesaria's chambers.
"'Two souls as old as heaven…"'
"Who said that?"
"I did," I replied. "It's from my book."
"Nice," he said.
"Thanks."
He fell silent for a few moments. I assumed he was mulling over the prettiness of my phrasing, but no, his grasshopper mind had already jumped to something else; or rather back, to our problematical godhood.
"I think we're too farsighted for our own good," he said. "We can't seem to live in the moment. We're always looking off beyond the edge of things. But we're not powerful enough to be able to see anything there." He growled like an ill-tempered dog. "It's so fucking frustrating. Not to be one thing or the other."
"Meaning?"
"If we were real gods… I mean the way gods are supposed to be, we wouldn't be pissing around here. We'd be off-out there, where there's still things to do."
"You don't mean the world."
"No, I don't mean the world. Fuck the world. I mean out beyond anything anybody on this planet ever saw or dreamt of seeing."
I thought of Galilee while he was talking. Had the same hunger as Luman was describing-unarticulated, perhaps, but burning just as brightly-driven Galilee out across the ocean on his little boat, daring all he knew how to dare, but never feeling as though he was far enough from land; or indeed from home?
These ruminations had put Luman into a melancholy mood, and he told me he didn't want to talk any more, and left. But he was back at dawn, or a little thereafter, for his third visit. I don't think he'd slept. He'd been walking around since he'd departed my study, thinking.
"I jotted a few more notes down," he said, "for the chapter on Christ."
"Christ's in this book of yours?" I said.
"Has to be. Has to be," Luman said. "Big family connection."
"We're not in the same family as Jesus, Luman," I said. Then, doubting my own words: "Are we?"
"Nah. But he was a crazy man, just like us. He just cared more than we do."
"About what?"
"Them," he said; "Humanity. The fucking flock. Truth is, we were never shepherds. We were hunters. At least, she was. I guess Nicodemus had a taste for domesticity. Raising .horses. He was a rancher at heart." I smiled at this piece of insight. It was true. Our Father, the fence-builder.
"Maybe we should have cared a little more," Luman went on. "Tried to love them, even though they never loved us."
"Nicodemus loved them," I pointed out. "Some of the women at least."
"I tried that," Luman said. "But they die on you, just as you're getting used to having them around."
"Do you have children out there?" I asked him.
"Oh sure, I've got bastards."
It had never occurred to me until this moment that our family tree might have undiscovered branches. I'd always assumed that I knew the extent of the Barbarossa clan. Apparently, I didn't.
"Do you know where they are?" I asked him.
"No."
"But you could find them?"
"I suppose so…"
"If they're like me, they're still alive. Growing old slowly, but-"
"Oh yeah, they're still alive."
"And you're not curious about them?"
"Of course I'm curious," he said, a little sharply. "But I can barely stay sane sitting out there in the Smoke House. If I went out looking for my kids, turning over the memories of the women I bedded, I'd lose what little fucking sanity I still possess." He shook his head violently, as though to get the temptation out from between his ears.
"Maybe… if I ever go out there…" I began. He stopped shaking his head, and looked up at me. His eyes were sparkling suddenly: tears in them, but also, I think, some little flame of hope. "Maybe I could look for them for you…" I went on.
"Look for my children?"
"Yes."
"You'd do that?"
"Yes. Of course. I'd… be honored."
The tears welled in his eyes now. "Oh brother," he said. "Imagine that. My children." His voice had dropped to a hoarse whisper. "My children." He caught hold of my hand; his palm was prickly against my skin, his agitation oozirig from his pores. "When would you do this?" he said.
"Oh… well… I couldn't go until I'd finished the book."
"My book or yours?"
"Mine. Yours would have to wait."
"No problem. No problem. I could live with that. If I knew you were going to bring me…" He couldn't finish the thought; it was too overwhelming for him. He let go of me and put his hand over his eyes. The tears coursed down his cheeks, and he sobbed so loudly I swear everyone in the house must have heard him. At last, he recovered himself enough to say: "We'll talk about this again some other time."
"Whenever you like," I told him.
"I knew we'd become friends again for a reason," he said to me. "You're quite a man, Maddox. And I choose my words carefully. Quite a man."
With that, he went out onto the veranda, stopping only to take another cigar from my humidor. Once outside, however, he turned back. "I don't know what this information is worth," he said, "but now that I trust you as I do, I think I ought to tell you…"
"What?"
He began feverishly scratching his beard, suddenly discomfited. "You're going to think I'm really crazy now," he said.
"Tell me."
"Well… I have a theory. About Nicodemus."
"Yes?"
"I don't believe his death was an accident. I think he orchestrated the whole thing."
"Why would he do that?"
"So that he could slip away from her. From his responsibilities. I know this may be hard to hear, brother-but I think the company of your wife gave him a hankerin' for the old days. He wanted human pussy. So he had to get away."
"But you buried him, Luman. And I saw him trampled, right there in front of me. I was lying on the ground, under the same hooves."
"A corpse ain't evidence of anything," Luman replied.
"You know that. There are ways to get out, if you know 'em. And if anyone knew those ways-"
"-it was him."
"Tricky sonofabitch, that father of ours. Tricky and oversexed." He stopped scratching his beard and made me an apologetic little shrug. "I'm sorry if it hurts to have me bring it up, but-"
"No. It's all right."
"We have to start being honest around here, it seems to me. Stop pretending he was a saint."
"I don't. Believe me. He took my wife."
"There, you see," Luman said. "Lying to yourself. He didn't take Chiyojo. You gave her to him, Maddox." He saw the fierce look in my eyes, and faltered for a moment. But then decided to stay true to his own advice, and tell the truth, as he saw it, however unpalatable. "You could have taken her away, the moment you saw what was happening between them. You could have packed up in the middle of the night, and let him cool down. But you stayed. You saw he had his eyes on her, and you stayed, knowing she wouldn't be able to say no to him. You gave her to him, Maddox, 'cause you wanted him to love you." He stared at his feet. "I don't blame you for it. I probably would have done the same thing in your shoes. But don't be thinkin' you can stand back from any of this and pretend you're just observin' it all. You're not. You're just as deep in this shit as the rest of us."