by Anthology
Jesus pushed him aside, not roughly, but as if parting a curtain. He looked at the priests and temple attendants. “Who is it you seek?”
One slender hatchet-faced man with acne scars high on his cheeks, drew himself up. “Jesus of Nazareth.”
“I am he.” Jesus took a step forward. “You should not trouble these others.”
A servant darted forward to grab Jesus by the wrist and tug him roughly toward them. Peter drew a sharp little fish-gutting knife and slashed at the man’s face. He took off half his ear. The man retreated screaming and tension spiked.
Jesus gave Peter a reproving stare, then bent and picked up the portion of ear. He reached out and pressed it to the man’s head and held it there for several heartbeats. Jesus’ hand came away bloody, but the ear remained whole.
Perry’s jaw hung open. Perry couldn’t see any swelling or redness or any other sign that it had ever been cut. He had agreed with scholars who dismissed the miracle stories as storytelling techniques needed to fix Jesus in the pantheon of heroes of that age. Virgin births were commonly ascribed to great men. Multiple accounts existed of magicians repeating Jesus’ miracles, Simon Magus the best known among them. The miracles were the equivalent of Parson Weems’ fantasy of George Washington chopping down the cherry tree. They were meant to illustrate a point, not to be taken literally.
And yet he’d just seen Jesus reattach a severed ear. It wasn’t possible, and Perry wasn’t alone in believing that. Those who had come to arrest Jesus nervously fingered their swords and staves. The disciples and followers dropped to their knees, not in submission to the captors, but in reverence for what the other side considered blasphemous sorcery.
Jesus opened his arms. “When I was in the temple, you did not come against me. Now you are here. This is your part to play. You are part of the darkness. Do what you must.”
The priest nodded and two of his men started forward. Peter likewise headed for them, so Perry played the part ordained for him in the Gospel of Mark. He stood up and screamed as if terrified. He ran toward the priest and his men. Two of them grabbed him. Perry twisted from their grasp, shrieking as loudly as he could. The men tore away his linen cloth, and Perry dashed into the shadows.
His performance had the expected effect. Giving in to their own panic, Jesus’ followers scattered. The priest’s men gave chase until called back, then they bound Jesus and led him off to the palace of the high priest.
Perry had run, but not far. He’d headed back toward Jerusalem, but crouched down beside the road, half hidden in the ditch beside it. He waited and watched, then as the priest and his entourage came down the road, he crawled from the ditch, crying and begging for mercy.
One of the men grabbed him by his hair and hauled him up, then slapped him. “You said the meek would be blessed. What of the craven?”
Jesus glanced back. “More courage lurks in quiet than ever lived in boastfulness. He is not your concern.”
The priest held up a hand. “Are you one of his followers?”
Perry nodded.
“Bring him. A witness who is not paid would be useful.”
Perry’s captor spun him to the earth at the rear of the procession, and then kicked him so he’d march along. Perry scrambled to his feet and sidled along, ever watchful. He expected nothing on the way to the palace, but after Jesus’ questioning, and before he was taken to Pi-late, Kevin Smelton had to strike. It was the only real opportunity not already proscribed by the gospel accounts of Jesus’ last night.
As they returned, the denial of Jesus had begun in earnest. The same faces that had smiled as Jesus walked toward the garden now turned away from him. Dogs shrank back into alleys to growl. Wicked children ran up and smacked his legs with sticks. Mothers called their children to come away as if Jesus was a leper; and in any real political sense, that was exactly what he had become.
The high priest’s palace would have seemed humble measured against other buildings that bore that description, but in Jerusalem it was a grand building, a strong one, hinting at authority without challenging it. Caiaphas, as much a politician as he was a religious leader, had the sense not to invite the Romans to imagine he was a rebel. The palace’s appointments remained modest, as did the high priest’s robe.
Perry crouched at the back of the main hall, hidden in the shadows of a pillar, as the high priest and his counselors questioned Jesus. He couldn’t hear what was being said, but hardly needed to. Caiaphas became increasingly angry. The crowd around Jesus gesticulated wildly, stamped their feet, and screamed at him. And yet, in the midst of that storm, Jesus remained serene, his answers delivered in a voice so quiet, the violence around him had to ebb so he could be heard. Then it kicked up again, growing in intensity until Caiaphas tore his own robe from throat to navel and backhanded Jesus.
The others joined in, more primates than men, yelling, hitting, spitting and cuffing. Jesus made no pretense at protecting himself, though some of the blows spun him around. He careened about within the circle, until one heavy clout dropped him to his knees and blood dripped from a split lip.
The sight of blood dripping seemed to shock Caiaphas. With a hand he summoned those who had brought Jesus from the garden. They led him off, and Perry with him, down a narrow stairway to the building’s subterranean chambers. A wooden door swung open on squeaky hinges, then rough hands propelled Perry into a dark pit strewn with sour straw. Moonlight poured in through a narrow window high in the outside wall, transfiguring Jesus’ face as he lay there dazed.
Perry rose and moved to check him, but a shadow rose in the cell’s far corner. A filthy, naked youth launched himself at the fallen man, a rock clutched in a raised hand. Kevin Smelton, his eyes wide, his teeth bared, roared inhumanly. “Jesus!”
Without thinking, Perry tackled Kevin, smashing him into the cell’s uneven stone wall. Kevin hit hard and wetly. The boy gurgled, the stone hitting the ground only seconds before he did. His body shuddered and his breath came in ragged, rasping gulps.
Perry rolled him onto his back. “Damn it!” The young man had a dent in his head over his temple. One pupil looked normal, the other was dilated so almost no color was left. Depressed skull fracture. “No, this isn’t what was supposed to happen.”
“It often is, alas, when fragile bone strikes rock.” Jesus came up on a knee and pressed a hand to Kevin’s wound. The boy convulsed, and then his breath came evenly and quietly.
Smiling, Jesus sat down, crossing his legs. “He’ll be good as new, unless . . . was there something wrong with him before?”
Perry blinked. “You’re speaking English.”
“I should hope so. I majored in dead languages at university. I may be a bit rusty, however. Been speaking Aramaic for the past three years.” Jesus lifted one of Kevin’s eyelids, and then brushed a hand over his damp forehead. He rubbed his thumb over his forefingers, smearing blood mixed with sweat. “Let’s see, residual traces of antipsychotic drugs. Schizophrenia?”
Perry nodded. “That’s what I was told.”
“Excellent. Have that fixed up in a jiffy.” Jesus placed both hands on Kevin’s head, bowed his own, and then smiled. “He’ll be right as rain. A little DNA splicing, some code rewritten, and he’ll be just fine. All this will be a bad dream.”
“You majored in dead languages? At university?”
“That’s right.” Jesus frowned for a moment. “How do you like working for Timeshares?”
“What?”
“Oh, dear boy, you are confused, aren’t you?” Jesus hugged his knees to his chest. “I work for Meantime. We acquired Timeshares in a hostile takeover about, well, doesn’t really matter how long after you worked for them. The stories that came down through the files were very impressive. We still follow some of the procedures, like not allowing tourists at some of these critical junctures in time.”
Perry sat back, his head hitting the wall. He didn’t mind the pain, save that it told him he wasn’t dreaming. “But you’re Jesus and you�
��re from the future? You can’t be. I saw you die.”
Jesus scratched at the back of his neck. “If you saw me die, then I know who you are. I read your report. So here’s the thing of it. Up the line our equipment is a bit more sophisticated than the duct tape and zip ties you were using to hold things together. Certain perturbations started hitting us. We figured out that we had a bit of a crisis as concerned Christianity. We’d relied on your report about what happened, but back-timed someone in your wake, and what we found was that, basically, there was no historical Jesus. We had to lock it down, so here I am.”
“But . . .” Words caught in Perry’s throat. If there actually had been a historical Jesus, there’d be no need for the man sitting before him to be here. “But how could you come in after what I’d seen . . .”
“Look, even in your time you know that time is elastic. Your little friend here, what did he do? Kill me?”
Perry nodded.
“Well then, that created a new outcome, but you were able to cut back in here and prevent it. That same sort of elasticity of time allowed us to predate you. Time can be pretty forgiving—you’re here, now, with me, and a younger you is out there somewhere angling for a good seat to see me scourged tomorrow.”
“But you’re telling me that the first time around, there was no historical Jesus.”
“There didn’t need to be a historical Jesus. This whole gospel of peace, it was a coming thing. The Buddhists already had it figured out. And the Essenes, there are thousands of them within fifty kilometers of us right now. They’ve got their own millennialist gospel of peace. We are pretty sure that the first time around this is what Peter and the others based their teachings on. Someone did a book of sayings—like the Gospel of Thomas and that type of book from the era. They tagged it with a name so the Romans could hunt for their ‘leader’ all they wanted, but since he didn’t exist, he couldn’t be found. The teachings got popular, so did the teacher. Miracle stories got grafted onto things. Since the Romans respected antiquity, folks also inserted stories that fulfilled Jewish prophecies. That makes the new religion legitimate in the eyes of the Romans. Then Paul got a hold of it and, well, perfect product met perfect salesman.
“It was a brilliant piece of social programming that actually did succeed in changing the world.” Jesus smiled. “The message didn’t need the man.”
“But you’re saying it’s all a lie.”
“No. What I’m saying is that a beautiful picture doesn’t need a frame. And it is a very beautiful picture.” Jesus brought his hands together. “You’ve seen, down through history, how the Christian philosophy has moved people toward peace and love. Critics will point out that plenty of men have gone to war in the name of God, but the peace movements all flow from that same spring, and they’re more powerful. A bit after your time, after you clean up that global warming mess, you get the next great awakening—like the Renaissance, only better. The nanobots I used to take care of your friend and reattach that ear, they come from that time. Rather old-school now, but they still work splendidly.”
Perry started shivering, and it had nothing to do with the night’s chill. He stared at his hand, bloodstained and trembling. “But I believed in you. I believed what I saw in your eyes.”
Jesus came over and took Perry’s hands in his. “You know what you saw in my eyes?”
Perry shook his head, unable to meet the man’s gaze.
“You saw my belief that if I failed, mankind would be lost. Maybe the Essenes would have risen. Maybe Buddhism would have come on sooner and harder, but Christianity was our best bet.”
Perry looked up. “I truly thought you were the Son of God. What I saw changed my life. I tried so much to be like you.”
“But that was never the point, was it?”
Perry frowned. “I’m not sure I understand.”
“The whole point of Christianity is not to become like Jesus. He was God and Man. An impossible task. All anyone was ever asked to do was to become his best self and to live in love for all others.” Jesus shook his head. “Too many Christians become sheep and a few others wolves; so very rare are the shepherds.”
Perry chewed his lower lip. “Because of you I changed my life.”
“No. You changed your life because you knew it was wrong. You were not happy. I became—your idealization of Jesus became—a catalyst for change.” Jesus released Perry’s hands. “But are you happy now, or have you so pulled away from who you were that you don’t recognize yourself anymore?”
Jacobsen’s remark echoed back through Perry’s mind. “You wouldn’t have liked who I was before.”
Jesus shrugged. “Who am I to sit in judgment?”
Perry arched an eyebrow.
“Sorry joke, I know. Just among the crew . . .” He sighed. “The question is, do you like you now?”
I used to be a wolf, now I’m a sheep. “No.”
“Then be who you are. Be the best you possible.” Jesus stood and offered Perry a hand. “That’s all anyone can ask of us.”
Perry pulled himself to his feet. “Are you . . . are you actually going to die?”
“The answer to that question is not really one your time is ready to hear.” Jesus shook his hand. “Thank you for saving me. You came here through the Mark 14:51-52 loophole?”
Perry nodded.
“You know what the other half of that is then?”
Again, Perry nodded.
“You’ll have to decide if that’s part of who you are.” Jesus gestured and Kevin Smelton’s unconscious form vanished. “My way will be easier on him. I’ll send you back, too.”
Perry caught the man’s wrist. “Do you really know what you’re doing?”
Jesus hesitated, then gave him a bit of a smile. “No, but I know why. That makes all the difference.” He slipped his wrist from Perry’s grasp, then gestured, and Perry found himself sucked back through time.
Rolf Jacobsen got up from his desk and walked to the sideboard. He poured himself three fingers of a very old scotch. “I don’t know what to say, Perry. Jesus is a time traveler from our future. Are you sure?”
Perry nodded. “Absolutely. I’m back and my retrieval device wasn’t used. How else would I get back here?”
Jacobsen took a healthy swallow of the amber liquid, and then pointed the glass toward Perry. “Well, a divine being . . .”
“No, he was as human as you or I.”
“Perry, if what you saw got out . . .”
Perry scratched at his beard, suddenly anxious to get rid of it. “Wouldn’t matter. Religious Christianity has too much power. It would be labeled as nonsense. I’d be branded an atheist lunatic and the backlash against Timeshares would destroy the business.”
Jacobsen half smiled. “Well, we do have a grateful senator on our side.”
“No, you don’t.” Perry stood up, crossed over to Jacobsen, and poured himself a glass, but only sipped. The scent, all peaty and smoky, filled his head and burned the back of his throat. “If you tell him his son was healed by Jesus, he has proof of the divinity of Christ. He won’t keep that a secret, and that will strengthen the theological side of Christianity. That would destroy our future, too.”
Jacobsen returned to his desk. “Well, these are not problems for you to be concerned about, Perry.”
Time to be me again. The best me. “You’re wrong.”
“What?”
“You’re going to tell me that decisions like this are made above my pay grade, but that’s what created this mess in the first place. Your responsibility is to Timeshares, I get that, but this isn’t about your company.” Perry drank more, and then smiled. “So, what you’re going to do is to tell the senator that I caught Kevin, I forced his meds into him, and then brought him back. We left during a thunderstorm, with lightning strikes nearby. As near as we can tell, the time stream flux combined with the drugs and lightning to create a permanent time-release situation with his meds. Kevin will be fine from now on, just a freaky chance sid
e effect of his vacation.”
Jacobson laughed aloud. “You can’t fool a senator with such nonsense.”
“Jake, this is a guy who thinks the world was born in 4000 B.C.Science is not his strong suit.” Perry’s eyes hardened. “What was his cover story for the time he’d be away?”
Jacobsen sat down and hit a few keys on his computer. “He and his son were taking a fishing trip in the wilds of Maine.”
“Good. Get depositions from folks saying he was never there. Have a look-alike actor holographed out celebrating with an escort or three. Senator Smelton begins to talk, that will distract him enough so you pop and drop someone into the recent past to plant solid evidence on him and destroy his career and credibility.”
The Timeshares CEO’s head slowly swiveled around. “Who are you and what did you do with Perry?”
“You asked if the old me would have recognized the new me. The answer was no. But the old me would recognize who I am now, you think? You remember how I was back then? Ask yourself how much closer to the old me do you want me to get?”
Jacobsen held his hands up. “I see your point. But, as long as we’re talking extortion . . .”
“What do I want?”
“I’ll make a list.”
“No more lepers. I want back on the payroll, commanding the Stopwatches. And you have to send me back, one more time.”
“Really, to say good-bye?”
Perry shook his head. “To finish the job.”
By the when Perry arrived, the stone had already been rolled away from the tomb and the guards had run off. Ducking his head, Perry entered and checked. No shroud, another mystery solved. He didn’t know if Jesus had opened the tomb, or the rest of his crew had done it, but it really didn’t matter.
He’d come in using two verses from Mark’s Gospel, and scholars had linked them with another. Mark 16:5-8. Perry smiled, and seated himself on the stone shelf where Jesus’ body had lain.
Mary Magdalene and another woman hurried to the mouth of the tomb. They stopped, horror on their faces when they saw him.
