John (32 page)
He lies on the daybed and prays for Papias. He fears the disciple is gone to Matthias or that Matthias has enacted some evil, and he sends his prayers against this.
In the days that follow, the disciples return from the city to report their number grows. In their voices John can hear the timbre of hope.
'There are others who would come see you,' Lemuel tells. 'They ask that they might see the one who touched the hand of our Lord.'
The apostle John hesitates. He does not want to be the reason for belief. He does not wish reverence or awe for his own person.
'Blessed are they who believe without seeing,' Danil says.
'Agreed, but all men are weak. And if it should increase the faith of some, then where is the wrong?' asks Lemuel.
'They have the Word, what need the person?' Danil replies quickly, then seeing Lemuel's eyes realises what he has said. 'I am sorry, Master. I did not mean . . .'
'It is the truth, good Danil,'John says, and seems to think on this some time, then decides, 'But if there are some who would come and pray with us and share the Eucharist, then all are welcome. Tell them to come in the truth of our Lord Jesus Christ.'
The evening following, there are twenty. A week later, and from other small communities further distance, there comes more. They are too many to fit into the room and some stand bowed in the street outside. The Apostle is moved. To this church of two score and ten he speaks the words of the epistle. They are a small sect only, a minor assembly among the many others that gather in the city of Ephesus, where heresies flourish, but in their attentiveness and devotion is significance; in their number, too.
In John light breaks. When he speaks his aches are forgone. His voice is raised. He lifts his arms wide, and is then like a figure of olden time whose soul sings, whose testament is burnished with fire.
'These are the last of days,' he tells. 'Behold, we prepare the way.'
But in the aftertime, when the numbers are dispersed again and the night fallen, he is revisited by infirmity. His humanness declares itself in pain. Though he does not tell the others, such aches, such effort to find breath in his chest, are new to him. He lies in his own dark, aware of the air that seems harder to draw now. His thin lips are dry. He would ask for water, but it is night and the others sleep. Instead he suffers a thirst that tightens his throat. The effort for breath exhausts him. Is it now? Is it here in the night alone that he will see love coming? Along the hallways to his heart a fierce pain hastens. In the absolute aloneness of suffering he tries to make his mind accept what his body feels. The hurt is immense, his face grimaces as it arrives with iron blade in the centre of his being. But he does not cry out. His mouth opens, an O of anguish, and his eyes weep. He is impaled and cannot breathe. His two hands he brings to his chest and holds tightly, as though in battle to keep life from being cut out.
Is it now? Is it here?
The disciples sleep. He has not strength to call out. His chin he presses to his chest, his legs he draws upwards. He is small as a child.
And in the wrack of the pain, in the throes of his agony when dark upon dark he suffers, when he is brought even to the furthermost edge of living, there must come yet the hurt of bewilderment. For in hurt speaks humanity and John is mere man. If the very many near encounters with death in all his ancient lifetime had taught him to believe a coat of care was about him, that countless times he was protected, spared, even to the earthquake, miraculously enduring, then here now it seems is an ending. Such pain he has never felt. The coat is drawn from him and he is naked. And what comes to his mind, not yet in words, is
why.
Why here, now, alone, do I die?
There is no light. Of Jesus there is no herald. No fold in the dark opens, nor do angels descend.
Light. Light. Light.
Sunlight on the road shining. Heaven light making golden the sand. Light. In Andrew's fair hair. In the pale body of the Baptist in the river water. Light. In thee, O Lord, do I put my trust. Behold. Upon the crest of a sandhill. Behold the Lamb of God. I saw a spirit descending from heaven like a dove, and it abode upon him. The beginning. What are you looking for? Light. Rabbi, where are you staying? Light. Come and see. We have found him, the Messiah! We have found him! O Lord Jesus. In thee, O Lord, do I put my trust. Light. And seven golden candlesticks. And his hairs were as white as snow and his eyes as a flame of fire. Light. The Lord is my rock and my fortress and my deliverer. On the road to Cana not a word spoken. We walked to revelation. Unto thee, O Lord, do I lift up my soul. The stone water jars. The bird trapped. Light. His praise shall ever be in my mouth. And his feet like unto fine brass as if they burned in a furnace. Wings beating, the bird trapped. The awning shade. Shall I not rise and free it? And his voice as the sound of many waters. Light. I waited patiently for the Lord, and he inclined unto me and heard my cry. See the bird above us. They have no wine. Light. There was a man of the Pharisees named Nicodemus. I will praise thee with my whole heart. And in a city of Samaria, which is called Sychar. And the sheep market by the pool, which is called Bethesda. Light. And he had in his right hand seven stars. And the Sea of Galilee, which is the Sea of Tiberias. Bread of heaven. I am the bread of life. Light. And out of his mouth went a sharp two-edged sword. And as Jesus passed by he saw a man who was blind from birth. As the deer longs after the water brooks, so longs my soul after thee. Light. And he spat unto the ground and made clay of the spittle and anointed the eyes. Go wash in the pool of Siloam. And his countenance was as the sun shineth. Light. And he laid his right hand upon me. How were thine eyes opened? There was a man called Jesus. Saying unto me, fear not. Light. Whosoever believeth in me shall not abide in darkness. O my Lord. Light. Bring light. I fall in darkness.
The sun rising, a bell is rung.
Meletios it is who goes to the Apostle. John reposes in such stillness he seems barely a man. His chest does not rise. The disciple is afraid to stir him. Surely he heard the bell, but perhaps prays so fiercely, is so portioned into the world of the spirit that his body is the lesser part and responds not. The disciple attends some moments, uncertainly. Then fears crawl free. Is he living? Meletios leans closer. From the Apostle there is not the slightest movement. It cannot be. It is unthinkable, and what cannot be thought cannot be believed. He reaches out his hand to touch John, but leaves it quivering in the air. Dread saddles coldly the back of his neck. The room is damp, heavy, the stones glisten.
'Master?' he says softly.
There is no response, no movement in the blind face of the Apostle.
'Master? It is Meletios.'
Again nothing.
He lays his hand upon the thin, thin frame of the old man, frall assemblage of bones in a white robe. His action is too slight to be called shaking; rather he touches tenderly the arm and presses there.
Into the room small light falls.
'Master?' His voice, though a whisper, betrays the first thick clots of loss. The lumps of grief rise in him. He moves his hand to the ancient face and feels it cold, and he cries out.
And from what furthermost edge, from what dark or light, by chance or design, John returns.
Very slight, he moves his head to one side, speaks softly the disciple's name.
Meletios drops to his knees, takes the Apostle's right hand in both of his and presses his head to it. 'Master, Master.' He can say nothing more at first. He hears John draw a slender breath.
'You are cold, Master. I will bring you more blankets.'
'Meletios?'
'Yes, Master?'
'I am here.'
It is not a question, or is it? Is he confused?
'You are here, Master. Yes, in the house of Levi in Ephesus.'
'Yes. But . . .' The Apostle raises his right hand, it floats trembling in midair, pale uncertain bird, and then moves across to where it alights upon his left shoulder. John pats his own shoulder, then the upper arm, and forearm.
'I cannot feel this side,' he says. There is no fright in his voice; he tells it because it is. 'My arm, my leg.' Then, in mild interrogative, 'They are there?'
'Yes.'
John lies still. His breaths are long between.
'I cannot move them,' he tells.
'It is tiredness, Master,' Meletios offers, lineaments of love in his face 'You have not your strength. Rest, rest now. We will pray for your well-being.'
John does not reply. He lies in the heart of the mystery while Meletios goes to alert the others.
I am here, he thinks. But I cannot see and cannot feel that I am. How then do I know?
It is as though he has been partly taken.
In the day that follows, he turns the question over: why is it so? Does the Lord speak to him by this language of dying? Does he near take him each time, in the sea, in the quake, and by this, too? Does he tell something by sickness? What message is untranslated here? Why does the Apostle near death and not die? To now John has supposed the reason: that he prepares the way, that he remains spreading the Word until he comes again. It is the Lord's love for him, and his for the Lord.
But in the blind, dark stillness of the bed when one half of himself he cannot feel, he thinks there is something other.
He is a sign that he himself does not understand.
Teach me, he prays. Where do I wrong? Teach me to live as you wish.
That night Lemuel lies on the floor by the Apostle's bed. He cannot tell if he sleeps or not. He listens for each breath. When he rises in the dawn, John is awake already.
'We must find Papias,' he says.
'We have searched, Master.'
'You must bear me to Matthias.'
'But you are weak, it is not prudent. The city is . . .'
John raises his right hand. 'To Matthias, bear me there. We will find Papias.'
'Let Danil go, or I shall. There is no need for you. You are weak . . .'
'There is need for me yet.'
'I did not mean . . .'
'It is all right, Lemuel. I am to go. Will you bring me thither?'
He is borne from the house in the early morning on a litter lain with a blanket of sheep's wool. The disciples all go with him. The way is crowded and already filled with traffic of commerce. Seabirds are come ashore in forecast of storm; they pilfer and squawk. Criers already rend the air with prices. The Christians then are a quiet caravan, aloof, privately purposeful. They cross from the district of alleyways and crooked lanes into the broader thoroughfare. The key of season is turned; the sky blotched with cloud. Small gusts of salt wind blow. Watchful of the heavens, traders lay stones on their wares, lower their prices a fraction.
Ephesus has seen all the world, its oddity and grandeur both, and pays little attention to the litter-borne apostle. Those who take notice think only it is one being carried to a tomb.
There are as ever in the streets the proclaimers, the soothsayers, the testifiers, and the priest. The weather changing is apt topic, the storm approaches. Here one points to the sky with force and conviction, declares he sees the seam rendering; here another tells the talk of the wind. The Christians press on. But on the edge of the square they are blocked by a crowd gathered for the spectacle of the gospel seller. The others have seen him before, but have not told the Apostle. He is a bearded, long-haired crier who waves a clutch of scrolls.
'Here, here, come gather and listen! Here is told the bloody crucifixion of Jesus of Nazareth.'
For better market, he has a youth in loincloth and crown of thorn bush standing head-bowed alongside.
'Read, read the suffering of the carpenter's son!' he cries. And then commences by striking at the youth's bare back with a knotted lash.
An O from the crowd draws him on. He lashes again. The youth withers.
The seller knows his tale by heart. He knows what moves his audience, what vanity and righteousness make of man, and tells, 'Here, see he who thought himself a second God. Read what was his punishment. Read the words written by those who were witness. Read the gospel of Boas for each lash told. The gospel of Judas, who loved Jesus, here the very nails driven, look! A bargain. Truly. A reminder to all the sin of pride.'
What sorrow it is for John to hear cannot be imagined. Love is grief and anger.
The disciples call out to make way, and he is brought past and away. But already in the after-moments, in the strange bumped floating of the litter through the streets where John is borne like a last remnant of truth, something is happening. It happens with suffering. It happens as the sky clouds quicken and the light moves dark and bright and dark again. The wind from the east comes. The birds like torn things scatter and return. The air is made bitter. John says nothing. He lies in the first vision of new knowledge, in the place where it is first nothing but light without shape or form, a candescence that makes wince. He knows but does not know what yet. The thing that happens is whiteness only, is brilliance and illumination neither tender nor comforting but such as to cause pain. For in light is former darkness shown. There is something that happens. It is an inner blinding. But of it nothing can be spoken yet.
The litter is borne out from the city to the house of Matthias.
'Are you well, Master?' Melitios asks, for the Apostle has made no movement or sound. 'This is the place.'
'Tell we have come for Papias.'
Danil knocks. The disciples wait. A sinewy shaven-head figure with pale eyebrows that they do not at first recognise as Linus opens the door. He wears a blue robe to the ground; his hands he cups before his chest.
'We are come to talk with Papias.'
'Papias?' The name is like sourness in Linus's mouth. He tongue-tips his full lips. 'Papias is not here.'
He goes to close the door against them, but Danil stops him, seizes his arm. 'We have come to see him, where is he?'
Linus shrugs free, smoothes the fall of his robe. 'We are holy men here,' he says in distaste. 'None stay who do not wish it. Papias is not here. He went off. He is unclean.'