Son of Mary

by R. S. Ingermanson

  I feel sweat on all my body. I taste bile in my throat.

  My father stands on my left, sweating in the strong sun. He spits in the dust and leans on me.

  My father is almost fifty years, and that is old. He should not have come, only he insisted that HaShem should make a justice on him. I beg HaShem will make a justice.

  The boys of Jerusalem hoot for their glee and grab at stones in the dirt and run to meet the evil man.

  The soldiers stand back and grin on the boys.

  The boys throw their stones in the evil man’s face.

  His head jerks back. Blood springs out of his right eye.

  They think that is a justice.

  That is not a justice.

  This would be a justice, if I got my brother back from the grave.

  He was alive only last week. We had him with us. Our family was coming south to Jerusalem for the feast. We usually come by the Jordan Way, but that is a walk of six days and this year is hot. So we came by the Samaritan Road, which is a walk of five days.

  The Samaritan Road is cooler and quicker than the Jordan Way, but it goes through Samaria, and Samaritans hate us.

  Near the end of Samaria, we ran short of bread and beer. We stopped in a village to buy more. Samaritans are dogs and thieves, and they saw we are Jews, so they meant to cheat us. My father knows how to buy from dogs and thieves and cheats, and he kept a cool head and argued long with them.

  I went around the corner from the others. I do not remember why, but I went.

  The matter is hazy after that.

  I know there was a fight.

  I know I was knocked senseless. I am a good man in a fight, so they must have made a cheat on me. Some Samaritan must have hit me from behind.

  When I came to my senses, I heard a bad wailing.

  My mother, wailing.

  My younger brother, wailing.

  My father, wailing.

  My older brother … silent.

  My older brother, Yehuda, had fallen beside me in the street, dead with a knife in his throat. Yehuda, the one we called Stonefist, dead. Yehuda Stonefist, stronger than iron, dead.

  I do not know how it befell. I asked all the others, but nobody saw. I hoped my friend Yoni saw the matter, but he says he did not. I will never know how my brother died.

  Never.

  We had to bury him in a pit outside the Samaritan village. We filled the pit with stones.

  I walked the rest of the way on the Samaritan Road in a daze. My head hurt for two days and my eyes were cloudy and my thoughts were all a big confusion.

  My pain is deeper than I know how to say.

  I was always the second son. The second son is loyal to the first. Yehuda Stonefist was the oldest son. He was my brother and protector and friend. I thought I would have him always.

  Now he is dead and I am the oldest, and I do not know how to be the oldest son. I am lost and broken in my heart.

  I have not yet made even one tear for my brother. I do not know why. There is a thing wrong with me.

  No tears.

  Only rage.

  The Samaritans were in a big shock to see a dead Galilean in their street. They gave up the evil man to their village elders. The village elders sent him to Jerusalem in the watch of soldiers of Samaria. The soldiers of Samaria gave him to the governor from Rome, a wicked man whose name is called Pilate. Governor Pilate heard the case this morning and gave order to flog the man and crucify him.

  All the crowd shouted how that was a good justice.

  That is not a justice, it is only a vengeance.

  My stomach feels sour and my head hurts and my heart is numb. Vengeance will not give me back my brother.

  I wish for HaShem to give me a justice.

  But all I have are these soldiers of Rome, pushing the evil man toward this place where they have a stake fixed in the ground.

  The evil man comes closer. Closer. Almost here.

  He trips and falls on his face. He lies in the dirt, moaning.

  The soldiers tear the ropes loose. They pull the crossbar off his shoulders and throw it on the ground. They rip the seams of his tunic at his shoulders and tear it off him.

  The evil man lies naked on the ground. Bloody stripes cross his back from his neck to his waist where they flogged him.

  The soldiers turn him on his back and drag him so his shoulders rest on the crossbar.

  The evil man cries out in a big agony.

  One of the boys of Jerusalem comes forward and raises his tunic and makes a piss on the evil man’s face.

  The soldiers grin on the boy and wait for him to be done.

  I feel a heavy sickness in my heart. I hate the evil man who stole my brother from me. I should feel glad to see justice on him, but all I feel is sickness. There is a thing wrong with me. I know it is wrong not to feel glad on the matter, but all I feel is a wish to vomit.

  One of the boys takes a stick and pokes at the evil man’s underparts.

  The evil man shouts and squirms.

  That is not a justice. It is a big dishonor to have your nakedness exposed. I wish for the evil man to die quickly and make an end on the matter. But I know he will not, because the soldiers will not allow. The evil man will die slow.

  One of the soldiers brings an iron spike and a wooden mallet.

  The evil man sees him coming. He tries to roll away.

  Four soldiers pin his arms and legs.

  The one with the spike and mallet kneels beside him.

  The evil man screams.

  I feel a knife in my heart.

  Two soldiers pull the prisoner’s right arm onto the crossbar.

  The evil man is an animal now—shrieking, kicking, biting, spitting, writhing.

  The soldier sets the spike at the center of the prisoner’s wrist.

  The evil man screams like a woman.

  The mallet swings down.

  The spike bites deep.

  The prisoner screams and screams and screams.

  I feel as I will faint. There is a thing wrong in me. I should feel strong. I should feel glad. I should rejoice that HaShem is making a justice.

  But I am in a deep sickness of my heart. I would run away if I could.

  My father grips my arm with iron fingers. “Be strong, Shimon.”

  All the people shout curses on the evil man.

  “Die, you Samaritan!”

  “Murderer!”

  “Dog!”

  The soldier swings the mallet again and again.

  The evil man’s mouth hangs open, but no sound comes out. When a man’s breath is taken away, that is a big agony.

  The soldier takes another spike and goes to the left wrist.

  He swings the mallet hard.

  The evil man’s body jerks like a fish on a gaff hook.

  Black spots fill my eyes. I cannot see. I cannot think.

  This is a justice HaShem is making on me. All the people say it is true. I know it is true. Only it does not feel like a justice.

  I close my eyes and lean on my father. I feel my younger brother, Andre, on my right side, holding me up.

  Andre says, “Shimon, are you well?”

  I am not well. I am shamed, that I feel no joy in my justice.

  The commander of the soldiers gives an order.

  I hear the soldiers shift around.

  The evil man screams more.

  The soldiers all make a big grunt together.

  The evil man’s screams cut off.

  I force my eyes open.

  They have lifted the crossbar overhead.

  The evil man hangs like a sack of stones. His mouth hangs open, but no sound comes out. All his body writhes in a big agony.

  The soldiers carry the bar to the vertical stake and lift it up and drop it in a notch on top. One man goes around behind and lashes the bar tight to the stake.

  The evil man’s arms pop out of joint. His face turns red, then blue, then purple.

  I hold my breath. They should
let the evil man die quickly.

  Two soldiers grab the prisoner’s feet and push them up until his heels catch on a thin board nailed in the stake.

  The evil man shoves himself up with his legs and takes a breath of air.

  He screams. I thought I knew a bad screaming, but I was wrong. This is a mighty screaming.

  The knife in my heart turns and turns.

  My brother Andre says, “Are you strong, Shimon?”

  I nod, but it is a lie.

  The prisoner’s upper legs seize in a big cramp. You can see the muscles tight like a board under his skin.

  I have had a cramp in my lower leg, and that was a bad agony. I never had my upper leg cramp. I never had both legs cramp at the same time.

  The evil man sags down until only his wrists hold him. Only the nails in his wrists. His face turns blue again.

  Two soldiers twist his feet sideways against the stake. Another sets a spike at the middle of his left foot and swings the mallet.

  The prisoner’s head snaps up, but he has no breath to scream.

  The mallet swings three more times. Each time, the stake shudders. Each time, the prisoner writhes like a snake in the fire.

  When the soldier steps back, the prisoner pushes up and draws breath. He collapses before he can make a sound.

  The soldiers spike the other foot.

  The prisoner pushes up again. Draws breath. Screams.

  This is justice.

  This is not justice.

  I do not know what this is.

  The soldiers step back. The commander signals to the people to make a justice on the evil man.

  The boys dig for more stones. They fling them on the evil man. One hits him full in the mouth. The boys shriek and jeer. “Yaw! Samaritan! Murderer!”

  Two young men elbow the boys away. One swings a walking stick hard across the evil man’s upper legs.

  All his weight drops on his arms.

  For an instant, I think the spikes will rip out, but the soldiers did their work well.

  The young men back off.

  The evil man pushes up again, sucking air.

  The boys rush in and jab sharp sticks at his chest, his face, his armpits, his belly.

  One boy smashes a fist-sized stone against the evil man’s underparts.

  I am angry now. I am angry on the evil man. I am angry on the soldiers. I am angry on the boys. I push forward and cuff two of them on the ears. “Stand back, children.”

  They spin on me, and there is a big anger in their eyes. When they see my face, they melt like wax and back away, staring on me and gibbering like monkeys.

  Now is the time to make the spit of dishonor. Only I do not think I can do it.

  My father and Andre come up beside me.

  I feel the heat of Andre’s rage. I turn to him. “You first.”

  Andre nods and steps forward, waiting, waiting.

  The evil man hangs still for an age before pushing himself up. His eyes are wedged tight shut. His face is a skull. He breathes in little gasps, over and over. Slowly, the blue in his lips gets a little color.

  Andre spits the prisoner’s face.

  The evil man’s face snaps as he has been struck.

  Andre steps back. “Now you, Shimon.”

  I have no breath in my chest. My throat feels dry as the Jericho Road. I reach for the waterskin at my hip and take a deep swallow of beer.

  The people behind us mutter words I cannot hear.

  But I know what they say. I am the kin, and here is the kinslayer, and now I should take my kin-vengeance on the kinslayer.

  A hiss rises behind me.

  I draw strength from them. I draw rage from them.

  I step forward. I hawk my throat. I spit the evil man’s face.

  A great shout rises up behind me.

  The boys shriek and run around the circle, hooting, scratching for more stones.

  I step back, finished. I have no more spit in my mouth. Bile burns the back of my throat.

  Our father steps forward and spits the Samaritan’s face. He wears a grim smile.

  I ask him, “Are you avenged, Abba?”

  He grins on me.

  I ask Andre, “Are you avenged?”

  He grins on me. He looks hard on my face. His eyes turn bright as knifepoints. “Are you avenged?”

  I do not know what to say.

  His eyebrows rise. “Are you avenged, Shimon?”

  I cannot look his eyes.

  I spin away, wishing I will vomit.

  They stole my brother from me. They stole my memory of the stealing of my brother.

  A man cannot be avenged for a thing he does not remember.

  That is why I can never be avenged.

  Chapter Seven

  Yaakov of Nazareth

  “Yeshua!” Shlomi Dancefeet’s voice shrieks from outside the house we have rented in Jerusalem. “Yeshua, I knew you would come!”

  I rush outside, wondering if it can be true. We have heard nothing from Yeshua since he left Nazareth, and that was six weeks ago. We had to come to the feast without him. I knew he would find us, unless he was killed by some bandit.

  Yeshua stands in the street. He is scorched by sun and wind, and he looks half-dead.

  Shlomi Dancefeet wraps her arms around Yeshua and gives him many kisses.

  I run to them and give Yeshua a kiss and a kiss and a kiss. “Yeshua! Are you well? Did you receive a word of HaShem from the prophet?”

  “I … heard a word of HaShem … myself.”

  My mouth falls open and my heart stutters. “You? You heard a word of HaShem?”

  He nods. Then his legs lose their strength.

  Shlomi Dancefeet screams.

  HaShem made me quick and strong. Before Yeshua’s knees can touch the dirt, I lunge for him. I grip him in my arms. He is lighter than two sticks, and I wonder where he has been, but my heart leaps and I am full of joy. My brother is a prophet. He was always a tsaddik, and that is a big honor, but a prophet is more. Our family will have a great honor now, more than any family ever did. Yeshua is not fitted to be Mashiach, but he is well fitted to be a prophet. Moses was the greatest prophet that ever lived, and he had a brother to be his strong right arm and his sword.

  From far up the street, Imma screams. “Yeshua!” She had gone to the market with our women to buy food for tomorrow’s feast.

  In an instant Imma is on us. She throws her arms around Yeshua, giving him a kiss and a kiss and a kiss.

  My brothers come out of the house and crowd around us, Yosi and Thin Shimon and Yehuda Dreamhead. Our women stand back, but they are smiling. Tonight will be a night of rejoicing. We all feared Yeshua was dead.

  I carry Yeshua into the house. There is a bench inside, and I sit, holding my brother in my arms.

  Our brothers sit beside us. Imma and our women kneel on the floor before us.

  “Yeshua heard a word from HaShem!” I feel my heart bursting in my pride. “Yeshua, tell us what HaShem told you.”

  Yeshua’s eyes flicker open. “HaShem told me that … now I may eat bread.”

  I do not know how to make a sense on this. “Eat bread?”

  He nods. “I fought a mighty battle with … the Accuser.”

  Ice surrounds my heart. That sounds like a big foolishness. Some say there is a mighty evil spirit, the prince of unclean spirits, who rules the nations. I do not know why they say so. The books of Moses say nothing on this Accuser. The prophets say nothing on this Accuser. The tale of Job tells of some accuser who is one of the sons of HaShem in the council of heaven. But the tale of Job does not say this accuser is an unclean spirit. And anyway, the tale of Job is only a tale.

  “What happened when you fought the Accuser?” Shlomi Dancefeet’s voice quivers, and her eyes are slits in her face.

  “He told me to eat bread.”

  This is a very big foolishness. “The Accuser told you to eat bread? And HaShem also told you to eat bread?”

  Yeshua nods. “I hav
e not eaten bread in many weeks.”

  It is worse than I thought. My brother walks beside himself. His mind has a bad sickness. He must eat soon or he will die.

  The women leap to their feet.

  Imma shouts orders. “Break bread and dip it in wine. Give it to him in small pieces. Shlomi Dancefeet, take a dinar and run to buy kefir at the market. Hurry. Run, run, you goose! Run!”

  My woman breaks off a piece from a round of bread.

  Imma pours a bowl of good red wine.

  I take the bread and dip it. “Yeshua. Take and eat.”

  Yeshua makes a weak grin. “Say the … blessing over bread.”

  I chant the words. “Blessed are you, Lord our God, King of the Universe, who brings forth bread from the earth.”

  His eyes are fixed on the bread. “And the blessing over wine.”

  Our brother Yosi chants the words. “Blessed are you, Lord our God, who creates the fruit of the vine.”

  I push the morsel in Yeshua’s mouth.

  He eats it like a wolf.

  Imma hands me a stone cup of beer. “Make him drink, Little Yaakov.”

  I hold the cup to Yeshua’s lips.

  He sips.

  It takes the fourth part of an hour to feed Yeshua a round of bread and half a cup of beer.

  When Shlomi Dancefeet returns with the kefir, Yeshua drinks it all down in many small sips and gives her a kiss and a kiss and kiss.

  “He should sleep,” Imma says in that voice that says the matter is decided. “Take him upstairs.”

  Here in Jerusalem, houses have wooden rafters to support a second floor. I carry Yeshua up the stone stairway. Yosi takes Yeshua’s cloak out of his pack, and I place Yeshua on it. Imma rolls up my cloak and puts it under Yeshua’s head.

  My heart burns to know more words that HaShem told Yeshua. I think HaShem should have explained the matter of who will be Mashiach.

  I whisper in Yeshua’s ear. “What else did HaShem tell you?”

  Yeshua’s eyes are closed. He makes a big smile. “HaShem said … today I am his son and he is my father.”

  An iron fist squeezes my heart. Those are the words of a mighty psalm, the song of coronation of the king of Israel.

  The son of HaShem is the anointed king of Israel. The son of HaShem is Mashiach.

  Imma’s eyes shine. “The man of HaShem said my son is to redeem Israel. Blessed be HaShem.”