[The Island of the Centipede – Interlude]
He is like God.
That’s the funny thing. The more he hunts God down the more opportunities Max has to understand just how much like God he is.
Like, with Sid.
Max just had a simple little wish. He just wanted Sid never ever to torture somebody to death. So he stuck his nose in. And he found himself blunted, a thousand times frustrated, by Sid’s free will.
The siggort would just look at him. Like it was Max who didn’t get it.
Like the ichneumon who looked at the angel and said, “But don’t you understand that torment is better than hope?”
Like people explaining unto Heaven why what they want must certainly be right.
Like a child, young and certain of some perverse idea, defying a parent.
Not that Max was ever like a parent to Sid. Not to that ancient creature.
No. Max, with Sid, had always been like God. He’d loved him. He’d judged him. He’d tried to save him. He’d even sent Sid more or less to Hell, and damn bad he’d felt for doing it, too.
Out of love.
Somewhere that had been wrong. He got that. He lived with it every day. Somehow it had been wrong. Somehow he hadn’t had the right.
He didn’t know what he had been supposed to do, but from the ashes of that occasion he’d figured out that taking away Sid’s choices wasn’t it.
And maybe that made sense.
Sid hadn’t ever done it, that vivisection thing. Wasn’t doing it. Wasn’t killing people. Didn’t even know why he might.
So all Max had was the guess, the belief, the assumption, that someday Sid would think he had to—
And that he’d be wrong.
It made sense. Sid thought it would happen, and that it would be right, and the difference between these statements is that the one is a lot more probable than the other.
But it still left Max with nothing more than not trusting Sid.
Than not believing Sid.
Because he loves him. Because he loves him and he can’t let Sid go wrong. He can’t let Sid go all vivisecting people on public streets while nobody notices wrong.
And he can see why that’s maybe not the cleanest motivation in the world, why the intensity of his fear doesn’t make it right, but at the end he’s still got this, that there’s something wrong with a guy so sure he’s going to kill someone, and that it’s a Hell of a thing that Max just has to watch.
So here’s the weird thing.
The goodblow—God, Good, virtue, whatever it was—had looked at him. And loved him. Its love was powerful enough to kill. Its love was terrible enough to drive Red Mary right back to the point of murder,
Not that she’d been so very far away,
And to make him feel—
Like he’s safer, safer, being drowned, being dragged down, down, down, than he had been before that gaze.
But it had been okay with his being wrong.
He doesn’t get that.
He isn’t okay with his being wrong. His soul is full of rough and knobbly edges. He lives in them. They are the grain in the wood of his existence. But he wants them smooth.
The goodblow hadn’t . . .
He doesn’t understand, as he’s preparing himself to die, why such a rough unfinished creature as is Max could know the love of Heaven.
Why it hadn’t fixed him.
He’d fumbled it with Sid, but that was the way in which he wasn’t God. He’d fumbled it, and he’d owned his guilt, because Max just wasn’t good enough to do any better.
Why hadn’t it fixed him?
And that’s the only bad thing about dying here and now, of letting go of the pain and passing on, now that he knows how intensely valued he is. That he’s seen the brightest love in all the world and still can’t figure how to save Sid.
That it’s useless to him.
That the goodblow doesn’t understand anything at all about how love is supposed to work, that it didn’t fix him, and that that meant it hadn’t shown him how somebody could fix Sid.
Crack the earth.
Stir the sea.
From the west there comes an outpouring of good to make all things right.
Max sets out in his coracle to bring this virtue to an end.
He’s owned his crime but he can’t make it right.
His crime is a poison.
The Island of the Centipede
It is June 3, 2004.
The chaos is bluer than the bluest sea and wracked with love. It is full of air like a gel and dazzling with patterns of shifting light.
Oh, Max thinks.
Red Mary is beginning to sing. Her song is a paean to death. Her song transforms into iconic music the sea that devours, the sea that consumes, the sea that returns all things to the cauldron of life.
Oh, Max thinks.
His thoughts flutter over and over again against the wall of things not being exactly as he’d expected, and one swoops back to him with the smallest of small answers.
Love is not a duty.
Somewhere a part of him insists, it is.
But he lets go of that idea as the sea devours him. He lets the sea take that miscomprehension first—that worst and meanest part of Max.
A man’s got a right to choose in which order he gets eaten.
Love is not a duty.
He’s not chained to Sid’s outcomes.
Love is a transforming power.
And he wants—
So much, so much! he wants—
To use that, to use his last thought to make his eyes into flamethrowers and burn the world with his love for Sid, to take a trick from the goodblow and ignite the chaos with the power of that love so that whenever Sid would walk by, the sea would say,
“Max loved you, you know.”
Or just to love so fiercely that somehow Sid would feel it from afar.
But if people could do that it would happen more often, and not just in the fairy tales, because people love very hard indeed;
And Max is small and frail so instead he thinks, I’ll come back.
His mind is a wasteland made by the aftermath of Heaven and the siren’s song. He’s sailed to the end of the world for love of Sid and at the end, he can’t pull it to the forefront of his mind.
He thinks about survival instead.
Like Meredith did, he thinks.
I’ll come back.
Of course, if Sid had been there to ask, he’d have preferred that last thought anyway.
Next Tuesday will be an Audience post. The Island of the Centipede will continue on Thursday.