Jesus said nothing more, felt his authority evaporate like moisture in the soil, and sensed the presence of an unworthy thought in his mind, still wavering but monstrous from the moment of its birth. He saw a flock of sheep crossing the slopes of the opposite hill, and both the shepherd and the sheep were the color of earth, like earth moving over earth. Surprise crept into Mary's tense face, that tall shepherd, that manner of walking, so many years later and just at this moment, was it an omen, but then she stared hard and felt less certain, for now the shepherd looked like any other shepherd from Nazareth as he led his tiny flock to pasture, the animals as halting as their owner. The thought that came to Jesus, that struggled to be spoken, until finally he blurted it, was, Father knew those children were going to be slaughtered. It was not a question, so there was no need for Mary to answer. How did he know, and this time it was a question. Your father was working on the Temple site in Jerusalem when he overheard some soldiers discussing what they'd been ordered to do. And then. He ran to save you. And then. He decided there was no need for us to flee so long as we didn't leave the cave. And then. That was all, the soldiers carried out their orders and left. And then. Then we returned to Nazareth. And when did the dream start. The first time was in the cave. Beside himself with grief, Jesus covered his face and cried out, Father murdered the children of Bethlehem. What are you saying, my son, they were murdered by Herod's soldiers. No, Father was to blame, Joseph son of Eli was to blame, because he knew those children were to be killed and did nothing to warn their parents. Once these words were spoken, all hope of consolation was lost forever. Jesus threw himself to the ground and wept. Those children were innocent, innocent, he said bitterly, incredible that a simple boy of thirteen should react so strongly when one thinks how selfish children can be at that age and how indifferent most people are to the misfortunes of others. But people are not all alike, there are exceptions for better and for worse, and this is clearly one of the best, a young boy weeping his heart out because his father did wrong so many years ago, but he could also be weeping on his own account if, as it would appear, he loved this father who was guilty. Mary put out her hand to comfort him, but Jesus drew away, Don't touch me, I am wounded. Jesus, my son. Don't call me your son, you are also guilty. Such are the hasty judgments of adolescence, because Mary was as innocent as the slaughtered infants, it is the men, as every woman knows, who make the decisions, my husband came and said, We're leaving, then changed his mind and without going into details told me, We're not leaving after all, and I even had to ask him, What is that screaming I hear outside. Mary made no attempt to defend herself. It would have been easy to prove her innocence, but she thought of her crucified husband, he too had been killed though innocent, and she realized to her shame and sorrow that she loved him even more now than when he was alive, so she said nothing, for one person's guilt can be assumed by another. She simply said, Let's go home, we have nothing more to discuss here, and her son replied, You go, leave me by myself. There were no tracks of shepherd or sheep to be seen, the desert was truly deserted, and even the few scattered houses on the slope below looked like slabs of stone at an abandoned building site, gradually sinking into the ground. When Mary disappeared from sight into the gray depths of the valley, Jesus fell to his knees and called out, his entire body burning as if he were sweating blood, Father, Father, why have You forsaken me, because that was how the poor boy felt, forsaken, lost in the infinite solitude of another wilderness, without father, mother, brothers, or sisters, and already following a path of death. Concealed by his sheep, the shepherd sat watching him from afar.
TWO DAYS LATER, JESUS LEFT HOME. DURING THIS TIME HE said very little. Unable to sleep, he spent the nights awake. He could picture the awful massacre, the soldiers entering the houses and searching for cradles, their swords striking, stabbing the tender little bodies, mothers in despair, fathers roaring like chained bulls, and he also had a vision of himself inside a cave he had never seen before. At such moments, as if great waves were slowly engulfing him, he wished he were dead or at least no longer alive. One question that he had not asked his mother bothered him, How many children lost their lives. In his mind's eye they were piled high on top of one another, like beheaded lambs thrown into a heap and about to be cremated in a huge bonfire, and when reduced to ashes, they would go up to heaven in smoke. But since he had not asked this when his mother made her revelation, he felt he could not go to her now and say, By the way, Mother, I forgot to ask you the other day how many of those infants in Bethlehem passed on to a better life, to which she would reply, Ah, my son, try to put it out of your mind, there could not have been more than thirty, and if they died, it was the will of the Lord, for He could have prevented the massacre had He so desired. But Jesus could not stop wondering, How many. He would look at his brothers and ask himself, How many. How many bodies, he wanted to know, did it take to tip the scales against his own salvation. On the morning of the second day, he said to his mother, I can find no rest or peace of mind in this house, you stay here with my brothers, for I am going away. Mary raised her hands to heaven, horrified and close to tears, What are you saying, my eldest son, ready to abandon your widowed mother, whoever heard of such a thing, what is the world coming to, how can you think of leaving your home and family, what will become of us without you. James is only one year younger than me, he'll take my place and provide for all of you, as I did after your husband died. My husband was your father. I don't want to talk about him, I have nothing more to say, give me your blessing for the journey, but with or without it I am off. And where are you going, my son. I'm not sure, perhaps Jerusalem, perhaps Bethlehem, to see the land where I was born. But no one knows you there. Probably just as well, but tell me, Mother, what do you think would happen if anyone recognized me. Hush, your brothers might hear you. One day they too will have to know the truth. But have you thought of the risk, traveling at a time like this, with Roman soldiers on all the roads searching for the rebels of Judas the Galilean. The Romans are no worse than the soldiers who served under the late Herod, and they're not likely to kill me with their swords or nail me to a cross, after all, I've done nothing wrong, I'm innocent. So was your father and look what happened to him. Your husband may have been wrongfully crucified, but his life was not innocent. Jesus, my son, the devil's taken possession of your tongue. How do you know it isn't God. Don't take the name of the Lord in vain. Who can tell when the name of God is taken in vain, neither you nor I, God alone can tell, and I doubt whether we'll ever understand His reasons. My son, where on earth did you pick up such ideas at your age. Who knows, perhaps men are born carrying the truth inside them, but do not speak it because they're not completely sure it is the truth. You've decided, then, to leave us. Yes. Will you come back. I don't know. If that dream is troubling you, by all means go to Bethlehem, and go to the Temple in Jerusalem and consult the teachers, they will advise you and put your mind at rest, then you can come back to your mother and brothers, who need you. I can't promise to return. But how will you survive, your poor father didn't live long enough to teach you everything he knew. Don't worry, I'll work in the fields or tend sheep or persuade some fishermen to take me out to sea with them. Wouldn't you prefer to be a shepherd. Why. I don't know, a feeling, that's all. We'll see what turns up, and now, Mother, I must be on my way. But you can't go like this, let me get you some food for the journey, we haven't much money, but take some, and take your father's pack, which fortunately he left behind. I'll take the food but not the pack. Your father didn't have leprosy. I cannot. One day you'll weep for your father and be sorry you didn't take it. I've already wept for him. You'll weep even more, and you won't be asking then what sins he committed. Jesus made no attempt to reply to these words. The older children, unaware of the conversation between him and their mother, gathered around Jesus and asked, Are you really going away, and James said, I wish I were going with you, for the boy dreamed of adventure, travel, of doing something challenging and different. You must stay
here, Jesus told him, someone has to look after our widowed mother, the word widowed slipped out involuntarily and he bit his lip to suppress it, but what he couldn't suppress were his tears, because the vivid memory of his father suddenly caught him like a ray of dazzling light.
After the family had eaten together, Jesus departed. He bade his brothers farewell one by one, embraced his tearful mother, and told her, without knowing why, One way or another I shall always come back, and adjusting his pack on his shoulder, he crossed the yard and opened the gate to the street. There he stopped, as if reflecting. How often we find ourselves on the point of crossing a threshold or making a decision, when further consideration causes us to change our mind and turn back. Mary's face lit up with jubilant surprise, but her joy was short-lived. Jesus lay down his pack, stood mulling over something, then turned back, passed between his brothers without looking at them, and went into the house. When he reappeared a few moments later, he had his father's sandals in his hand. Silently, his eyes lowered as if modesty or some hidden shame prevented him from looking anyone in the eye, he put the sandals into the pack, and without another word or gesture walked off. Mary ran to the gate and her children followed, the older ones indifferent, it seemed, no one waved good-bye, because Jesus didn't look back even once. A neighbor who was passing and saw Jesus leave asked, Where's your son off to, Mary, and Mary replied, He's found work in Jerusalem and he'll be staying there for a while, a barefaced lie as we know, but this matter of telling the truth or lying is complicated, better to make no hasty moral judgments, because if one waits long enough, the truth becomes a lie and a lie becomes the truth.
That night, as everyone in the house lay asleep except for Mary, who could not help wondering how and where her son was at that hour, whether he was safe in a caravansary, or huddled under a tree, or between the rocks of some dark ravine, or, God forbid, taken prisoner by the Romans. She heard the outside gate creak, and her heart leaped, It's Jesus coming back, she thought, momentarily overcome with joy and confusion. What should I do, she was reluctant to open the gate, to appear triumphant, to greet him with words such as, It didn't take you long to come back after giving your mother a sleepless night. That would be humiliating, better to say nothing, pretend to be asleep, let him creep in quietly, and if he lies down on his mat without even saying I'm back, tomorrow I'll pretend to be surprised that the prodigal son has returned. However brief his absence, her happiness is great, for absence too is a kind of death, the difference being that with absence there is still hope. But he's so slow in coming to the door, who knows, perhaps he changed his mind again, Mary cannot bear the suspense any longer, she will peer through the chink in the door without being seen and run back to her mat should her son decide to enter, and if he shows signs of leaving again, she'll be able to stop him. Tiptoeing on bare feet, she went to the door and looked out. The moon was bright, and the yard shone like water. A tall, dark figure, moving slowly, came toward the door, and the moment Mary saw him, she put her hands to her mouth to keep from screaming. It was not her son, it was the beggar, covered with rags as when she first saw him, but now, perhaps because of the moonlight, those rags were suddenly like sumptuous robes that stirred in the breeze. Terrified, she locked the door, What can he want from me, she muttered with trembling lips. The man who had claimed to be an angel moved to one side, was now right at the door, yet made no attempt to enter, Mary could hear him breathing, and then she heard the sound of something ripped open, as if the earth was being split to reveal an enormous abyss. The massive shadow of the angel appeared again, for a brief moment it blocked the entire countryside from her sight, and then, without so much as a glance at the house, he walked to the gate, taking with him, uprooted, the mysterious tree that had sprouted outside the door some thirteen years before, on the very spot where the bowl was buried. Between the opening and closing of the gate, the angel changed back into a beggar and disappeared behind the wall, this time in total silence, dragging the leafy branches with him as though the tree were a plumed serpent. Mary opened the door cautiously and looked out. The world was bright beneath a remote sky. Near the wall of the house was a hole where the plant had been pulled out, and from there to the gate a trail of soil sparkled like the Milky Way, if that term existed in those days. She thought about her son but without heartache now, surely no harm could come to him under such a beautiful sky, serene and unfathomable, and this moon like manna made from light, nourishing the earth's roots and springs. Her soul at peace, she crossed the yard and, fearlessly treading the stars on the ground, went to open the gate. She looked outside, saw that the trail ended a short distance away, as if the iridescence of the leaves had been extinguished or as if, another flight of fancy on the part of this woman who can no longer make the excuse that she is pregnant, the beggar had reverted to his angel form and finally made use of his wings to mark this special occasion. Mary pondered these strange events, and they seemed to her as simple and natural as her own hands in the moonlight. She returned to the house, took the oil lamp from its hook on the wall, and went to take a closer look at the deep hole where the plant had been. At the bottom of it lay the empty bowl. She reached in and lifted it out, the same plain bowl she remembered but with little earth left inside and no longer shining, an ordinary household utensil restored to its proper function. From now on it will be used to serve milk, water, or wine, according to one's taste and means, and how true the saying which reminds us that everyone has his hour and everything its time.
Jesus found shelter on the first night of his travels. It was dusk when he came to a tiny hamlet just outside the city of Jenin, and fate, which had predicted so much ill fortune since the day he was born, relented on this occasion. The owners of the house where, with little hope, he sought shelter turned out to be hospitable people who could never have forgiven themselves if they left a boy of his age out in the open all night, especially at a time like this, with so much fighting and violence everywhere, men being crucified and innocent children hacked to death for no reason. Although Jesus told his kind hosts that he hailed from Nazareth and was on his way to Jerusalem, he did not repeat the shameful lie he had heard his mother tell when she said he left to do a job. He told them he was on his way to consult the teachers of the Temple about a point of holy law that greatly concerned his family. The head of the household expressed his surprise that such an important mission should be entrusted to a mere boy, however advanced in his religious studies. Jesus explained that he was entrusted with this matter as the eldest son, but made no mention of his father. He ate with the family, then settled down under the lean-to in the yard, which was the best they could offer a passing traveler. In the middle of the night the dream returned to haunt him, although this time his father and the soldiers did not get quite so close and the horse's nose did not appear around the corner. Do not imagine, however, that the dream was any less terrifying, put yourself in Jesus' place, suppose you dreamed that the father who gave you life was pursuing you with drawn sword. Those asleep inside were completely unaware of the drama taking place in the yard, for Jesus had learned to hide his fear even while he slept. When the fear became unbearable, he would instinctively cover his mouth with a hand to muffle the cry of anguish throbbing in his head. In the morning, he joined the family for breakfast, then thanked them for their hospitality with such courtesy and eloquence that the whole family felt they were momentarily sharing in the ineffable peace of the Lord, humble Samaritans though they were. Jesus said good-bye and departed, his host's parting words ringing in his ears, Blessed be You, O Lord our God, King of the Universe, who guides our footsteps, words he repeated to himself, praising that same Lord, God, and King, provider of all our needs, as can clearly be seen from everyday experience, in accordance with that most just rule of direct proportion, which says that more should be given to those who have more.
The Collected Novels of José Saramago Page 98
