The Gospel of the Twin (12 page)

“Giving up on this life already?” Judas said from the doorway. I instantly felt a tinge of guilt. Judas often had that effect upon me. “I've been looking for your brother,” he said. “Have you seen him?”

I realized that I had not seen Jesus since sundown, several hours earlier. Judas and I walked out to the sheds to wander among the clumps of people, some of whom were already asleep, and found Simon and Andrew, but they had not seen Jesus either. We walked down the road a few hundred cubits, calling his name, and then back the other way. James and John heard us and joined the search.

Since our childhood, Jesus had demonstrated a need for solitude, so his going off on his own would not ordinarily have been cause for alarm. But the stories of the great beasts of India had made me a bit uneasy, so I felt a strong sense of urgency. I had visions of huge, vicious fish walking out of the lake to drag him to an underwater lair and gutting him, and tremendous eagles swooping down to whisk off his remains to a craggy mountaintop in Persia to feed him to their blind and shrieking hatchlings.

I'm not one to let my imagination get the best of me, and I'm generally skeptical of fanciful tales from exotic lands. But I suppose I was on edge because of the jarring events of the day—the hostility, the cursing, the fighting. Also, my finger where the old woman had bitten off the nail burned as if molten lead had dropped on it. If a fearsome monster was somewhere nearby, I had already met it. I did not mention these crazed notions to the others, but they were clearly agitated as well.

We crossed the field behind the cluster of sheds and stopped by a stand of trees that, in the distance, looked like a boat with slender sails. I heard a murmur that I took to be the wind, perhaps the odd effect of air currents sweeping through the open field and sifting through the nestled trees. When it became more distinct and localized above me, I looked up to see a knotted form on a limb about seven or eight cubits from the ground.

With beastly visions still racing about in my head, I gasped and leapt, startling the others. Simon stumbled over a tree root and fell, taking James and John down with him. They scurried on the ground, then stopped suddenly, like birds in a flock that seem to fly of one mind. We held our breaths to listen, and the murmur became human.

Simon stood, took a few slow steps toward the form, and asked, “Master, is that you in the tree?”

The murmuring continued. The rest of us crept to Simon's side. We strained our eyes until we could make out a head and arms, with legs folded under in a squat on a branch. It was indeed Jesus, but he was not exactly speaking.

“What's he doing?” asked Andrew.

“I think he's praying,” John whispered.

“He seems to be in a trance,” said James.

“If he's in a trance,” Simon said, “he may fall.” He grabbed a low limb and began to pull himself up.

“No,” said Andrew. “You'll disturb him and he'll surely fall.”

James and John agreed, but Simon continued to climb. Just as he placed his hand on the limb upon which Jesus sat, Jesus spoke: “Simon.”

Simon fell and hit the ground with a thud. We bent over him to see if he was conscious. His eyes were wide, and a low groan seeped from his lips.

“I think he hit his head,” said James.

Judas laughed. “In that case, he'll be fine. His head's like a stone.”

“That is true,” said Jesus after coming down from his perch. Somehow, without having made a sound, he was standing alongside us. “The wind was knocked out of him. Stretch his arms above his head.”

This was a remedy from our childhood. Perhaps the belief was that this movement expanded the chest and pulled in air, but it always seemed to me that if you just waited out those few agonizing moments, your chest would recover on its own, and your breath would return. The same is probably true of many so-called medicines and cures. How many of our maladies would, in time, simply work themselves out, rendering superfluous all of our elixirs and superstitions, and even prayers?

Simon's great chest heaved, and the air rushed in. He took several deep breaths and scrambled to his feet, undoubtedly embarrassed by his ungainly descent. Jesus placed one hand upon Simon's big, square head and, with the other, brushed some debris from Simon's shoulder.

“Are you all right, Simon?”

“Yes, Master. I am fine.”

“Do not be embarrassed, Simon. You were concerned for me, and you acted while the others stood idly by. Now smile.” Jesus rubbed his hand briskly over Simon's scalp, then thumped it. “Your head is indeed like a rock, but perhaps a better description would be that your will is like stone.”

“Then let's call him ‘Rocky,'” Judas said. The others laughed, but I knew that much more was contained in that remark. Though Judas had a certain admiration for Simon, and they were usually in agreement on our political situation and the need for action, Judas often lost patience with Simon, whom he considered a reluctant comrade at best.

“I like that suggestion,” said Jesus. I suspect he took Judas's “suggestion” as a subtle way of showing Judas that he knew about Judas' view of Simon. “But, Peter, I like the Greek version better. It gives it a certain sophistication befitting our hardy friend.”

A cloud slid by and moonlight washed over Simon's—Peter's—broad, grinning face.

When I questioned Jesus later that night about why he was in the tree and what he was mumbling, he said that the night had been beautiful and that I should spend more time in meditation. Actually, he said that the night “pulses in” and that we must “attune” our internal rhythms—I think he said “currents”—to the “flow of the earth.” I was sleepy and could not quite follow him, and did not or could not press him to explain, but when I awoke the next morning at the entrance of one of the sheds, Jesus was sitting next to me exactly as he was hours before, as if he had not slept.

Verse Three

That morning after breakfast, Jesus walked into the woods alone, and I followed him. He stopped to sit beneath a fig tree. After a minute or two, he seemed to fall into a trance. I didn't think he'd noticed me, so I sat beside him, watching him and trying to imitate him. Jesus appeared to be asleep, and would at times mumble nonsense like restless sleepers often do: “at the trees,” “beyond the water houses,” “women of eyes,” “jumps with bread and walking hills.” At other times, his eyes would open and strain, as if trying to follow a distant figure. My attempt to “attune” to my currents and the Earth's flow amounted simply to a nap.

The same happened when I took lessons in India. I could sit for hours and, as I had been taught, focus upon a single thought, but enlightenment eluded me the moment I closed my eyes and began to breathe deeply. I would start with the image of a letter, say aleph, or that three-headed Indian god, but soon my mind would turn to the luscious Indian whores, the best I ever had. They'd show me a book called the
Kama Sutra
(I still carry a copy with me, just to give this old man a smile), and I'd pick from it my pleasure. They were unmatched artists at their work, and their fees were piddling. No awakening for me then.

Only years later, when I'd had my fill of such distractions, did I become adept at meditation. I don't think, though, that Jesus and I ever saw the same things.

Chapter Fifteen

Verse One

Several days later, we left, our number increased by ten or twelve Magdalans. Some were Mary's brothers or cousins; they all looked alike and trod in a clump, none having Mary's independence or charm.

We took much longer getting from there to Nazareth than we should have. Someone would mention that an upcoming road led to some village, and then we would be on that road, seemingly without anyone's decision to take it. Everyone seemed to assume that fate guided us, that destiny was unfolding, and that we were gathering subtle clues that would reveal a great truth when we arrived in Nazareth.

Everyone except Judas. Tired of Jesus' cryptic, incomplete, or nonsensical replies, depending upon your temperament, he spoke directly to Jesus less and less. At times, I was afraid that Judas would forsake us and strike out on his own.

“Where is he taking us, Thomas?” Judas asked as we walked a narrow road out of Chorazin, I think, beside a wheat field. A child behind us complained that she was tired and begged her father to tote her.

“Nazareth. You know that.”

“You know what I mean, Thomas. Nazareth, then what?”

“Your impatience is tiresome, Cousin,” I said. “Why can't you just let things reveal themselves to us, or talk to Jesus yourself? Do you think I know his every thought?”

“Is that a joke? He's your twin.”

“Yes, and he's your cousin whom you've known all your life. Sometimes you act as if you're intimidated by him.” I knew that would provoke Judas. I was weary of his complaining. Mary was a few paces from us, carrying another woman's child on her back. She looked toward us, but I could not tell from her expression if she knew what Judas and I were talking about.

“Intimidated?” Judas said. “Now who's known someone all his life and yet sounds like a stranger?” He took a sip from a wineskin. “I'm leaving this group in the next village.”

I believed he was serious. “What about Mary?”

“She can do as she wishes.”

Each time we left another village, Judas repeated the same threat but continued to stay with us. Despite his impatience, he had faith in Jesus. His was a complex faith, though, paired as it was to his sense of pride. He could no more abandon us than a man who has spent a great sum on an infertile tract of land can finally admit that no crop will ever emerge from his dusty furrows. (Now
that's
an illustration people can understand. Even now, I sometimes lay awake wondering how Jesus would have fared had his speeches been more straightforward—had he been more pedant and less poet.)

Somewhere along the line (I think it was during this trip, but does the order of events matter, especially now?), we came to Capernaum. Peter said that we could spend the night at his mother-in-law's house. This was the first I'd heard of his being married.

“She's back in Bethsaida,” Andrew said to me. “She came to the river that night Simon brought the fish. They had a big quarrel, and she returned home. Thinks we're insane and should go back to fishing. At least we made a living then.”

“Do you have a wife?” I asked.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Too poor. Same as you, right?” he said. “Simon barely provided for his wife, but she wasn't used to much to begin with. Apparently, she wasn't interested in improving her status. Not too many like her around.”

“I suppose,” I said. “On the other hand, there's Judas and Mary.”

“That's different,” said Andrew. “Mary's driven by ideals. Judas represents something to her—Israel, the Lord, identity, something. The last things on her mind are home and family.”

“Are you saying that she doesn't love Judas?”

Andrew pulled a small brown object, maybe a fig, from the pouch hanging from his shoulder and nibbled. “Oh, she loves him,” he said. “But her love for Judas and her dreams for our people and her faith in Jesus are all of a piece. Believe me, I admire Mary and wish that in some ways I could be like her. But is that the kind of wife you'd want—one who'd make you an aspect of her aspirations?”

“Is that worse than one who simply wants a man to put bread on her table?”

“You've got a point,” Andrew said, “especially when Provider of Bread might be the tougher role these days.”

Verse Two

Assorted relatives crowded the house of Peter's mother-in-law. A woman told us they were there because they had heard that Peter/Simon had come to town, and they hoped he had brought his wife, who was their niece or cousin. She said that the mother-in-law was ill and had eaten almost nothing for days. When we got to her bedside, the old woman drew up slightly and reached for Peter.

“Simon,” she said as she began to weep, “you've brought my darling home to me. You've brought her home to tell me goodbye.” Peter bent down and hugged her. “Simon, bring me my darling. Bring her to me, Simon.”

Peter was silent. Andrew contorted his face and jerked his head, at once expressing disgust with his brother, who sat motionless, like a dumb ox, and telling Peter that he had to speak. This scene dragged on interminably—the old woman asking for her daughter while Peter sat, apparently thinking his wife might arrive if he waited long enough. Andrew finally punched Peter on the shoulder, and Peter blurted out, “She's not here.”

“What?” the old woman asked. “Where is she? What have you done with my darling?”

“She's in Bethsaida,” said Peter. “I'm following my master, Jesus, who will make a new kingdom for us with no Gentiles—”

“Damn you!” she yelled as she punched Peter in the mouth. This was no frail woman's slap of exasperation, but a full-knuckle fist like one a man would throw. Blood spurted through his lips, but Peter did not flinch as the old woman continued to hit him. “You abandoned her, you son of a bitch! You took her from me and then left her to die in hell, you goat-lover!” She fell back flat on the bed. “My darling, my darling—why? Why did the Lord let this mound of shit take my darling?”

None of the old woman's relatives made the slightest move or showed any sign of concern. I asked one of them nearby about her ailment.

He shrugged. “No one knows. She lies in bed and yells and says that her time has come. No fever. Not even complaints about pain. We think she's just crazy, but she's still family. What can we do?”

Jesus leaned in. “Does she live alone?”

“Yes indeed,” the man said. “We check on her from time to time, but she's too ill-tempered for anyone to bear for more than an hour.”

Jesus asked Peter to get up from the bed. He did, but the woman kept swinging, even when he was out of reach. Jesus sat on the bed and somehow got his hand on the woman's head without getting punched. He rubbed her forehead, and the old woman relaxed and sighed.

“Woman,” Jesus said. “Mother. Good mother. Look upon these people. They are here for you. Look at them. They are all yours, all of them your darlings, and you are theirs.” He took her hands into his and placed her palms upon his chest. “Feel the breath, the life, move through me.” Then he laid her hands upon her chest. “Feel the same life moving through you. Now look upon these people again. That very life moves through them as if we were one spirit—one, together.”

He reached up to the nearest person, a woman about the age of Peter's mother-in-law. “Come,” Jesus said, taking the woman by the hand. He placed Peter's mother-in-law's hand upon the chest of the standing woman. “Feel,” he said. Then he pulled the next person and did the same. The others, without prompting, fell in line, parading by the bed to have the old woman touch them. After passing the bedside, some of them stood together and hugged and cried.

Judas and I exchanged puzzled glances, and I could tell that a scheme was churning in that knotty head of his. Nevertheless, we got in line as well, and when I came to the bed, I saw Jesus' tear-dampened face just as he pressed the woman's hand to my chest, and I swear I felt something move, either from me and into her, or from her into me. Andrew was on the other side of the bed, and his eyes swelled when he saw me jerk.

The last to approach the bed was Peter. He stood a cubit away, until Jesus tugged on his cloak. Peter bent down, and the old woman wailed and grabbed him. I thought she was trying to choke him until I realized that they both were crying in a fierce embrace.

I thought, and perhaps everyone else did too, that the show was over. I also thought that, in a few days, the old woman would die peacefully. Evidently, she had made up her mind to die. The reconciliation, if that's what it was, that Jesus had brought about between her and Peter would have been enough to be labeled a miracle by everyone concerned, but Jesus was not finished. “Arise,” he said, and Peter stood with the old woman clinging to his neck. After a few steps, she found her footing and began to walk around the house, smiling and hugging everyone.

People said, “She's been healed!” and “Who is he?” and “That's Jesus!” and “Oh,
he's
Jesus?” I soon understood two things: These people, who moments before had considered Peter's mother-in-law (whose name I can't remember) a raving, hypochondriac nuisance, now believed that a miraculous healing had occurred. Also, they had known of Jesus before we got there.

As these things were becoming clear to me, Judas pulled me out of the house. He was trembling, his eyes as big as plates.

“Do you know what happened in there?” Judas asked. “That was amazing! Exactly what we've been waiting for!”

“What do you mean?” I said. “You don't think Jesus really cured her of anything, do you?”

Judas rolled his eyes. “No, no! Remember that woman whose child had died? And Jesus tried to comfort her, and we paraded him through the crowd? That was the start. I think half of those people think the woman went home to find her baby chirping in its bed. I wasn't sure how it worked, but now I see. They want nothing more than to
believe
in miracles. They don't care about the kingdom of the Lord or the holy life or even their own liberty. Oh, they'll listen to his sermons if that's all he offers, but what they really want is
magic
.”

“Judas, you're suggesting that we exploit these poor people's desperation,” I said. “You and I know that Jesus' true miracle in there was making that old woman feel needed again. She was without hope, but he somehow gave it back to her—no, that's not all. He gave something, although I can't say what it was, to everyone in that room. Maybe it was beyond words, too profound for a label, but he's in touch with . . .”

I did not know what to say next, and I stammered for a moment, trying to complete my thought. Judas fidgeted, impatient with my mumbling because he planned to ignore whatever I said anyway. “The depths of things,” I said. “When that woman with the dead child came to him, and he spoke to the crowd, he spoke of depth. Remember? I knew it meant something then, and now I think I see it more clearly. He's in touch with the depths of things, and that's where the Lord is. He's showing us the Lord.”

Judas pressed the heels of his palms hard against his temples. “Fine. Depths. Maybe he's showing that to you, but what those people saw was a woman wrung from the fist of death. They'll follow him anywhere. As long as he feeds them magic, they'll eat only at his table.” Judas grasped my forearms and shook, as if trying to awaken me. “This is our chance, Thomas. This is what we've been working for. We've found what the people want! This is the dream of our nation.”

A hand touched my shoulder. I winced and spun as if I had been burned. Mary stood close behind me, smiling and nodding like a reassuring mother. How long had she been there? She must have heard everything, for she was obviously signifying her agreement with Judas. Had they conspired? They couldn't have, for the episode with the old woman was only minutes old.

“We need a trail of miracles stretching across the Galilee,” Judas said. “We can easily supply the afflicted.”

Mary tilted her beautiful head and closed her eyes. “The words flow from Jesus like milk when he retrieves one of these lost souls,” she said. “They are brought back to life as surely as if they had been sealed in a tomb.” She opened her eyes. They pulsed like water against a riverbank. “The sick and the lame will soon come to him daily, Thomas. All we need do is encourage them a bit.”

My chest felt paralyzed, as if caught between two great stones.

“We may need to aid the process at first,” Judas said.

Their teamwork was seamless. Had they rehearsed and waited for Jesus to call an old woman up from bed so that they could approach me with this scheme? Or could Mary, sweet, tender Mary, anticipate the shadowy workings of Judas' mind? I was agreeing more with Andrew's assessment that Mary loved Judas for what he stood for to her, but that she
thought
like him was unfathomable.

I took a slow, labored breath. “What do you plan to do?” I said. “Haul in a cripple, and have Jesus tell him that walking in righteousness is greater than walking on legs?”

“Thomas, that's quite good,” said Judas. “You should suggest that to your brother.”

“Judas!” said Mary.

“I am not mocking you, Cousin,” Judas said, “and I do not mean to belittle Jesus' speeches. But now is the time for numbers. We need throngs of Galileans. Then perhaps the Judeans will take note and follow. Thomas, we can't get the masses we need with a mere man leading us. The people need something else—someone more than human.”

I sat upon the ground and leaned back on my hands. “You want to proclaim that Jesus is the Messiah,” I said.

“That would not be wise,” Mary said. She sat cross-legged beside me, and her voice took an even softer tone. I think she considered the dispute over, and now we were getting down to business. “If the people wish to call him that, so be it. The point is that they long to place their faith in something more powerful than themselves.”