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“No,” replied the old man, who felt all the strength flow out of him into the earth and perish. In his lifetime he had extracted many devils from the mouths of men. The possessed came from the ends of the earth and he cured them. Their devils, however, were small, and easy: devils of the bath, of anger, of sickness. But now… How could he wrestle with a devil like this?
Outside, the wind of Jehovah still beat on the door, trying to enter. There was no other sound. Not a jackal on the earth, nor a crow in the air. Every living thing cowered in fear, waiting for the Lord’s anger to pass.
Chapter Eleven
THE SON of Mary leaned against the wall and shut his eyes. His mouth was bitter, poisonously bitter. The rabbi, his head once more wedged between his knees, meditated on hell and devils and the heart of man… No, hell with its devils was not in the great pit below the earth; it was in the breasts of men, in the breast of the most virtuous, the most just. God was an abyss, man was an abyss-and the old rabbi did not dare open his heart to see what lay within.
They did not speak for some time. Deep silence… Even the two black dogs had fallen asleep: they had grown tired of lamenting the deceased. Suddenly there was a sweet, piercing hiss from the yard. The half-mad Jeroboam jumped up, the first to hear it. The wind of Jehovah was always accompanied by this sweet hissing in the yard, and the monk bounded with delight whenever the sound reached his ears. The sun was setting, but the entire yard was still bathed in light, and on the flagstones next to the dried-up well, the monk’s eyes perceived a large snake, black with yellow patterns, lifting its swelled neck, vibrating its tongue, and hissing. Never in his life had Jeroboam heard a flute more seductive than this snaky throat. Now and then in the summertime, when he too dreamed of a woman, she appeared to him like this, like a snake which slid over the mat where he slept, put its tongue in his ear, and hissed…
Tonight Jeroboam had once more flown out of his cell, and now, holding his breath, he approached the enflamed snake. It piped; he looked at it, and began to pipe also and to feel the snake’s warmth pass into his body. Then, little by little, other snakes emerged from the dried-up well or out of the sand, or from around the cacti: one with a blue hood, another green with two horns, others yellow, dappled, black… Quickly, like water, they slid forward and joined the first snake, the decoy; they strung themselves all together, rubbed one against the next, licked each other: a snaky cluster of grapes hung in the middle of the yard, and Jeroboam opened his mouth and drooled. This is sex, he reflected. Men and women couple like this, and that is why God banished us from Paradise… His humped, unkissed body swayed back and forth in time with the snakes.
The rabbi heard the enticing sound, raised his head, and listened. God’s fiery wind blows, he said to himself, and right in the middle of it, the snakes mate. The Lord puffs and wants to incinerate the world, and up come the snakes to make love! For a moment the old man’s mind succumbed to the enticement and wandered. But suddenly he shuddered. Everything is of God, he reflected; everything has two meanings, one manifest, one hidden. The common people comprehend only what is manifest. They say, “This is a snake,” and their minds go no further; but the mind which dwells in God sees what lies behind the visible, sees the hidden meaning. These snakes which crept out today in front of the doors of this cell and began to hiss at precisely this moment, just after the son of Mary’s confession, must assuredly have a deep, concealed meaning. But what is that meaning?
He rolled up into a ball on the ground, his temples throbbing. What was the meaning? Cold sweat flowed over his sun-baked face. Sometimes he glanced out of the corner of his eye at the pale youth next to him; sometimes, with eyes closed and mouth opened, he listened intently to the snakes outside. What was the meaning?
He had learned the language of the birds from the great exorcist Josaphat, his former superior, who was Abbot when he came to the monastery to become a monk. He could interpret the sayings of swallows, doves and eagles. Josaphat had also promised to teach him the language of the snakes, but he died and took the secret with him. These snakes tonight were doubtless bringing a message, but what was that message?
He rolled himself up again and squeezed his head between his hands: his mind was jingling. He writhed and sighed for a considerable time and felt white and black thunderbolts tear through his brain. What was the meaning? What was the message? Suddenly he uttered a cry. He got up from the ground, took the Abbot’s crosier and leaned on it.
“Jesus,” he said in a low voice, “how does your heart feel?”
But the youth did not hear. He was plunged in unspeakable exultation. Tonight, after so many years, tonight, the night he had decided to confess and speak out, he was able for the first time to look into the darkness of his heart and distinguish, one by one, the serpents which were hissing within him. He gave them names, and as he did so, it seemed to him that they issued from his bowels and slid away outside, relieving him.
“Jesus, how does your heart feel?” the old man asked again. “Is it relieved?” He leaned over and took him by the hand. “Come,” he said tenderly, and he put his finger to his lips.
He opened the door. He held Jesus by the hand, and they crossed the threshold. The audacious snakes, glued one to the next and holding on to the earth with nothing but their tails, had risen in the middle of the fiery swirl of sand and were dancing in a row, completely at the mercy of God’s wind; and from time to time they stiffened and ceased moving, exhausted.
The son of Mary recoiled at the sight of them, but the rabbi squeezed his hand, held out the crosier and touched the edge of the snaky cluster.
“Here they are,” he said softly, watching the youth and smiling. “They’ve fled.”
“Fled?” asked the youth, perplexed. “Fled from where?”
“You feel your heart unburdened, don’t you? They have fled from your heart.”
The son of Mary stared with protruding eyes first at the rabbi, who was smiling at him, then at the snakes, which, all in a clump, were now transferring themselves in a dance toward the dried-up well. He put his hand to his heart and felt it beating quickly, elatedly.
“Let’s go inside,” said the rabbi, taking him again by the hand. They entered and the rabbi closed the door.
“Glory be to God,” he exclaimed with emotion. He looked at the son of Mary and felt strangely troubled.
This is a miracle, he said to himself. The life of this boy who stands before me is nothing but miracles… At one moment he wanted to hold his hands over Jesus’ head and bless him, at the next to stoop and kiss his feet. But he restrained himself. Had not God deceived him time after time until now? How many times, as he heard the prophets who had come forth lately from mountainside or desert, had he said, “This one is the Messiah”? But God deceived him each time, and the rabbi’s heart, which was ready to blossom, always remained a flowerless stump. So, he restrained himself… I must test him first, he thought. Those were the serpents which were devouring him. They have fled and he has been cleansed. He is capable now of rising. He will speak to men-and then we shall see.
The door opened, and in came Jeroboam the guest master with the two visitors’ meager supper of barley bread, olives and milk. He turned to Jesus. “I laid your sleeping mat in another cell tonight so that you could have company.”
But the minds of the two visitors were far away, and they did not hear. The snakes could be heard again, from the bottom of the well. They were piping, piping and gasping for breath.