The Gospel of the Twin (11 page)

Jesus drew in the dirt with a reed, and at first seemed not to hear. It looked like he sketched a simple fish and wrote something below it in Greek letters. It may have been simply
ichthys,
or Greek for
fish
. He folded the reed, in protracted deliberation, to crease in the middle to form a point. He made a fist and placed one end of the reed between his index and middle fingers and the other end between his third and smallest fingers so that it almost resembled a spearhead. We looked on bewitched the way that, years later, I would see people entranced by Indian magicians who would produce fire from their open palms or swallow ropes and then pull hissing serpents from their nostrils. The Indians would sit cross-legged in complete silence, less like they awaited a wonder and more like they were steeped in a ritual requiring silent respect and astonished reaction.

Jesus held his arm in front of his chest to point. The fist with the folded reed looked somewhat like a spearhead or perhaps a viper's head. “We shall traverse the Galilee, stopping in every town. I shall speak to the people about the empire of the Lord. Some will join us at each stop. Then we shall turn our attention to Judea. When we have a strong walking empire, we shall win Jerusalem. When the rest of our people see what we have done in Jerusalem, they will all join us in a united Israel.”

He had never spoken so straightforwardly to us. Judas nodded and placed his arm around Mary's shoulders. Simon grinned and punched Andrew's arm. I was relieved that he had some idea of where we were going, but much still needed to be explained.

“How long do you think it will take to gather enough followers?” Andrew asked.

“Months, perhaps a year. I think we should go to Jerusalem during Passover so that the pilgrims will join us. Maybe this coming Passover, maybe the next.”

“This is very exciting, my dearest Jesus,” Mary said, “but how will we eat? Some of these people will bring children. We will endure any discomfort, but how long do you think the others will be willing to live like beggars and sleep on the ground?”

“Mary,” Jesus said, “I think you underestimate our fellow citizens. Even those who do not leave their homes to come with us will believe in our mission. We shall not lack food and clothes. Most of these people have spent their lives not knowing how they would get through the day. They are used to hard living. Those with roofs over their heads struggle no less for their daily bread. Many will believe in what we are doing but will not join our travels. They'll see their best participation as contributing to their brothers and sisters who are clearing the path for them. They'll share what meager comforts they have and offer their homes to the young families among us.”

“We'll need arms, Cousin,” said Judas.

“Yes,” said Simon, “and the men will need to be trained.”

Judas spat on the ground. “And are we to suppose that you're the one to train them?”

Simon was about to respond to Judas when Jesus laughed. “I have my own centurions in these two!” Jesus was surely as aware as I that Judas' remark indicated his lack of confidence in Simon, but Jesus diffused the tension. “Let's not think of swords and daggers now. Ours will be a fight without bruises—a siege without blood.”

“But we need organization,” said Simon. “We need structure—a chain of command.”

Jesus placed his hand on Simon's shoulder. Simon's chest swelled as if he believed Jesus was anointing him as a special officer. “We need many things, Simon—courage and strength, which you have in abundance. We could all learn from your fearless resolve.” Simon's eyes darted about as if to make sure that all of us had heard this praise. “But I need greater gifts that you, all of you, possess—wise counsel above all. The messages, my visions, come to me like roughly hewn beams. The wood is sturdy and of fine, beautiful grain, but I am not a master carver. It is of little use if hastily gouged and hacked by one too impatient to apply the correct tools.”

My brother, the metaphor monger! He surely had a talent for the illustrative turn of phrase, but sometimes he would become too enamored of his own colorful speech, and pull and strain an image until it snapped like a wet leather thong too slight to bind a love-drunk donkey to a post. He continued to saw at this metaphor, using every related word he could call up—“chop,” “axe,” “plane,” “bevel,” “peg,” “file,” and “hammer”—until he slid into stonecutting—“chisel,” “mallet,” “cleft,” “mortar,” and “wedge”—and finally to metalwork—“furnace,” “forge,” “ore,” “sharpen,” and “hone.”

Many more of his poetic indulgences will follow, and at least some, I hope, will contribute to the likelihood that his words will pass down through the generations. Often people remember how something was said more than what was said, which may be the true message anyway.

“Cousin,” Judas interrupted, “we shall of course be your craftsmen, but what's our next step? You've given us not quite a beam—more like a splinter to work with. Gather followers. March on Jerusalem. That might be enough for some like this one,” he pointed at Simon, who appeared to take no offense, “but other than culminating in Jerusalem rather than Caesarea or Capernaum, how does your plan differ from others who were summarily routed by the Romans and nailed to trees?”

Everyone stiffened. I suspect that we all harbored similar doubts, but Jesus deserved a wider berth, even if granted mostly out of timidity. We'd asked for a plan, and he'd given us something that showed some direction. Now Judas was pressing him unfairly. The muscles in Jesus' jaw worked as if he were grinding down toasted barley. Simon's face shot to red, and he bared his teeth. He took a notion to stand as if he were about to attack Judas, but he glanced at Jesus, who glared back, and Simon sat, clutching his knees.

Jesus' face softened. He drew again in the dirt. “I cannot guarantee that we shall not meet the same fate, my cousin, although I know that each of you is ready to make such a sacrifice.”

“I am ready, Master!” said Simon.

“I know you are, Simon,” Jesus said. I was used to Simon's impetuousness, but I was puzzled by his newly zealous devotion, even obsequiousness, to Jesus. Equally puzzling was Jesus' failure this time to renounce the title “master.”

Judas rolled his eyes and sighed.

“Remember, Judas,” Jesus said, “our struggle is not against the Romans alone. You seem to think that our fellow Jews will readily join our mission, like burrs clinging to the hems of our clothes. But I'm not so hopeful. Many have been beaten down for so long that they can imagine nothing other than survivalist collaboration. One strategy will not suit them all. Some can hardly buy bread after paying the emperor's taxes. Some were driven from their homes by soldiers. Some wish only to walk the streets without fear of a random thrashing. We've enjoyed peaceful days here, but every Bethsaidan, when not fretting over the day's catch or hoping the flour doesn't run out this week, worries that tomorrow the Romans may sweep through and ransack the village or, worse, set up camp and administer daily torment. Some worry that their children will forget the traditions we have shared for centuries, and may even take to Latin as their preferred tongue. A few want nothing less than blood vengeance for their slaughtered fathers and sons.”

I thought about our dead Nazarene neighbor Nathan and the grief brought upon Leah and the rest of his family. I wondered if, as Jesus described, Leah and her family lived in fear of the Romans descending upon Nazareth. Perhaps they did. How would I know, having been away so long?

Jesus paused, flipped the folded reed to the ground, extended his arms, and cracked his knuckles as if waking from a long nap. “They must come to believe that the empire of the Lord will sate all these longings for them—will salve all their wounds, stem their fears,” he said. “No one is better than you, my cousin, at revealing to others their victimization and how they are due justice. My entire life, I have witnessed how people can feel the heat of the compassion that rises from the deep recesses of your heart, and they need no further convincing that you are plowing the furrow from which destiny sprouts.”

I was fascinated at how Jesus, who had, of course, charmed these people long before, crystallized their allegiance to his vision. Or maybe to him. His private conversations with us were usually much more ordinary, with little hint of the charismatic orator that he could be in front of the crowd. But now, he was bewitching even us.

“Andrew, what a complement to your brother!” Jesus said. “He is forceful yet gentle; you are a gently guiding force. Where he is fire, you are the cool water. Your strength lies in your character, Andrew, and anyone near you is shaped by your sincerity and grace.”

He held his arms out toward James and John. “Sons of Zebedee! No prouder father ever strode these shores. Sons of thunder! With the two of you flanking me, I would march into Tiberius' palace itself! Your quiet determination will be the banner behind which many will march.”

Jesus arose and walked through the circle to sit between Mary and Judas. “Mary, oh Mary,” he said. “Never have I known a more remarkable woman. Yes?” He looked around at the rest of us, and we all nodded. “You inspire us all, my sister, and none more than I, with your wisdom. When I suggest a course of action, and you smile and nod, your lovely hair bouncing around your neck, I need not second-guess. Mary, my treasured one, you bring joy to my troubled heart.”

Faces were lit with smiles, but Judas' was forced. I saw the twitch in his lip. It seemed like a flash of jealousy toward the man who'd joined them in marriage, but I just could not accept that. Was he embarrassed that he had not uttered so nice a compliment about his wife? Did he resent Jesus treating Mary as an equal?

I looked toward the others to see if they had detected Judas' spasm, but they seemed unaware. Simon, though, had a perturbed look of his own. He smiled, but his face darkened, as if he'd remembered that his boat had sunk. He could keep little to himself, so I knew he would soon loosen his mouth.

Jesus stood and brushed a tuft of hair back from his forehead. His brow was crimped, as it rarely was. For those who looked closely, the way to tell us apart was Jesus' unwrinkled skin compared to mine. Anyone would think that he never worried. He reached down and pulled Mary to her feet, looking across the lake toward the sun. He then turned toward the west. “Tomorrow we'll begin our trek through the Galilee, first to Magdala,” he said. “Will we find more in your town with a heart like yours, my jewel?”

Mary kissed Jesus' palm. “My dear Jesus, Magdala is a peaceful village, but my people have grown restless. They need you—have needed you for many years. They will give themselves to you just as I have.”

Judas arose and took Jesus by the arm. “Let's move, Master,” he said. The word “master” fell from Judas' lips like a fishbone, yet Jesus seemed to miss the sarcasm. “We have to prepare the others.” He led Jesus through the reeds and up the bank.

Verse Four

We gave the others time to have their breakfast before we called them together. In one of his most beautiful speeches yet, Jesus told them what he planned to do. He repeated the phrases “blood of our fathers” and “tears of our mothers” so often that I thought the crowd would begin to anticipate the rhetorical rhythms and begin to chant. He slipped into “visions of the prophets” (or maybe it was “dreams of the prophets”) and, for the first time, he used a phrase that I would soon hear him employ often: “the body of the Lord.”

“Will the Lord Himself come to lead us?” someone shouted. I do not think this was meant to challenge Jesus. Everyone in the crowd was so moved by his speech that they felt on the cusp of a revelation.

“The Lord does not appear as you and I do,” Jesus said. “He appears as His people force history to uncurl like a blossom on a dogwood tree, or to unleash like a stone from a sling. When we enliven the course of world events, we become the body of the Lord. His word moves through us like the breath that moves through you. Just as you have a soul that brings life to your flesh, He is the life of this body composed by His people. Is there a soul without a body, a Lord without a people? You are the body of the Lord! The body of the Lord!”

They answered him with, “We are the body of the Lord!” Many joined hands, many embraced, and all were ready to march across the sea to disassemble Rome brick by brick.

Chapter Fourteen

Verse One

Magdala was no different from scores of other decrepit fishing villages. The hovels, shops, and even boats seemed as crooked as the backs of their inhabitants who labored daily just to put a plateful of scraps on their leaning tables. No cattle or sheep could be found. A few scabby curs eyed us from behind dusty shrubs. This place was so worthless that the Romans did not bother to patrol it. From half-dead hamlets like these, my brother planned to gather his army to level the deadliest empire the world had ever known.

Although I think others were fighting back their doubts, Mary was laughing and skipping with excitement as we reached the edge of the village. How could someone from such a desperate recess have the slightest reason to believe that God cared whether she lived or died? Nazareth was no better, and any of my brief moments of hope, even now, were soon replaced with hours of despair. I suppose that we had that in our favor: Those resigned to this irredeemable life had nothing to lose by joining our ill-fated parade. Yet Mary was joyful.

“There's my aunt's house where I learned to spin wool,” she said, clucking and chirping like a child with stolen sweet cakes. “Over there used to be an orchard that grew the fattest olives you've ever seen, back when Micah and his family tended it. See that little hill with the palms leaning toward the road just beyond the broken fence? My house is just beyond it. Oh, when my family meets you, my Judas, my beloved!” She threw her arms around Judas' neck, but he did not look happy about the upcoming introductions.

We continued along the ruts Mary called roads. A group consisting of several hundred strangers usually draws attention, but the villagers here mostly ignored us. Dusk approached, and fishermen were returning from the water. Some cocked their heads and leered at us, less from curiosity than with pity that destiny had driven us to their woe-begotten land. Mary pointed out her house just as a man emerged from the door.

“My brother, Samuel!” Mary squealed. She began to run toward him, but the man stepped back into the house. In an instant, a stocky old woman ran out.

“Whore! Why did you come back?” the old woman yelled. Mary froze as the old woman grabbed her hair with one hand and struck her face with the other. The man who had been at the door came out of the house with two more men. They yelled at Mary and the old woman. They tried to get between the two women, but the old woman cursed them and yelled that they should help her “kill the bitch.” The oldest man yelled instructions that no one seemed to heed just as the old woman fell, pulling Mary down on top of her.

Judas jumped into the midst of the struggle. Two of the men grabbed Judas as a woman from our group tried to pry the old woman from Mary, who had yet to try to defend herself. Judas broke free of one man and punched the other in the throat. The man dropped, writhing, to the ground. Jesus yelled something as James and John each pushed a man away from Mary and Judas while Andrew and I tried to separate the women without hurting them.

Somehow, between cursing Mary and calling me a demon, the old woman managed to get her broken teeth around my hand. I yanked my hand away but felt a searing pain in my little finger. The old woman spat something at me that bounced off my face and hit my foot, and then she went back to calling Mary a whore. I looked down by my foot and saw a bloody fingernail.

Judas slugged the man John held. Blood spurted from the man's mouth. Two from our band pulled Judas aside as Jesus did the same with Mary.

“Death! Did you come back to break my heart into smaller pieces and put me into the grave?” the old woman said. Tears ran down her face, and she waved her stumpy hands and appeared to draw in the air, perhaps tracing some kind of witchcraft signs. “And with this legion of whores and whore-mongering dogs!” She hocked up phlegm from deep in her gullet and, demonstrating a technique with which she was surely practiced, jutted a rolled tongue through pursed lips, snapped her head forward and, with a
thoo
, spat at Mary from a full fifteen cubits away. Mary ducked and the glob flattened against Jesus' cheek. Jesus did not flinch or wipe the yellow mass from his face.

“Oh, Mother, do not speak to me like this!” Mary said as she tried to free herself from Jesus.

“I'm not your mother! I did not birth a she-wolf! You are death!”

I had an urge to laugh. This turmoil had struck us like an unseen snake, and I was taken by the uncertainty of things—by the blinding shifts of fortune that cancel out weeks of repetition. Which is closer to the ultimate nature of the world: unity or randomness? Hasn't the story of Israel been too unpredictable a mixture of the two for us to really learn much from studying the past? Is the proper response to shake one's head, laugh, and pretend to accept the fundamental instability of life, of history, of God? But I didn't laugh.

People crept from their shacks and sidled by us for a glimpse of the combatants. They squinted their eyes and searched faces and asked futile questions of Mary's tight-lipped family. Only Mary's mother offered clues, but her mad rant just produced more confusion. When it seemed the entire village had turned out, I saw Jesus say something to John, who scurried off between two shacks. Two men lifted the one Judas hit and carried him down the street. The man was unconscious and his jaw hung limply to the side as if unhinged. John returned with a large, mud-covered urn, upended it, and helped Jesus climb up and balance himself atop it.

“My good brothers and sisters of Magdala,” Jesus said. The slug of phlegm was still on his face. He must have left it there to make some sort of point. “This mother was unprepared for the return of her daughter. She has waited for her child, unsure of her welfare, unable to offer her the love that spills from her heart as from the heart of every mother. When love cannot find its true place and sits idle, it turns, like wine to vinegar.”

I expected the Magdalans to walk away or kick the urn from under Jesus, but they listened to him with implacable faces.

“A man was plowing a field when he unearthed a jar. He wiped the dirt from it and saw that it was a beautiful jar with magical beasts in blues and golds painted on it. The man said, ‘I shall wash this jar and give it to my wife, and she will display it in our home and be happy.' But when he returned from the field, he heard his daughter screaming. The girl was being attacked by a dog. The man threw the jar at the dog, and although the dog ran away, the jar was broken. As the man washed the little girl's wound, he pointed to the shards of the broken jar. ‘Behold,' he said. ‘See how the jar is now in its proper place.'”

Our band all smiled, and a few shed tears, while the Magdalans questioned each other about the meaning of the story. “Was the man angry about the broken jar?” “Is the broken jar like the old woman's broken heart?” “No, the jar is like Mary returning home, isn't it?” “Where was the mother when the girl was being bitten by the dog?” “I think he just made up this story.”

“Woman,” Jesus said to Mary's mother, “your daughter has returned to you with joy in her heart. She has brought to you her husband. See? She has given you another son!”

“No! No!” The old woman screamed and hurled two handfuls of dirt at Judas. “You swine! I'll not have it!” She stood up and lunged toward Mary, but was restrained by her sons. Alone, Mary had been a whore. Married, she was swine. What did the old woman want?

Several of the villagers spoke to Mary and Jesus. They began to walk together, and Jesus motioned for us to follow. Mary's mother yelled curses—“You will birth piglets from your polluted belly! Your husband is a goat-demon who lies with his own children!”—until we could no longer hear her. When the only sounds were sandals on the dry earth, I could repress it no longer and burst into laughter. Others soon joined in, and within seconds, we all laughed so uncontrollably that we stopped in the road to keep from stepping on those who had doubled over and fallen. None laughed so loudly as Mary, who raised her arms above her head and twirled in glee.

Only Judas refrained from the joy.

“Mary,” Judas said, “how can you do this after your mother said all those things to you?”

Mary laughed even more loudly, placing her hands on Judas's face. “What mother, my love?”

Verse Two

The people who led us from the scene were more of Mary's kin―an uncle and an aunt or two from her father's side of the family, I think. We went outside the cluster of buildings that formed the village proper to a compound consisting of a house and several open structures that may have been used for livestock, but no animals were there. Our group could huddle in the animal sheds for the night.

Mary and her people scraped together whatever food they could find—bread, a few eggs, some dried fish—to feed as many as they could. Some of our followers scavenged the woods for wild onions and tubers as women with infants sat inside the house and hummed to their babies.

Things settled down after we had eaten. We cleaned leaves and loose branches out of a few areas where people would sleep. A group of children chased each other around the sheds, throwing dirt clods and yelping when they became targets. I saw Mary's brothers arrive with something in their arms. I followed them inside the house, where they deposited a stack of blankets. They invited me to sit and join them as they told Mary of events since she had left Magdala.

Their father had sunk into gloom after Mary left, and when a detachment of Roman soldiers passed through the town—causing no trouble this time, not even stealing food or livestock as they usually did—he ran into the street, cursing the soldiers for taking his daughter. The soldiers, of course, had no idea what he was ranting about, nor could anyone else imagine why he blamed the Romans, but they summarily ran him through with a sword and dragged his stripped body through the street and out of town. The murder had a chilling effect on the entire village, the brothers said, but none more than their mother. She spent weeks rocking in the dirt, clutching her sides and mumbling the names of her husband and her daughter Mary.

“So my father somehow believed that I left home because of the Romans,” Mary said. “I suppose he was right. Were they not occupying our land, I would not have sought a new nation, nor seen it reflected in Jesus' eyes.”

One of Mary's brothers leapt from his seat on the floor. “It is not your fault!” He bent at the waist and stomped his foot. How had Mary avoided this family tendency toward the dramatic? “I think of leaving every day,” the brother said. “Perhaps I'll join the rebels and live off locusts in the wilderness, and try to kill at least a few Romans before they destroy us all—or become a Pure One and recede into the caves.” His eyes were red and watery.

What did this outburst mean? Some family dynamic that I didn't understand was playing itself out. Maybe they tended to blame themselves for any tragedy and assumed that Mary was accepting guilt for her father's death, although I had never witnessed such a tendency in Mary. Perhaps they often threatened to do something rash, like run off to join the rebels, hoping that others would beg them not to. If this was what her family was like, I could understand why Mary had left home.

“I've considered leaving, too,” said the other brother. “I could go with a merchant I met in Capernaum who takes linen and wool from Egypt to trade for beautiful fine threads and wondrous goods from India.” He pulled a square of fabric from a pocket and, although not allowing it to leave his hand, let us each stroke it. The cloth shone like a jewel and felt like nothing I had ever touched.

“I think I saw this material when I was a boy,” I said. “We went to Jerusalem for Passover, and merchants hawked large stacks of cloth. My father bought a scarf for my mother, but I don't think it was made of this fabric.”

The brother tossed the cloth above his head, and it floated like a feather. He snatched it from the air and, with a flourish of the wrist, returned it to his pocket. Did he always carry it around like a charm? “I doubt your father bought a scarf of
this
material,” he said. He bent close to my face. “It would have cost him a
year's
wages. But this one”—he leaned away from me and into the group, scanning the faces to make sure we listened with the right level of suspense—“was
given
to me.”

Mary's brother, whose name was Balkai or Balakai, told us about his discussions with the trader who had recounted the wonders of India: behemoths the size of ten cows that pulled great trees from the ground with their noses, yet children sat upon their backs and commanded them like horses; striped cats larger than lions that fed only on men; newborn babies that spoke upon birth, and in three or four languages; men who had been seen to glow and hover above the ground; magicians who swallowed deadly serpents seven cubits long, only to spit them out whole like a tongue of fire, then make them spin upright on their tails like dreidels; and multitudes of graven images of many-armed gods and goddesses in naked embraces carved on the very walls of their temples.

Balkai got increasingly animated as he continued these reports of strange creatures and customs, which were surely exaggerations. This was good, however, for a smile spread across Mary's face as she regarded her peculiar brother with tenderness.

I didn't much care for this braggart, but I was enchanted. I, too, had heard travelers' tales of monsters and giants, which rarely impressed me, but I felt this India, as a real land far beyond Roman grasp, might indeed possess unspoiled wonders. I may have then vowed to myself that I would indeed travel to India someday. Later, when I lived in India—which was not because I felt I had to keep my vow—I found that some of those wonders described really were true.

“If you journey to India, Balkai,” I said (or maybe I said Balakai, although I seem to remember that he corrected me about his name, whatever I called him), “I should like to accompany you. It sounds like a place where a man could make a new life.”