Damascus

by Christos Tsiolkas

  Thomas apologises, first to Benjamin, then to Agatha, and finally to Saul. He points to the summit of the mountain. ‘Lord forgive me,’ he says meekly. ‘I’m going up there to pray.’

  His final words are to Timothy. ‘Lad,’ he says calmly, ‘know that you are already loved by the Lord.’

  Saul walks down the mountain, past the graveyard of ruined dwellings, the history of his people. His feet bash against thistles and rock; a snake slithers out of a collapsed wall then whips away from Saul. He doesn’t see it: the world is invisible to him. The squall in his head will not cease; he wonders if he will collapse, fall to the earth and expire on this ancient ground.

  Of course Timothy had wanted to come with him. ‘Not yet, not yet,’ Saul had roared. ‘You are still a Stranger; I will collect you and take you there when I return.’ He had thrown the boy off him, and he could not bear to look at his companion as he pushed him away. For what he remembered was much worse than the deranged Twin’s blasphemy: it was the fact that the boy had not understood—that his terror was not caused by the Twin’s vile insult, but by the violence between the men. For the boy was a Stranger; he could cut the boy, but he would always remain a Stranger, remain uncomprehending. King David, the history of their land, they mean nothing to him. He will never understand.

  Saul cannot see the earth below him, the endless sky above, the immortal city ahead because the storm inside him will not abate. That tempest is doubt. He can bring a thousand souls to Israel but they will remain oblivious of what that means. It is not in their blood. Under the burning sun, Saul groans and says, ‘It is not in Timothy’s blood.’ His brethren are right, all of them who mock or fear his mission amongst the Strangers—they are right. The Lord doesn’t care about the rest of the world.

  Suddenly he stops. He can now see the sky above him, the earth beneath his feet, the city rising. Lord, please forgive me. He will bring Timothy to Jerusalem because he cannot bear to be alone any longer. These last few years with Timothy have banished his loneliness: given him an opportunity for love, to take comfort in the embrace of another. This is why he must bring the boy to Jerusalem—not for the Lord, but for his own need, his own hunger. He cannot bear to leave this boy behind.

  Saul falls to his knees on the stony ground. He is sin, he is evil. The storm inside him rages and scorns. He will never conquer the serpent that coils around his loins—its poison floods his heart and mind. What arrogance to believe he is loved by the Lord! How vain to think that he has been chosen by the Saviour. He is not chosen, he is outcast. Weeping, still on his knees, he looks beyond to the city. It is an abomination for someone as corrupted as he is even to dare approach that holy place. But as he peers across to the shimmering citadel, the sun falls gleaming on a barren outcrop of jagged rock outside the walls. The judgement ground. And as if in dream, Saul sees the shadow of the defiant girl, the one he condemned to death. He hears her voice: ‘If you are without sin, then cast your stone.’ And there, beyond the judgement ground, the abhorred and desolate place of execution. No poor souls hang from crosses on this day: the Romans would never dare such an outrage so close to Passover. But what cannot be erased is the sight of the collapsing frames of the gallows. Even from this distance, the broken planks are black shadow, the wood is soaked in blood.

  Saul’s eyes are dry. He rises, lifts his eyes into the open and forgiving and eternal sky.

  ‘Thank you, Yeshua, for sharing this burden.’

  And comprehending it all—his selfishness, his sin, his weakness—the storm has gone. He can see clearly and he can hear. The world is singing around him. Saul adds his voice to the song. ‘Lord, forgive me, Lord, I thank you.’ And with that understanding, wearily now but also humbly, Saul makes for the western gate of the city.

  He turns into the dark narrow alley and she is there. Saul’s chest tightens on seeing how Channah has aged. Her back against the stone wall, her skirts rucked up, her feet unshod, she is pounding grain. Her hair is covered but a damp grey lock is plastered to her cheek. Her naked arms are so thin he can see clearly the bones beneath.

  A child, a boy, is squatting over the granite mortar, holding it still. Is it her grandchild? The boy grimaces as the dust from the pounding sprays his face. He rubs at it and then sees Saul down the lane.

  ‘Grandmother,’ he says, ‘there’s a man there.’

  ‘Who is it?’

  His sister half turns and Saul realises that she is blind.

  He steps forward. ‘Channi,’ he softly, ‘it’s your brother, Saul.’

  She grips tightly to the pestle. ‘Hold it still,’ she barks at the child, and then spits onto the ground. ‘I have no brother called Saul.’

  Because of his learning, and now because of his faith, he sees he has always been lost to her.

  ‘Don’t you come closer,’ she warns.

  But he dares her wrath and walks towards the grandmother and child.

  Clearly fascinated, the boy holds firmly onto the bowl, but his eyes take in Saul’s face, noting the scars and the bruises, the dead and useless eye.

  Saul crouches next to the boy. ‘I am your grand-uncle.’

  He goes to pat the boy’s hand, and the boy, still squatting, moves as elegantly as a cat away from him.

  With a moan, Channah lets go of the pestle and it falls to the dirt. The boy rushes to grab it and give it back to his grandmother. But she smacks him away and lowers her veil over her face, rocking back and forth.

  ‘Devil, devil,’ she wails, ‘why have you returned?’

  He lifts a hand to raise the veil, to see her wizened and ancient face, then stops, fearing his touch will enrage her.

  He chooses his words carefully, knows that for her, family is everything. ‘Is this our Gabriel’s son?’

  The boy stands next to his grandmother, placing a protective hand on her shoulder. His young bright eyes are narrow with suspicion. ‘I am Judah, son of Gabriel.’

  ‘And where is your father?’

  The boy tugs at his grandmother’s dress. ‘Should I tell him?’

  But the old woman is hunched over, in tears. Saul goes pale. His beloved nephew is dead.

  But as if hearing the ill-omened thought, the boy rushes to speak. ‘He is at work. But he’s coming back and he’s going to beat you for making my grandmother cry.’

  The defiant words of the child are the balm that is needed. Brother and sister burst out laughing. The boy scowls, fearing they are laughing at him.

  Channah’s breathing settles. ‘Judah, this is your grandfather Saul, your father’s uncle. You must respect him.’ She wipes her thin lips. ‘Though he has no respect for us.’

  Saul cannot let this stand. This time he dares to touch her, brushing a hand over her shoulder. She lets it stay.

  ‘Channi, you cannot unmake me your brother.’

  Her head searches for the boy. ‘Judah,’ she orders, ‘help me up.’

  Carefully the boy and the man assist the old woman to her feet.

  ‘Are you hungry?’ she askes her brother.

  ‘I am famished,’ he replies gratefully.

  He helps his sister into the house.

  Cross-legged and no longer fearful, the boy is giggling at how much food the stranger is stuffing into his mouth. Saul winks at him and burps loudly and that sends the boy into peals of laughter.

  Saul pats his full belly and drinks from a cup of water. ‘Where is Ebron?’ he asks the child.

  The boy’s grin disappears. He looks anxiously towards his grandmother, who is seated on the first step of the doorway.

  ‘He died,’ she says quietly. ‘May his soul rest in peace.’

  Her head cocks; there are footsteps in the lane. A shadow falls over her.

  Gabriel is standing in the doorway.

  His nephew’s happiness is not in doubt. He pushes past his mother, ignores his son, and kneels before Saul, embracing him and kissing him again and again. And Saul can’t break the embrace, can’t release himself from this kindnes
s and love, this unforced and precious welcome. Here, in this man’s arms, he is not despised, nor feared, nor pitied. He weeps with joy and for what he has missed. On hearing Saul’s sobs, Channah bursts into tears.

  Releasing him but still gripping tight to his uncle’s shoulders, Gabriel examines Saul’s face, his scars, his ravaged skin. Saul has forgotten how handsome Gabriel is: the strength in his jaw and his neck, the honest intensity in his grave, wide eyes—the eyes that Judah has inherited—and he has to look away. He’s ashamed of the unmanliness of his emotions. He rubs his eyes.

  He steels himself; he has to ask. ‘And your wife?’

  Gabriel smiles. ‘She is well. She is at her sister’s—you will see her tonight.’

  He calls out to his mother. ‘Tonight we feast!’

  ‘There is nothing prepared.’

  Gabriel ignores Channah’s reprimand. ‘I’ll scour the neighbourhood. We’re going to have a banquet for my uncle.’

  Saul cannot stop himself. ‘The Saviour spoke of the prodigal son, of how he was welcomed back with great love and forgiveness. I am that son.’

  But his words cause a darkness to fall over the crowded room, as if a shadow has settled over them.

  Gabriel releases his hold on Saul. He turns to his son. ‘Go, Judah, fetch your mother.’

  The boy leaps to his feet. He stands close to his grandmother before departing, as if waiting for her permission to go. She nods, and he runs out into the street.

  Once they can no longer hear his running steps, Channah turns to Saul. She spits, and speaks. ‘That bastard is not our Saviour.’ The curse holds all the hate of the world.

  ‘Mother, watch your tongue.’

  But even the support of his nephew cannot bring peace. Gabriel has become the man of the family, and Saul is reminded that this was a position he neither had the courage nor skill to command.

  He knows he has to speak. He has to bring them towards the light. Only then can he lead them.

  He speaks gently. ‘He is the one who was promised by the Lord, Channah. He is our Saviour.’

  The old woman spits again, as if there is an endless reservoir of bile within her.

  ‘A criminal nailed to the cross? You say he is the one anointed by the Lord to save us?’

  Saul steals a glance at his nephew. Gabriel can at least look at him, though it is clear he also can’t countenance such blasphemy.

  ‘I have seen him, sister,’ says Saul.

  She lets out a scornful and disdainful laugh. ‘We all see ghosts, brother. I am blind and yet I see them all the time. You got duped by a ghost. That makes you the greater fool. Or in league with the devil.’

  He must make her see. If he can make her understand then he can bring the whole world to that knowledge.

  ‘Let me tell you his words,’ he begins. ‘Let me give you that understanding.’

  ‘Don’t you dare!’ she screeches, blocking her ears. Then, bitten by the furies, she drops her hands and turns, as if seeking him through the fog of his fear and his shame.

  She is blind but she is looking straight into him. ‘I know his words, I know what his mad followers claim of him. That we must love our neighbour as we love our own children. That we are not kin in blood but kin in spirit.’

  She inhales, taking in strength, and her next words are an explosion that tears through the room. ‘What kind of insanity is it to claim such a kingdom? What kind of devil would want me to love another more than I love my son? What kind of evil is such talk? Who is capable of keeping such commandments?’

  Her tone goes cold. ‘Only one like you, brother, who doesn’t know what it is to raise a child and to bury a child—only one like you could believe in such a Saviour.’

  In her house—and though it is now led by Gabriel, this hovel will always be her house—it means nothing that he has been called by the Lord. He is unmanned—unwifed and childless. But a greater outrage is that he thought that he could bring her guidance. His coming here doesn’t bring her closer to the Lord; it drives her further from Him.

  In the oppressive darkness, Gabriel offers light. His nephew answers for him.

  ‘You’re a foolish woman, Mother. You know nothing about the Lord and the law. We are also commanded to love our neighbour.’

  She releases another sneering laugh. ‘Yes, son, I am unlearned, and I thank the Lord for that. I am a woman, yes, and I gave birth to you. I know the Lord and I know our ways. All that matters is land and blood. May the devil take the Strangers.’

  Her head bobs, searching for her son. ‘Will you sacrifice Judah to a Stranger? Will you let him marry any Syrian or Arab or Greek whore he wants?’

  She has won. Her son has hung his head. To that, he can make no answer.

  Saul sighs. ‘Do you despise me that much, sister?’

  There is a moan, an agonised sound from the back of her throat. He cannot tell if it is avowal or exasperation.

  ‘I will leave,’ he says simply.

  Again the moan, but this time she also speaks. ‘Saul, stay. Don’t be a petulant child. That is the problem with all you men who remain unmarried.’

  Her knuckles rap against the doorway. ‘This is your home, Saul, even if you forgot about us for all those years. We are your family and this is your home.’

  To abandon it all. To suck on wine and forget his mission. To grow old with Gabriel and his children. To die and have sacrifices made for him at the Temple. To be home and be free of wandering.

  To never again be in light.

  Knowing this, he has to speak. If he doesn’t speak now, his faith cracks and shatters into doubt; if he doesn’t speak now, he betrays the light.

  ‘My family are now my brethren in Yeshua the Saviour. They are my brothers and they are my sisters. I cannot stay here.’

  She says something he can’t make out.

  ‘I can’t hear you, sister.’

  ‘Go!’ She roars it through her sobs. ‘Go, pursue your madness. This whole deranged city is full of madmen like you pursuing their insanity.’

  He embraces Gabriel. But Channah won’t let him touch her.

  He turns once, when he has reached the end of the alley. She is sitting on the step, her black shawl covering her head and her body. As if she wishes she weren’t there. As if she no longer wants to be in the world.

  James’s house is a narrow two-storeyed stone dwelling, its whitewashed walls tarnished with age. Two young boys are in the lane, pretending to be soldiers at battle. At the sound of his footsteps, the oldest drops his imaginary sword and gathers the younger boy close. He looks up at Saul fiercely.

  Quickly, Saul says in a hushed tone, ‘He is returning.’

  Relief sweeps across both the boys’ faces. ‘Truly,’ the older answers, ‘he is returning.’

  And then he calls out with gusto, ‘Papa, Papa, a friend is here!’

  Warily, Saul waits.

  James is at the door. His beard now greying and his body stout. A wicked thought: of course he’s grown fat; he sits here while we march across the world proclaiming the Lord. But the older man’s smile is kind and welcoming. Saul is immediately chastened.

  ‘Brother Saul, welcome, welcome.’

  James ushers him into the house. At first, walking into the interior darkness after the blinding glare of the Jerusalem sun, all that Saul can discern are moving forms and shadows. And that hands are reaching for him, arms are enfolding him, lips are brushing against his. The small rooms are filled with people, most of them pilgrims like himself, recently arrived for the imminent Passover. All of them, men and women, greeting him joyfully. He returns their embraces and their warm welcomes. As those greetings ring around him, he feels himself lightening, unburdened of his sister’s censure. And of the Twin’s obstinance. Channah and Thomas are both veiled in ignorance and in fear—they do not understand the wonder of what he has in this community of friends. These are his true brothers, his only sisters. They are his true family. Now he is home.

  As he tells Ja
mes of his journey, he unhooks the pockets inside his tunic and delivers the tithes he has faithfully collected from the Jews and the God-fearing Strangers of Antioch.

  James takes what is offered with gratitude. ‘These offerings will help feed all these hungry mouths,’ he says. And then, with his arm around Saul’s shoulders, he announces that a thanksgiving will begin.

  There is the breaking of the bread, and its passing from hand to hand around the circle, a morsel taken into every mouth, reminding them of the broken and resurrected body of the Saviour. Then the cup of wine is passed from hand to hand and mouth to mouth around the circle, the wine that recalls to them the spilled blood of their Redeemer. This is the miracle that is their thanksgiving feast. Warm in the love they all feel, Saul forgets that he is brother in blood to a woman called Channah and uncle in blood to a man named Gabriel. Here, in this circle, he is loved by truer brethren, and here in this circle he once again is revealed to light.

  In their joy and thanksgiving, in their song and their prayer, the light courses through him and he is on his feet, praising the Lord and praising the Redeemer promised by their Lord—and he knows, even though he cannot comprehend how it can be so, that he is singing the light in languages known and unknown to man. He sings for Israel, and he sings for the Strangers who are coming to Her.

  Slowly, one by one, their ululations and singing fall away. Saul is overcome by a feeling of depletion, as when he had previously exhausted his seed in the wickedness of lust. But unlike then, in this ecstasy the body is not sickened and his flesh and mind are not corrupted. The doubt that had bored into his heart at the house of his nephew has been vanquished. This bliss he feels now, bliss uncontaminated by sin, this proves the truth of his faith.

  And after the thanksgiving, their feast of love, then come the questions.

  ‘Did you travel this long distance on your own?’

  ‘No,’ he answers Sara, James’s wife, ‘I came with our brother Timothy.’

  ‘And where are you staying?’