Children of God

by Lars Petter Sveen

  “Listen here, little one,” said Joseph. “I’ve got no problem with you having all this lot here, but that girl, the one helping out now, she’s got the mark of the beast on her. I know, I know, you probably think it’s weird for us men to be talking about it, but we do. My customers can’t see me having all these children here, and then one of them’s got the mark of Satan himself. You see what I mean?” David nodded.

  “So you understand what I’m saying, little one?” said Joseph, ruffling David’s hair, kissing him, and sending him off.

  That night, David couldn’t sleep. He lay awake, while all the others snoozed quietly like small animals hibernating around him. It was only when morning came, and he was about to drop off, that he realized David IV was missing. He got up, woke up the others, and asked them all if they knew where David IV was. Had anybody seen David IV the day before? The evening before? Nobody could give him a clear answer, so David sent them all out looking, all the Davids and all the Bathshebas, except for Bathsheba VII.

  Later, when the band had come back and explained what had happened, David was struggling to breathe. There was something in his throat, down in his body, something tight tying itself onto him, and at the same time, all that darkness flowing out of the walls, out of the eyes of the ones around him.

  “Get away,” he started shouting. “Away, go away, get away from me!”

  The light only came back when Bathsheba VII washed his face and stroked his hair. He managed to sit up, but Bathsheba VII said he should lie down. She told him that all the others were helping Joseph, and he, their king, should just lie down. She would take care of him. While David lay there, being cared for by Bathsheba VII, he began to think through everything that had happened, and everything that had to be done. Everything that had been built, everything that had been torn down, everything that would be destroyed, and everything that would be rebuilt. Kings and wars, queens, but no voice of God yet. Just darkness.

  The night before, while David had lain awake, listening to the others, David IV was lying hidden behind the corner of a building down in the Tyropoeon Valley. It was Bathsheba I and Bathsheba II who’d reported what had happened to David. They’d gone out in the morning, on David’s orders; they’d searched and searched and spotted some soldiers running off in the direction of the Pool of Siloam. Several adults stood there calling out above them, as a child was lying there for all to see. The soldiers took the child, lifted him up, and carried him away with them. Bathsheba I and Bathsheba II recognized him as David IV, and they realized that he’d been killed, as his eyes and mouth were open, although he couldn’t see and wasn’t breathing, and his whole body was dyed and wet with all the fluids that had run out of him.

  While Bathsheba I and Bathsheba II had stood there, staring at David IV being taken away from them, several youngsters gathered around them. It was the Temple Dogs, and out of their ranks stepped a boy who was a head taller than the others. It was Saul, the king of the Temple Dogs. He pointed at the Bathshebas and said to them, “Go up to your king and tell him what you’ve seen here today. Tell him that it was me who took one of his warriors from him, just as he took one of mine from me.”

  When David heard those words, darkness came, and he couldn’t breathe.

  “What have I done?” David whispered, lying there.

  Bathsheba VII leaned over him. “My king,” she said, “just lie still.” David looked up at her, his eyes coming to rest on her bright red wound. It looked as if her skin there were made of something else. “It’s the mark of the beast,” said Bathsheba VII.

  “I know what it is,” said David, as he’d been told by others what had made that mark. Children who’d been left out in the wilds or left to die in the water could be found by the Devil. Then the Devil would make the child his own, putting his mark on it and sending the child back out into the world, bigger and stronger, but damaged, to show what people were in his eyes.

  “Have you met the Devil?” David asked her.

  “It was water that burned me,” she replied.

  “Water burning?”

  Bathsheba VII nodded.

  “What happened?” David asked.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “I just remember that it burned.”

  “Who left you with these wounds?”

  “I can’t remember,” she said. “I dream about it, it’s everywhere when I sleep.”

  “How old are you?” he asked.

  Bathsheba VII fell silent, and then she answered: “Ten.”

  “Ten?” he asked.

  “Ten,” she said.

  “Come here,” said David, pulling Bathsheba VII close to him. He took off her clothes, he took off his own, and he laid her down beneath him. It had to be done; this was how the king chose his queen. And Bathsheba VII was a good queen, she was quiet, apart from a slight whimper when he penetrated her. Afterward, he pushed her out from where they lay, and told her to dry herself and get dressed. He thanked her for everything she’d done, and got up.

  “Where’s the king going?” she asked.

  “I’m going to get everything ready,” he said.

  The sky was gray, a cold wind was blowing, he could feel the rain coming before it fell. This was the time when they froze most, and David thought of David IV lying out there on the ground all night as he passed away. He prayed to God that David IV had been taken up to the Lord straightaway, that he hadn’t been lying there crying out to his king for help.

  David gave them the same orders as before. They were all to stay indoors. Only in the middle of the day, when the sun was at its brightest, could they go out into the town, and then they had to be back in good time before evening came. He helped out at Joseph’s.

  The days went by, and they were all the same. They had their rhythm, they had their jobs to do, they had their small duties. When all the Davids and Bathshebas were inside, David went out alone. He came back in the evening, but didn’t say anything about where he’d been or what he’d been doing. He inspected his band thoroughly, checking that they were all there before they went to sleep. Bathsheba VII lay by his side now, and nobody said anything about it. He was their king, and he alone chose who would be his queen.

  At night, the same dream came to him. The plain, the green grass, the storm of darkness, and the light blinking softly just before he woke. He made everything ready, as the dream was speaking to him. David was sure of this, there was a pattern ahead of him, and all he had to do was to follow the pattern.

  Then, early one morning, with the night still hanging over the city, David went around and woke them all up. He told them to take everything they owned, put on all their clothes, and follow him. The Davids and the Bathshebas asked what was happening, but David told them to be quiet.

  “I’ll explain,” he said, “but do as I say now, quickly.”

  When everybody was ready, David told them to follow him. They left Joseph’s house and headed out into Jerusalem. They walked all the way to the city walls, where they were stopped by the guards, but David spoke to them. He told them his band were leaving and would not be coming back.

  “Just let us through,” he said, “and you’ll never see us again.”

  The guards smirked and let them out.

  David and his band walked for a while along the road that led all the way to Caesarea. A large group of men and women with donkeys and carts stood there, waiting for them. David went over to one of the men and pointed at his band. He spoke to the man and put a purse in his hand.

  “I trust you,” said David. “I’ve sent word to Sychar too, where somebody will be expecting them all with you. If any of them are missing, if only a single one of them has gone, you will be punished.”

  The man nodded, and David went over to his band. “Don’t be afraid,” he said, “as I’m sending you away. This man and the rest of the group will take you with them to Sychar. When you get there, you’re on your own. I don’t know what’s waiting for you there, but you’ll be safe. Don’t come back
here, as Jerusalem, the city of peace, is no longer a place for us. You must go out and find a new land, and that land is where you will live.”

  All the Davids and Bathshebas started shouting; they turned around to look back at the city they were leaving, and the Bathshebas tore at their hair and fell to their knees.

  “Listen to me, as I’m your king,” said David. “I know you follow me, but this time you must follow others. David II will be your leader now. He’ll lead you onward and take care of you. Do as I say, and do as David II will say.”

  With those words, he took David II aside and whispered to him: “Listen, I’ve only given that man over there half of the money. I’m giving the other half to you. Give him the money when you get there, but don’t show it to anybody. He doesn’t know which of you has it.”

  David II took the other purse; David put his arms around him and wished him good luck. Then he went over to Bathsheba VII. She said nothing. She just stood still, staring at him.

  “My queen,” David whispered to her, “listen to me. I’m sending you away. You won’t have that name anymore. You will be remade, away from all the bad things that have happened here. Your name will be Esther now.”

  Tears poured from her eyes.

  “I want to be there with you,” she said.

  “No,” said David. “If anybody’s there with me, it can’t be you. Nobody should be there with me.”

  David bent down and kissed her on the cheek.

  “Go with these people,” said David, “but if anything should happen, if you should find light somewhere, follow that light. I’ve dreamed about it, I’ve seen that it exists. It’s gone now, but it exists. When you find it, then follow it. You’re Esther, you’re free.”

  She nodded at David, and her king bent down and kissed his queen once again before he left her. He left them all and went back to the city. The guards let him in, as he was alone. The band would never come back to him.

  David didn’t return to Joseph, as all the coins he’d given away had been stolen. There was nothing to go back to there. No, David didn’t go to the home he’d lost; he went to the Temple, to the den of thieves, where Saul was sitting, waiting for him. The evening before, David had sent a message to Saul that he would come to petition for peace between them.

  On his way up the stairs to the Temple, David suddenly dropped to his knees. But he got up again. “Not here,” he said, walking back into a side street. He got down there and prayed to the Lord for forgiveness for everything he’d done. For the money he’d stolen, for the way he’d betrayed Joseph. For sending his band away, for breaking his ties to his queen. And he prayed for the strength to do this last thing, this very last thing.

  When he went back up the stairs to the Temple, his feet carried him all the way.

  The Temple Dogs were waiting for him at the Temple; everything was ready. David looked around, waiting for the darkness to come, but only a pale shimmer of day fell over him. Everything was ready, this was the only thing that was unexpected. That the darkness didn’t come.

  They took him to a quiet square. He didn’t recognize it and didn’t know where they were. That didn’t mean anything. He’d gone with them, but he was with his queen. He remembered the way she smelled, the way her eyes were like a sky full of stars. He only lost hold of Esther when Saul spoke.

  “So you’re David,” said Saul, staring at him. “You’re short, how can somebody like that be a king?”

  “The Lord appoints us,” said David. “The Lord dethrones us.”

  “The Lord,” said Saul, snorting dismissively. “There’s no Lord here. Look what he’s given us. Don’t talk to me about the Lord.”

  “I have to go soon,” said David. “You’d better say what you want to say before it’s all over.”

  “What are you talking about?” asked Saul. “You’ve got whatever time I give you, and when that’s over, there’ll only be one king left in Jerusalem.”

  “They don’t want us here anymore,” said David. “After what we’ve done, we’re like grasshoppers in the fields. I told them to follow me when you led me here. I said they’d find everything they want to drive out of their holy city.”

  Saul looked at the others and asked if anybody understood what he was talking about.

  “They’re coming now,” said David. Just as Saul was about to cut him off, the guards stormed around them. They grabbed the young ones and threw them to the ground, pulling them by the hair and bellowing at them. Saul pulled out a knife, but two of the guards ripped the knife out of his hands and punched him so hard that he was left lying there.

  David stood completely still, with his hands raised up to the sky. He couldn’t feel or hear anything. Everything had been made ready. David closed his eyes and didn’t open them again, even when the guards took all the young ones, King David, King Saul and his band, and led them out of Jerusalem to Golgotha, toward a pit that had been dug in the ground. There they were all led to the Lord, through a great and powerful darkness.

  9 ALL WE HAVE IS THE WATER

  I

  My brother Simon and I had been following the Master for some time when Anna found me. We were already a small band of women, men, and children who didn’t belong anywhere, whom we gave food to and looked after. I was with the Lord, his words were alive inside me. But even though I had all faith, so that I could move mountains, I was nothing. Everything was still in pieces. I understood in part, and it was only when Anna came that I was able to know even as also I am known by God.

  I did all I could to be close to her. When I touched her, I swear it was as if I were no longer one person. I was no longer Andrew: I was Andrew and Anna. Her dark hair curled up, her brown eyes and little nose, her fingers so clean and cool, and her pale neck when she lifts up her hair, rolling it all up together. Even the battered ear she always hides: it’s like a soft, sacred stone. She showed it to me the first evening we slept together. Her small toes that almost turn white when she washes them in water, that small mark on one leg. We belong together. I’m bound to her; she’s mine.

  Simon was glad that Anna found me. He still remembers the time, before we met the Master, when I left him. We had only each other, and I think he thought that if he lost me, then he lost everything he was too. I left to find something else, something else than what we were. On my journey, I met Anna, and that was when I abandoned her too. I couldn’t find peace. I searched and searched, but my route led me back to Capernaum and the Sea of Galilee again.

  Peter didn’t say much when he met me, he just put his arms around me. “I won’t let you leave again,” he said. “I shouldn’t have let you leave.”

  Since then, he’s said that the Lord led me back to him, and that perhaps it was the Lord again who led Anna here to me.

  Jesus found us by the Sea of Galilee. There are many of us in Capernaum now; he was there often. But when everybody talks about everything that happened, I don’t say much. Neither Simon nor I wish to remember the evening Simon came back with our father’s body, or all the mornings when the two of us waded with the water up to our knees, drawing up the net. Nobody was there then. Nor all those evenings we lay hungry and full of doubt and uncertainty. We come from nothing; all we had was the water. Sometimes I froze so much that my fingers felt detached.

  When I’m with Anna, it’s as if my fingers glow.

  When she came back, at first I thought she was another woman, but one who reminded me of the one I’d left. There had been days when I’d seen her walking ahead of me, there had been nights when I’d heard her waiting out in the darkness. But that evening, when I came walking up the road toward Nazareth and she stood there with Orpah and little Esther, it was all like a dream. I had the sun on my back, and they were bathed in the warm light. Anna didn’t say anything, she just stood there. I had to touch her, I had to be sure that it was really her, in flesh and blood.

  I did all I could to be close to her those first days. I walked with her and carried the tubs when it was her turn to
fetch water from the spring. I rounded up the children in the evenings and took them to the women, simply in order to see her and be with her. I sang with Judas for the children. My deep, low voice and his sharp, high voice. I did woodcutting and tried to make small animals, but I couldn’t do it until some of Jesus’s brothers showed me. I think Anna liked it when I carved something resembling a chick, a bear cub, or a lion cub, for the children trying to sleep.

  It was a new life for Anna; it was a new life for both of us. We came closer to each other, trying to get used to the way we slept, the way we woke, the way we said our morning prayers and ate, the way we washed in the evening, and the way our hands fit together. We sat together for our evening meals, her leg against mine, fingers touching fingers, nobody noticing. The weave that binds us together now was woven at that time as we circled around and around each other.

  Once, one evening when I couldn’t find her and got Simon to come and look for her with me, we found her sitting cold and crying next to a pile of stones, some distance from where we were gathered to sleep. I asked what was wrong, but she didn’t answer. She just got up, took hold of me, and put her arms around me. I told her to come back to the others.

  “It’s night,” I said. “Sitting here and freezing won’t get us anywhere. Come on, take my hands, and then we’ll go back.”

  Anna told me only later what was wrong with her, why she would wake up in the night screaming and shouting, where that small, pale mark on her leg came from, and how her ear had been crushed. I’d never asked her; I had no desire to hear how she’d been hurt. But I understood that the evil she was carrying had become part of her. It wasn’t something that would go away, it wouldn’t disappear, she carried it with her every day, and it throbbed and beat and pushed away at her every night. Anna told me everything because it was the only way she could cope with carrying it and holding on to it. Transforming it with her own words stopped her wounds and memories from turning into an illness setting into her skin, her blood, her bones. They just stayed small scars, small signs that evil won’t triumph, signs that the Lord God has given us a body to live in, to be alive in. Painful and heavy, soft and light.