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“They’re getting married,” said the monk, giggling. “The wind of God blows, and they-a plague on them!-they don’t get scared; they get married!”
He looked at the old man and winked, but the rabbi had begun to dip his bread into the milk and to chew. He wanted to gain strength, to transform the bread, olives and milk into intelligence so that he could speak to the son of Mary. The stunted hunchback eyed first the one, then the other, got bored, and left.
The two sat cross-legged facing each other, and ate in silence. The cell had grown dim. The stools, the Abbot’s stall and the lectern, with the prophet Daniel still opened upon it, gleamed fuzzily in the darkness. The air of the cell still smelt of sweet incense. Outside, the wind grew calm.
“The wind has subsided,” the rabbi said at one point. “God has come and gone.”
The youth did not reply. They’ve left, they’ve left, he was thinking; the serpents have fled from within me. Perhaps that is just what God wanted, perhaps that is why he brought me here to the desert: to be cured. He blew, the serpents heard him, came out of my heart and fled. Glory be to God!
Having finished eating, the rabbi lifted his hands and gave thanks to God. Then he turned to his companion. “Jesus, where is your mind? I am the rabbi of Nazareth, do you hear me?”
“I hear you, Uncle Simeon,” said the youth, coming out of his great torpor with a start.
“The hour is here, my child. Are you ready?”
“Ready? Ready for what?” asked Jesus, shuddering.
“You know very well-why do you ask me? Ready to stand up and speak.”
“To whom?”
“To mankind.”
“To say what?”
“Don’t worry about that. You just open your mouth; God seeks nothing more from you. Do you love mankind?”
“I don’t know. I see men and feel sorry for them, nothing else.”
“That’s enough, my child, that’s enough. Rise up and speak to them. Your sorrows may then be multiplied, but theirs will be relieved. Perhaps that is why God sent you into the world. We shall see!”
“Perhaps that is why God sent me into the world?” the youth repeated. “How do you know, Father?” His soul left his body and hung on tenterhooks, awaiting the response.
“I don’t. No one told me; but still, it’s possible. I’ve seen signs. Once when you were a boy you took some clay and fashioned a bird. While you caressed it and talked to it, it seemed to me that this bird of clay grew wings and flew out of your grasp. It’s possible that this clay bird is the soul of man, Jesus, my child-the soul of man in your hands.”
The youth got up and carefully opened the door. Putting out his head, he listened. The snakes were completely silent now-at last. Pleased, he turned to the old rabbi. “Give me your blessing, Father, and do not say anything else to me. You’ve spoken quite enough; I ca
And after a pause: “I’m tired, Uncle Simeon. I’m going to bed. Sometimes God comes during the night and explains the events of the day… Sleep well, Uncle Simeon.”
The guest master was waiting for him outside the door.
“Let’s go,” he said. “I’ll show you where I put your bed. What’s your name, my fine lad?”
“Son of the Carpenter.”
“Mine’s Jeroboam. I’m also called Brother Crackbrain, and also The Hunchback. So what! I keep my nose to the grindstone and gnaw the dry crust which God gave me.”
“What dry crust?”
The hunchback laughed. “Don’t you understand, nitwit? My soul! And as soon as I get done-good night, pleasant dreams-along comes Charon and starts gnawing on me!”
He halted and opened a tiny squat door.
“Enter,” he said. “There-in the back corner, to the left-your mat!” Guffawing, he pushed him through the doorway. “Sleep well, my fine lad, and pleasant dreams. But never fear, you’ll dream about women-it’s in the monastery air.”
Splitting with laughter, he shut the door with a thunderous bang.
The son of Mary did not move. Darkness… At first he distinguished nothing, but little by little half-transparent whitewashed walls began ever so imperceptibly to appear; a jug glittered in a niche along the wall; and in the corner, riveted upon him, were two sparking eyes.
He groped his way slowly forward, his arms stretched before him. His foot stumbled on the unfolded mat, and he stopped. The two eyes shifted, following him.
“Good evening, friend,” the son of Mary greeted his companion, but no one replied.
Hunched up into a ball, his chin against his knees, his heavy, gasping breaths reverberating throughout the cell, Judas leaned against the wall and watched him. Come… come… come… he murmured within himself, the knife squeezed in his fist against his breast. Come… come… come… he murmured, watching the son of Mary approach. Come… come… come… he murmured, luring him.
His mind went back to the village where he was born, Kerioth, in faraway Idumea. He remembered that this was exactly how his uncle the exorcist had lured the jackals, rabbits and partridge he wanted to kill. He used to lie down on the ground, pin his burning eyes on the game and produce a hiss full of longing, entreaty and command: come… come… come… The animal would immediately grow dizzy and start to creep, head bowed and out of breath, toward the hissing mouth.
Suddenly Judas began to hiss-softly at first and with much tenderness, but all at once the sound grew stronger, became fierce and menacing, and the son of Mary, who had lain down to sleep, jumped up in terror. Who was this next to him? Who was hissing? He felt the odor of an incensed beast in the air, and understood.
“Judas, my brother, is that you?” he asked quietly.
“Crucifier!” growled the other, angrily stamping his heel on the ground.
“Judas, my brother,” the youth repeated, “the crucifier suffers more than the crucified.”
The redbeard lashed out and twirled his whole body around so that it faced the son of Mary.
“I swore to my brothers the Zealots and to the mother of the crucified that I would kill you. Welcome, cross-maker. I hissed, and you came.”
He jumped to his feet, bolted the door and then returned to the corner and rolled himself up again into a ball, with his face turned toward Jesus.
“Did you hear what I said? Don’t start your blubbering. Get ready!”
“I am ready.”
“No shouting now! Quick! I want to get away while it’s still dark.”
“I’m delighted to see you, Judas, my brother. I’m ready. It wasn’t you who hissed; it was God-and I came. His abounding grace arranged everything perfectly. You came just at the right moment, Judas, my brother. Tonight my heart was unburdened, purified: I can present myself now before God. I have grown tired of wrestling with him, grown tired of living. I offer you my neck, Judas-I am ready.”
The blacksmith groaned and knit his brows. He did not like, did not like at all-indeed, it disgusted him to touch a neck which was offered undefended, like a lamb’s. What he wanted was resistance, body-to-body grappling, and the kill to come at the very end as was appropriate for real men, after the blood had become heated: a just reward for the struggle.
The son of Mary waited, his neck stretched forward. But the blacksmith thrust out his huge hand and pushed him away.
“Why don’t you resist?” he growled. “What kind of a man are you? Get up and fight!”
“But I don’t want to, Judas, my brother. Why should I resist? What you want, I want; and surely God wants the same-that is why he put all the pieces together so perfectly. Don’t you see: I departed for this monastery, you departed at the same moment; I arrived and right away my heart was cleansed: I prepared myself to be killed; you took your knife, huddled in this corner and prepared yourself to kill; the door opened, I entered… What further signs could you possibly want, Judas, my brother?”
But the blacksmith did not speak. He chewed his mustache in a frenzy; his boiling blood circulated by fits and starts, rose to his head and fired his brain a bright red, rushed down again leaving it pale, then remounted.