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“Why do you build crosses?” he thundered finally.
The young man lowered his head. That was his secret-how could he reveal it? How could the blacksmith give credence to the dreams which God sent him, or to the voices he heard when he was all alone, or the talons which nailed themselves into the top of his head and wanted to lift him to heaven? And he resisted and did not want to go-how could Judas understand that? He clutched sin, desperately, as a means of keeping himself on earth.
“I ca
The blacksmith shifted his position so that he could better distinguish the youth’s face in the darkness. He looked at it avidly, then slowly drew back and leaned once again against the wall. What kind of a person is this? he asked himself. I can’t understand. I wonder if it’s the devil who’s guiding him-or God? In either case, damn him! he leads him with a sure hand. He doesn’t resist, and that is the greatest resistance. I can’t slaughter lambs; men, yes, but not lambs.
“You’re a coward, you miserable wretch!” he burst out. “Ooo-why don’t you go to hell! You’re slapped on one cheek and you, what do you do, you right away turn the other. You see a knife, and right away you stick out your neck. A man can’t touch you without feeling disgusted.”
“God can,” the son of Mary murmured tranquilly.
The blacksmith twisted the knife in his fist, unable to make up his mind. For an instant he imagined he saw a halo of light trembling in the darkness over the youth’s bowed head. Terror came over him, and the joints of his hands went slack.
“I may be thickheaded,” he said to the son of Mary, “but speak-I’ll understand. Who are you? What do you want? Where do you come from? What are these tales that surround you on every side: a flowering staff, a lightning flash, the fainting spells which seize you while you walk, the voices which you’re said to hear in the darkness? Tell me, what is your secret?”
“Pity, Judas, my brother.”
“For whom? Whom do you pity? Is it yourself, your own wretchedness and poverty? Or perhaps you feel sorry for Israel? Well, speak! Is it for Israel? That’s what I want you to say, do you hear? That and nothing else. Are you being devoured by Israel ’s suffering?”
“By man’s, Judas, my brother.”
“Forget about ‘man.’ The Greeks who slaughtered us for so many years, curse them!-they’re men. The Romans are men, and they’re still slaughtering us and soiling the Temple and our God. Why care about them? It’s Israel you should keep your sights on, and if you feel pity, it should be pity for Israel. All the others can go to the devil!”
“But I feel pity for the jackals, Judas, my brother, and for the sparrows, and the grass.”
“Ha! Ha!” jeered the redbeard. “And for the ants?”
“Yes, for the ants too. Everything is God’s. When I bend over the ant, inside his black, shiny eye I see the face of God.”
“And if you bend over my face, son of the Carpenter?”
“There too, very deep down, I see the face of God.”
“And you don’t fear death?”
“Why should I, Judas, my brother? Death is not a door which closes; it is a door which opens. It opens, and you enter.”
“Enter where?”
“The bosom of God.”
Judas sighed with vexation. This fellow just can’t be caught, he reflected; he can’t be caught, because he has no fear of death… Propping his chin on his palm, he looked at Jesus and strained to come to a decision.
“If I don’t kill you,” he said finally, “what do you plan to do?”
“I don’t know. Whatever God decides… I should like to get up and speak to men.”
“To tell them what?”
“How do you expect me to know, Judas, my brother? I’ll open my mouth, and God will do the talking.”
The halo of light around the youth’s head grew brighter; his sad, wasted face flashed like lightning and his large, jet-black eyes seduced Judas with their unutterable sweetness. The redbeard felt troubled and lowered his eyes. I wouldn’t kill him, he thought, if I were sure he would go out to speak and rouse the hearts of the Israelites, rouse them to attack the Romans.
“What are you waiting for, Judas, my brother?” asked the youth. “Or perhaps God did not send you to kill me; perhaps he wills something else, something unknown even to you, and you look at me and struggle to divine what it is. I am ready to be killed, and I am also ready to live. Decide.”
“Don’t be in a rush,” the other answered dejectedly. “The night is long; we have plenty of time.”
But after a pause, he shouted frantically, “A fellow can’t even talk to you without getting himself in hot water. I ask you one thing and you answer another: I can’t pin you down. My heart and mind were more certain before I saw you and listened to you than they are now. Leave me alone. Turn your head the other way and go to sleep. I want to be alone so that I can digest all this and see what I’m going to do.”
This said, he turned toward the wall, grumbling.
The son of Mary lay down on his mat and tranquilly crossed his hands.
Whatever God wants, that is what will happen, he reflected, and he closed his eyes with confidence.
An owl emerged from its hole in the rock facing them, saw that God’s whirlwind had passed, flew to and fro silently and then began to hoot tenderly, calling its mate. God has left, it called; we’ve escaped once more, dearest-come! High above, the skylight of the cell had filled with stars. The son of Mary opened his eyes and was happy to see them. They moved slowly, disappeared; others arose. The hours went by.
Judas twisted and turned, still cross-legged on his mat. Now and then he got up, gasping and murmuring, and went as far as the door, only to return again. The son of Mary watched him with half-closed eyes and waited. Whatever God wants, that is what will happen, he thought, and he waited. The hours passed by.
A camel in the stable adjacent to them neighed with fear; she must have seen a wolf or a lion in her sleep. Immense new stars mounted ferociously from the east, ordered like an army.
Suddenly a cock crowed in the still-deep darkness. Judas jumped up. With one stride he was at the door. He opened it violently, closed it behind him. His bare feet could be heard stamping heavily over the flagstones.
And then, the son of Mary turned and saw his faithful fellow voyager. She was in the corner, erect and vigilant in the darkness.
“Forgive me, my sister,” he said to her. “The hour has not yet come.”
Chapter Twelve
THERE WAS a warm, damp wind today which lifted large waves on the lake of Ge
Old Zebedee’s spacious village house was wide open and buzzing. The wine press, on the left side of the yard, was being loaded with the contents of brimful hampers which the young men transported from the vineyards. Four giants, Philip, Jacob, Peter, and Nathanael, the village cobbler, a naïve camel of a man, were washing their hairy shins and preparing to enter the press to tread the grapes. Every pauper in Capernaum was sure to have his tiny vineyard for the year’s supply of wine, and each year he transported his crop to this press, trod the grapes and took back his share of the must. And old stuff-pocket Zebedee filled his own jars and barrels for the year with the commission he took for use of the press. He sat, therefore, on a raised platform with a long stick and a penknife in his hands and by means of notches marked the number of each person’s hampers. But the owners also kept a record in their minds: they did not want to be cheated the day after next at the division of the must. Old Zebedee was predacious-nobody trusted him; everyone had to have eyes in the back of his head.