Madman

by Tracy Groot

  To this Jew, this stranger whose motives no one could trust or comprehend, Polonus owed a debt he could never repay. “Oh, Antenor. I can breathe again. No effort in it at all, and I didn’t know there had been. I feel . . . capable, again. All the dark is gone.”

  “I’m sorry I left you to it.”

  Kardus was pleading with the man, gesturing widely. Laying out a case to the man in the boat.

  Polonus looked at Antenor. “What are you doing here?”

  Antenor pointed the blade of grass at Tallis, who sat alone a short distance off. “He wouldn’t leave you to it.” He looked to Kardus and the man in the boat, and shook his blade of grass at them. “Oh, I’d love to be in on that conversation.”

  “Who is he, Antenor?”

  “Well, well, well now. Isn’t that the question. I may know his name. He may be the one I’ve heard scraps about. Jesus, from a town called Nazareth. He has something of his own academy over there. A traveling academy, and his disciples go with him. But who is he? Well—that’s the question.”

  “Another Diogenes?”

  Antenor squinted. “Perhaps less morose, and I never heard of Diogenes doing things like this. Wouldn’t Callimachus love to be here right now.”

  “And Aristarchus.”

  The two did not speak the questions they wanted answers to most. Their mouths couldn’t even form the words. What power could a man wield that can calm a tempest and send demons fleeing? How did he do it? What would he expect of Kardus? What was his price?

  Who was this man?

  Maddening questions, drumming at them both—and they were teachers with no answers.

  Something was happening in the boat. Kardus was begging now, loudly. His voice came even to where they sat near the boulders where the beach began.

  “I only want to come with you! Please! Let me come with you; I’ll do anything you ask. Just let me come. Please—I’m begging you.”

  Polonus straightened, and he gripped Antenor’s arm. “Did you hear that?” he breathed. “Kardus’s voice! His own voice! Oh, to hear his voice again . . .”

  They did not hear the man’s response, for his back was to them. But they saw Kardus’s face, and Polonus instinctively rose to his feet. Kardus had been his responsibility much too long, and Polonus saw on his face great disappointment.

  Anger rustled. The man said no to Kardus. How could he do that? How could anyone say no to this pitiful man with such ravaged features—scabbed hands holding the cloak together, a weather-abused face, burnt and cracked by the sun. The man had other disciples—why not Kardus? Was it because Kardus was not a Jew? Did the man think this pagan would offend his other Jews?

  The man spoke to Kardus, and another look came: As Kardus turned the words over in his mind, he slowly took his seat again. Polonus watched intently, and sat down himself only when Kardus’s face had finally smoothed. It wasn’t happy but smooth. With his head down, eyes on the bottom of the boat, Kardus listened to the man. He nodded occasionally, and Polonus saw a tear drip from the end of his nose.

  Kardus dashed at the tear, then looked in amazed disgust at the back of his hand. He put both hands in front of him, his face dismayed—then a sudden smile broke on his face. He glanced at the man and laughed.

  Polonus’s heart ached at the sound, such a sorely missed sound. He wondered what the man had said to make him laugh.

  They spoke a little longer; then Kardus climbed out of the boat. The man stayed in, and the man’s friends pushed the boat off from shore and climbed in. As they oared the boat about, the man kept his eyes on Kardus, the former madman of the Gerasenes. Though the man himself had done what no one else had, he seemed as joyful for Kardus as if he long knew him—as if he were Polonus or Samir. As if he were Jarek or Kes. As if someone else had done the deed, and he marveled along with the rest. He watched over his shoulder as long as he could. The boat paddled away, the other boats following.

  Don’t go, Polonus said to him in his heart. I wish you wouldn’t go.

  Antenor rose and brushed off sand. “Well. Perhaps Mistress Kes has heard by now, and perhaps not. I haven’t seen her in the crowd. I think I’ll take myself to the inn and tell them to set an extra place for dinner tonight. I like bringing good news to that place. Polonus . . . I’ll see you again soon. And I am so—”

  But emotion choked what he wanted to say. Antenor patted Polonus’s shoulder and gripped it, and then he left.

  Polonus recognized Bahat`avi, Kardus’s friend from the inn. Tavi was the first to leave the crowd and go near Kardus. They watched the boat for a long time, the two of them, until it was far away. Then Kardus saw his childhood friend. Tavi said something Polonus couldn’t hear, apparently about Kardus’s appearance.

  Kardus looked down to survey the mess that was him, and before he looked up Tavi suddenly embraced him, filth and all, nearly knocking him off his feet. Bek`eshan came and stood near.

  Cautiously, one by one, many people on the shore began to creep forward and close around Kardus, and soon Kardus was obscured from his view. Many patted him on the back, and Polonus heard exclamations and laughter. These would be the people who had long known Kardus, known his family, had connection with the inn.

  Others were not so interested in Kardus. Some dark looks followed the boat. Some people, perhaps the owners of the pigs, began to debate with one another, gesturing angrily at the place where the pigs had gone down, where bubbles still rose, wondering whom to hold responsible—perhaps they dared not wave the bill beneath the nose of a man capable of such things while he yet remained on their shore.

  Some, who had not a vested interest in the pigs, nor in Kardus, stared at the retreating boats and at the former madman speaking with his old friends. They shook their heads, as if at a loss of what to make of it all. They spoke in low tones, the first discussions to play out for generations. They knew they were a part of something extraordinary, and they already imagined telling it to their grandchildren. I was there the day the man came across the lake. . . .

  What they did not know was how it would end. If he would come back. And how his coming would be. They didn’t even know his name. They did not know if the miracle with Kardus would stick, and they would watch him. Oh yes, they would watch him for a long time, for they had known him long. They did not know the rest, yet, of what they would tell their grandchildren.

  I wish you would stay, Polonus said to the distant boat.

  Polonus watched Kardus speak with his old friends for a time. After a long, last look at the boat, he slipped away.

  Polonus stood before his tomb home, trying to decide what to take with him before he went inside. He noticed the stones lining the path to the door—someone had straightened them. He gazed at their smooth curve.

  “Where will you go?” said a voice behind him. It was Tallis.

  “I don’t know. I hadn’t got that far.”

  “It’s good to see you again, Master Polonus,” Tallis said. “It hadn’t been.”

  Polonus twitched a smile. “I think I remember that sense of humor.”

  Tallis came beside him and regarded the stones as he did. He looked at Polonus. “How do you feel?”

  “A little ridiculous. Like I’m floating. Do I look like I’m floating?”

  Tallis looked him up and down, looked at his feet. “You’re not floating.”

  “I feel like I could fly. Like I need to hang on to rocks because there’s nothing to hold me to earth anymore. And if I feel like this . . . I can only imagine how Kardus feels. I also have a dazzling headache.”

  “I wonder if you’re hungry. We brought a basket, Antenor and I. I don’t know what happened to it.” He scratched the back of his head and chuckled. “Bit of a storm on the ridge.”

  Polonus looked at Tallis, surprised. “I am hungry. Very hungry. I can’t remember the last time I ate. Maybe the last time you—” He suddenly grasped Tallis’s shoulder. “Thank you for that,” he said earnestly. “Thank you for all the times you brought t
he basket.”

  “You remember?”

  His eyes misted. “I do. Dimly. And I remember saying vile things to you.”

  “How about you come back to the inn with me, Master Polonus?” Tallis said gently. He looked at the doorway to the tomb home. “How about you don’t even go in there.”

  “All my research . . .”

  “Well . . . I’d say it pretty much comes to nothing now.” He turned to survey the Galilee. “We were like scholars working out a theorem in long debate. Along comes this fellow, like Aristarchus, and he says a word and walks away. Solves it, no matter how hard you worked, or how close you got.”

  “Or didn’t get.” Polonus looked at the darkening waters. “I suppose it is like that. Solves it. Walks away.”

  “You did the best you could until he came. For that alone . . . I have a great deal of admiration for you, Polonus. So do Kes and Samir. How about you come back to the inn with me?”

  “Do you think Kardus will want me around?”

  “He’ll need you around. He’ll need an old friend.”

  Who had straightened his line of stones? He’d promised himself he’d not touch them until Kardus was whole again.

  Tallis put an arm about the older man’s shoulders and led him away, Polonus looking over his shoulder. Such a small detail in this array of events, scattered stones made straight.

  XXI

  THE INN RECEIVED ITS OWN AGAIN; the air, at last, made right.

  The Parthian slave felt the repair; he sometimes studied the sky to ponder it. The dancing boy knew of it, and he didn’t study the sky, he played. Kes knew: Jarek no longer felt so sharply absent from the place. Instead, all felt secure, shorn up, hemmed in—made whole. The air made right, generations back.

  In the three weeks since Kardus came home, the inn became not a wayside resting place, but a destination. Never before had the inn been a destination, save for locals who came for good food and wine. It made more money than it ever had, and Kes and Arinna couldn’t keep up with the baking. Tallis helped, when he could, and Shoshanna came. Samir added a makeshift oven to the kitchen yard, and the inn folk talked about building an addition. There wasn’t any talk, yet, of Tallis returning to Athens. They were much too busy for that. And Kardus . . .

  Kardus presided over the inn as no innkeeper had before. Not Jarek, and not Jarek’s father. For no one had ever come to the inn to hear the innkeeper speak, but they came now, bursting the place at the seams. They had to lodge guests in the barn, but the guests didn’t care. They put up tents near the garden; they strung their wash between the olive trees. The landscape became colorful, like a little tent city. Like a festival.

  New wind blew in this region of the Decapolis. Oppression was gone, beaten way back east. One day the oppression would slither back to challenge the new lodger at the inn. It would challenge, and would prevail, but for Two Truths, and Quandocumque impellunt, repelle, and most of all, the one Kardus called Across the Sea. For across the Galilee dwelled one who would not put up with it, and it gave Kardus and the people at the inn great courage. He was powerful enough to dispel thousands of demons, and he was on their side: it was all they really knew about him, and all that really mattered.

  Fear lost its torment and was soon forgotten.

  There were so many people at the inn that Kes never knew if she served a paying guest or a visiting stranger. Arinna knew—she always seemed to know if someone had a meal coming or not. There were so many people constantly in and out that the inn folk occasionally made a dash for the shore, to gulp fresh air and feel empty space beside themselves, to gaze on the waters and wonder flittingly about the other side of the lake, until guilt trotted them back to the clamor at the inn. And they didn’t mind it so much when they got back. It was a party atmosphere, bustling and joyous, the best kind of madness.

  Polonus and Tallis went constantly for supplies. Samir helped Kes hire two new hands to work outside, and Arinna hired two to work inside. Bek and Tavi helped when they could, keeping an eye on the place, watching Kardus to see if they thought he needed a rest.

  Truthfully, Bek and Tavi spent more time in the inn than on the lake. Nothing like this had ever happened before, not these crowds of people, not this kind of miracle—not in these parts. For the novelty of seeing all the people, and being a part of it, for their propriety share in this family, Bek and Tavi stayed around.

  People came one by one or ten by ten to hear Kardus speak. Most of the day, and all evening long, he sat on a stool in the corner, telling his story. Arinna made him a cushion for the stool, and Zagreus often sat at his feet.

  The stream of visitors did not abate. If anything, after three weeks, it increased. People who had already heard Kardus’s story came again with a friend, and later, the friend brought a friend. Antenor came one day with the group of Alexandrian actors. Hector came with the widow of Theseus. And Philip with Julia, who cried with joy when she saw Kardus. The whole place threw up its arms the day Shamash-Eriba came with his men, just to hear Kardus speak.

  Rich and poor, educated and ignorant, notorious and law-abiding, from places close and places very far away they came to hear the former Gerasene demoniac. Some brought charms and amulets, in case a few demons had remained. Some brought relatives who needed the same miracle.

  And all who lived in the region watched, and they waited.

  They watched to see if the miracle would stick, and so far, for three weeks it had. They waited to see if the man would return, and so far, he hadn’t. And the amazing idea came, then, that perhaps his motive was pure: He came, and he helped, and he left without asking a price. There were people like that in this world, they told each other, selfless people who would do such a selfless thing. There were people like that, you know.

  Yes, an extraordinary thing had happened, like nothing else in these parts, and to the people belonged a singular dignity—for Kardus had remained to stay a part of them. It wasn’t in his nature to stay, it never had been. But stay he did, telling his people what great things God had done for him, how he had mercy on him, and the people listened because he was Kardus, their Kardus, their own local legend whose ill fame was ill no longer. They listened too because much more had happened with the former demoniac, and the people who knew him came to ponder it.

  “He’s different,” some speculated, not happy they couldn’t say how.

  “He’s content,” others noticed, not sure if good would come of it. The old Kardus had never been this content. The old Kardus couldn’t stay put to save his life, but it seemed this one wouldn’t budge. Seemed like he didn’t want to go. Seemed like he wanted to stay, and be a part of . . . them.

  Night after night, for three weeks straight, Tallis heard Kardus tell his story until Tallis could tell it himself. He did, sometimes, to folks like the dockworkers at Lower Hippos, when they saw he fetched supplies from the warehouses much more often. He’d tell what had happened, that the lunatic was no longer lunatic, and told them to come to the inn for themselves. Nobody could tell it like Kardus, and he never tired to tell his story. Not even at the third watch of the night, when a man came far from the north with his cruelly vexed son.

  Tallis had third watch that night and had, at first, refused to rouse Kardus. But there he was behind him, belting his tunic, and he softly told Tallis that all was well, he would see to them.

  The man was in the doorway, and a small figure was behind him on the porch. “Are you the one?” the man asked anxiously of Kardus, lowering his voice when Tallis informed the man they had sleeping guests. “Are you Legion?”

  “I am Kardus,” the young man said. “I am the one you seek.”

  The man’s face, already tight with worry, now crumpled in anguish. “My boy . . . I don’t know what to do. I’ve tried everything. He suffers terribly in his dreams at night, he is terrified all the time—something is wrong with him! He doesn’t act like our boy anymore, and we only want him back. His mother is beside herself. Please—” The man impulsiv
ely clutched Kardus’s sleeve. “I’ve heard of you. If you can do anything . . .”

  Kardus told Tallis to shut the door behind him, and he went outside with the man and his boy. Tallis shut the door and barred it. He didn’t like it when things like this happened. Bad enough when he sometimes heard it.

  The story was compelling, and Kardus knew how to tell it. But when people actually came expecting Kardus to do for them what the man had done, it made Tallis uneasy. The man was the one in charge, wasn’t he? The way Kardus spoke, the man Jesus was everything: liberator, protector, helper. An instrument of Samir’s Most High.

  It somehow bothered Tallis to see Kardus take things in hand with these people. It made him nervous. He spoke these things to no one, not even to Polonus, with whom he now shared an easy friendship. Polonus would tell him to explain why he felt the way he did, and he couldn’t. He sat at a table, uneasily listening for what he might hear outside, until he finally went and fetched himself an amphora and a cup.

  Arinna had taken to leaving a few oil lamps burning in the common room every night. With all the rooms constantly filled, a guest was bound to have his lamp go out and have need of a ready light. Tallis took one of the lamps and set it next to the one where he settled with his wine. The twin flames gave a soft glow to his space. It was pleasant at night, so quiet. Kardus’s stool with its colorful cushion stood in the corner of the common room, casting a tall, wavering shadow. This was a nice change from a clogged room.

  He poured himself a cup of wine and savored the first sip. Arinna, luckily, had amended her former decree, since the inn was making more money, and they served the good stuff once more, ordering twenty times as much as they did from a wine seller in the Gaulanitis.

  Tallis rested the cup on his cheek as he looked at the stool in the corner. He wondered if this was how it had been at the academy. Only now, Kardus had a stool for a podium, the common room for his temple steps. He wondered if any of the former students of Kardus had been here yet. It was good to talk to Hector the other day. He thought the woman who was with him was his wife, and Hector had blushed when he asked—Hector! Tough, hardened Hector, corporeal god of the third watch. The pretty little woman had blushed too, and Tallis had to suppress a smile. Hector quickly informed him that—