Christ the Lord: Out of Egypt

“Here? In this palace?” I asked. “I’m dreaming, of course.” I laughed at him. I heard my laughter in the dream. I looked out over the sea and I saw the clouds piled high in the sky, and on the far limit of the sea, I saw ships moving. It seemed I could see the oars dipping, and the men at the helm. How clear was everything under the full moon.

All was beauty around me.

“Yes, it’s a palace fit for an Emperor,” he said. “Why don’t you live in such a palace?”

“Why should I?” I asked.

“Well, certainly it’s better than the dirt and filth of Nazareth,” he said in his gracious tongue with his gracious smile.

“Are you certain of that?” I asked.

“I lived in both,” he said. His face went dark. He looked at me with contempt.

I looked at the ships again, moving so fast, so smoothly out under the moon, sailing at night when night was a dangerous time for sailing, but so beautiful.

“Yes, they’re coming out of Ostia,” he said, “those beautiful galley ships. Your Archelaus is eager to be home. And so are his brothers and his sister.”

“I know,” I answered.

“Who are you!” he demanded. He was impatient. After all, this dream would shortly come to an end. All dreams came to an end.

I looked at him. He was angry and he was trying to hide it. He couldn’t hide it. He made me think of my little brothers. But he was no child.

“And you’re no child either!” he said.

“Oh, I see now,” I said with the greatest satisfaction. “I didn’t before. When you’re with me like this, you don’t know what’s going to happen, do you? You don’t know what’s to come!” I laughed and I laughed. “That’s your doom that you don’t know how it will end.”

He became so angry that he couldn’t keep the smile on his face.

But as his smile broke up, he began to cry. He couldn’t hold it back. It was a grown man’s broken crying, which I’d almost never seen. “You know that I am what I am from love,” he said. “This that I am is from love.”

I felt sad for him. But I had to be careful. He had his hand to his face, and he was looking at me through his fingers. Crying, yes, but watching me, and it filled me with terrible misery to look at him. I didn’t want to look at him. I could not do anything for him.

“Who are you!” he asked again. He became so angry that he stopped crying and he reached out for me. “I demand that you tell me!”

I moved back, away from him.

“Don’t lay your hands on me,” I said. I was not angry or excited, but I wanted him to understand. “Never, never lay your hands on me.”

“Do you know what’s happening in Jerusalem?” he asked. He was so angry that his face was red with it, and his eyes getting bigger and bigger.

I didn’t answer him.

“Let me show you, angel child!” he said.

“Don’t put yourself to the trouble,” I said.

Before us, instead of the blue sea, I saw suddenly the great courtyard of the Temple. I didn’t want to see it. I didn’t want to think of the men fighting as they’d been when I was there. But this was far worse.

On top of the colo

The whole courtyard was girded with fire, yet some of the Jews threw down their armor and ran into the fire, roaring and hollering, and some Romans ran in where they could, and other Romans came out with arms loaded with treasure. Temple treasure, sacred treasure, treasure of the Lord. The screams of the suffering people were more than I could stand.

“Lord in Heaven, have mercy on them,” I cried. I was so afraid. I was shivering. I was shaking. All my fear came back to me and was worse than it had ever been. One fire after another filled my mind, as though each fire were ignited from the one before it until the blaze reached to the stars. Out of the depths, I cry unto thee, O Lord.

“Is that all you can do?” this strange creature asked me. He stood very close to me, handsome in his rich clothing, his blue eyes full of anger even though he smiled.

I put my hands to my face. I wouldn’t look. I heard his voice in my ear:

“I’m watching you, angel child!” he said. “I’m waiting to see what you mean to do. So go on: walk like a child, eat like a child, play like a child, work like a child. But I’m watching. And I may not know the future, no, but I know this: your mother’s a whore, your father’s a liar, and the floors of your house are dirt. Your cause is lost, I know it’s lost, it’s lost every day and every hour, and you know it is. You think your little miracles will help these foolish people? I tell you, chaos rules. And I am its Prince.”

I looked at him. I knew that if I wanted to, I could answer him. The words would come easily and they would tell me things I didn’t know now; they would draw this knowledge out of my mind, as surely as the sound would come out of my mouth. Everything would be there before me, all the answers, all the whole span of Time. But no, it wasn’t to happen. No, not this way or any other way. I said nothing. His misery hurt me. His darkening face hurt me. His fury hurt me.

I woke up without a sound. I lay in the dark room, covered in sweat and thirsting.

The lamp was the only light. It seemed everywhere there were moans. I didn’t know where I was, this room, this place—and my head ached. It hurt so badly I couldn’t bear it. My mother was near but with someone else.

Cleopas was praying in a whisper. I could hear a strange voice, a woman’s voice. “If this goes on like this, you don’t want her to come back…”

I closed my eyes. I dreamed. I saw the fields of wheat around Nazareth. I saw the flowering almond trees that we’d passed when we first came into the land. I saw the villages of white houses tumbling over the hills. Thin curling leaves flying in the gentle gusts of the wind. I dreamed of water. That creature wanted to come again, but I wouldn’t let him come. No, not the world of palaces and ships, no. “Stop,” I said. “I will not.”

My mother said, “You’re dreaming, I’m holding you. You’re safe.” Safe.

It was days and nights before I came to myself. I found that out afterwards.

And even then I slept most of the time. Only the wailing woke me, the wailing and the crying, and I knew then that someone had died.

When I opened my eyes, I saw my mother feeding Little Symeon who was under the covers, and propped against a blanket roll. Little Salome slept nearby, her face very damp. But she wasn’t really too sick anymore.

My mother looked at me and smiled. But her face was white and sad, and she’d been crying, and I knew it, and I knew that one of the people moaning and crying in the far room was Cleopas. I heard it, that broken grown man crying that I’d seen and heard in the dream.

“Tell me!” I whispered. The fear came, a grip on my throat.

“The children are better,” she said. “Don’t you remember? I told you all this last night.”

“No, I want to know who?”

She wouldn’t answer me.

“Is it Aunt Mary?” I asked. I turned to look. Aunt Mary had been lying right next to me and she was gone.

My mother closed her eyes and groaned. I turned towards her and put my hand on her knee, but I don’t think she felt it through her robe. She rocked back and forth.

When next I woke up, it was the funeral feast that was happening. It must have been. I could hear the music of flutes that cut the air like wooden knives.

Joseph was with me and he made me drink some soup. Little Salome was sitting straight up next to me, and she said with very wide eyes,