The trees and shrubs had swelled and thickened since her last visit, and had largely gone untrimmed. The vines had grown up over the eaves and were creeping across the roof; large rotted blossoms littered the front veranda, and the geckos that scurried there seemed less alarmed by her presence than previously, as though they had assumed possession of the place, and were not about to be intimidated by her trespass.

The front door was locked, which didn't surprise her. She walked around the back, remembering that the lock on the sliding door had been faulty, and hoping (not unreasonably given the general neglect) that it had not been mended.

She was right. The door slid open, and she stepped into the house. It smelled musty, though not unpleasantly so. And it was nicely cool after the oppressive heat of the air outside. She closed the door behind her, and went straight to the kitchen, where she filled a glass with cold water, and drank. Glass in hand she made a quick tour of the rooms to reacquaint herself with the place. She hadn't anticipated how much pleasure she'd take in simply being back here; that pleasure sharpened by the illicitness of her presence.

The big bed had been stripped after her departure and not remade. She went to the linen closet, found some fresh sheets and pillowcases and made it up again. She was sorely tempted just to lie down and sleep, but she resisted. Instead she had a shower, made herself some sweet, hot tea and went outside to smoke a cigarette and watch the last of the day's light. She had no sooner brushed the leaves off the antiquated furniture and sat down than the gloomy heavens unleashed a torrent. Geckos zigzagged for cover, a panicked hen was blown across the lawn like a feathered balloon. For some reason, the rain's percussion made her want to laugh; so laugh she did. Sat there on the veranda laughing like some crazy woman who'd lost her mind waiting for her lover, laughing, laughing while the rain beat down and obscured from sight the ocean that had failed to give him up.

Galilee had not expected to ever wake again-at least not into this world-but wake he did. His eyes, which were encrusted, opened painfully, and he raised his head to look at the water.

Somebody had called his name. It wasn't the first time he'd heard somebody speak to him in his solitude, of course; there'd been plenty of talkative delusions. But this was something different; this was a voice that made his heart shake itself like a wet animal, and roused him with its motion. He looked up. The sky was the color of heated iron.

Sit up, child.

Child? Who called him child? Only one woman in all the world.

Sit up and attend to me.

He opened his mouth to speak. The sound that emerged was pitiful. But she understood.

Yes you can, she told him.

Again, he complained. He was too weak, too close to death.

I'm just as tired as you are, child, his mother said, and just as ready to die. Believe me. Perfectly ready. But if I take the trouble to come and search for you, the least you can do is sit up and look at me.

There was no doubting the authenticity of this voice. Somehow, she was here. The woman who'd warmed him in the oven of her womb; who'd fed him off her body, and shaped his soul; the woman who'd raged against him for his folly, and told him-in what was surely the denning moment of his youth-that he was flawed beyond fixing; a thing that would only ever bring harm and hurt-that woman had found him, and he had no place to hide, except to throw himself into the sea. And who was to say she wouldn't follow him there, elemental that she was? She had no fear of death, whatever she might claim about her readiness.

I don't come here on my own account, she went on.

"Why are you here then?"

Because I met your woman. Your Rachel.

Now, finally, he raised his head. His mother, or rather her projection, stood at the stern of The Samarkand. Despite all her demands that he look at her, now that he had done so he found her own gaze averted. She was looking at the setting sun; at that molten sky. A day had passed, he vaguely thought, since he'd counted off the last moments of his life against the decaying light. He and the boat had survived another twenty-four hours.

"Where did you see her? She didn't come to-"

L'Enfant? No, no. I saw her in New York.

"You went to New York. Why?"

To see Old Man Geary. He was dying, and I promised myself I'd be there when his last moments were upon him.

"You went to kill him?"

Cesaria shook her head. No. I simply went to bear witness to the passing of an enemy. Of course once I got there it was difficult not to cause a little trouble.

"What did you do?"

Cesaria shook her head. Nothing of consequence.

"But he's dead?"

Yes, he's dead. She looked up, directly above her head. The first stars were appearing. But I didn't come here to talk about him. I came for Rachel's sake.

Galilee laughed; or did his best, given how dry his throat was.

What's so funny? Cesaria demanded.

Galilee reached for his brandy bottle, which had rolled into the gunnel, and drank from it. "The thought of you doing anything for anybody's sake but your own," he replied.

Cesaria ignored the barb. This is shameful behavior, she said. Turning your back on a woman who feels something for you, the way Rachel does.

"Since when have you given a damn what a human being felt?"

Maybe I'm getting sentimental in my old age. You've found an extraordinary woman. And what do you do? You try to kill yourself. I despair of you. Her voice dropped as she spoke these last words, and the boards of The Samarkand trembled at their timbre. I truly despair of you.

"So despair," Galilee replied. "I don't give a shit. Leave me alone and let me die." He waved her away as he spoke, his head sinking down so that his face was pressed to the boards of the deck. He was no longer looking at her, but he knew of course that she hadn't departed. He felt the emanations of her power coming against him, subtle and rhythmical. Though she was just a vision here, she'd carried with her a measure of her physical authority.

"What are you waiting for?" he said to her, without raising his head.

I don't exactly know, she replied. I suppose I keep hoping you 'II remember who you are.

"I know who I am…" he growled.

THEN RAISE YOUR HEAD. The boat shook from bow to stern when she uttered these words; fish in the deeps below convulsed. But Galilee was unimpressed; at least, he didn't obey the instruction. He stayed put, face down.

You 're a wretch, she told him.

"No doubt," he murmured.

A selfish, willful-

"No doubt," he said again. "I'm the worst piece of shit that ever floated on the ocean. So now will you please leave me the fuck alone?'

The boat shook again when he spoke, though not as violently. There were a few moments of silence between them. Finally he glanced sideways at her. "You've got plenty of other children," Galilee said. "Why don't you torment them?"

They don't mean what you mean to me, Cesaria said. You know that. Maddox is a half-breed, Luman's crazy, and the women… She shook her head. Well, they're not what I had in mind when I raised them.

Galilee lifted his head a little. "Poor mother. What a disappointment we are. You wanted perfection and look what you got." He raised himself up now, into a kneeling position. "Of course none of it's your fault is it? You're never to blame for anything."

I'll were guiltless I wouldn't be here, she said. I made my mistakes, especially with you. You were the first, so I spoiled you. I indulged you. I loved you too much.