by Roger Curtis
‘The whole village is poor.’
He pulled out the two coins in his pocket and held them out to her.
‘What’s that?’ Tessie asked, intrigued by the smaller and brighter of the two.
‘A pound.’
‘Pounds are paper.’
‘Not anymore.’
‘Liar! I know because I had one once, after Aunt Ethel died – but they soon took it off me.’ She rummaged in her own pocket. ‘That’s what I’ve got. Three farthings.’
Their brief absorption with one another was interrupted by shouts of malice and retribution ringing across the meadow. Thomas thrust the coins into her hand, but the smaller one fell into the mud. Ignoring it, she tugged him down onto the floor of the channel and together they squirmed their way towards safety. After a hundred yards or so the channel ended abruptly in a vertical earth wall. Beyond the obstruction Thomas could hear the soft gurgle of running water.
‘They’ll have to dig this earth away when they let the water through the tunnel,’ Tessie explained.
The men’s expletives continued to swoop and dive through the still summer air, but there was no attempt at pursuit. Through the waving grass Thomas could see them repairing the damaged brickwork with demonic energy. ‘I think they really would kill anyone who broke it now,’ Tessie said. Thomas believed her.
They climbed the bank and made the greater safety of the stream. To Thomas’ surprise the water was not cold. For the first time he could take stock of his position.
Tessie stood with the water almost to her knees. To Thomas the damage to her face was apparent even in her reflection. He raised his eyes slowly, fearful of what he might see.
‘They could do that to you?’
‘It will heal. It has before.’
‘Would you let me… touch it?’ His embarrassment was acute.
He took a step forward in the water and raised his hand to her cheek. This time he could see the tears that flowed. He tried momentarily to substitute Mirabelle’s fair image but instead saw only injustice written there. ‘I shall have to go back,’ he said.
‘Why don’t you stay?’
‘Because they will come looking for me.’
‘Who?’
‘My aunt from Laurel House. And my cousin Mirabelle.’
‘House? I know Laurel Cottages. I don’t know of any house. I think you’re strange. But I wish you would stay. When the sun begins to go down, then you can go. At least that will give us time to wash our clothes.’
‘Here?’ Thomas was alarmed.
‘There’s a backwater where no-one can see.’ She took his hand.
The reeds opened upon a limpid pool, its banks a patchwork of mosses of the most subtle green, the winged life above its surface vibrant in the warmth and brilliance of the light falling through the trees. Its charm imposed an irresistible urgency on the two children. They entered and the reeds closed decisively behind them.
Later they climbed the new embankment of impacted earth. The girl’s hand was warm in his as they neared the top. ‘You still don’t believe? Look around. What do you see?’
‘There are no rails,’ Thomas said.
‘And that surprises you? The rails can’t get here until the embankment is finished. And your tunnel. Look at me.’
Her eyes were as blue as the sky and her hair the colour of the distant cornfields. ‘I think it might rain,’ she said.
‘But it’s bright sunl…’ Thomas’ eyes were drawn upwards, against his will for she continued to fascinate him. He felt her hand slipping away from his. There was a sharp bite of air against his cheek. A cloud as if from nowhere passed across the face of the sun. With sinking heart he saw others following, swirling across the sky until, in what seemed like seconds, the whole expanse was uniformly grey. Then Thomas looked down.
The rails were there, a little rusty, but solid against his toe. Weeds growing amongst the shingle had had time enough to encroach upon the wooden sleepers. Beside the track were dense thickets of brambles. He turned to look back. Far down the track, beyond the limits of certain recognition, a small figure hobbled upon a familiar stick. Thomas began to lift his hand to wave, then thought better of it: the matter could be resolved later.
The brambles clutched at his body as he forced his way down the embankment. The path became precipitous, seeming to lead nowhere. He followed its near vertical descent with a sureness that in other circumstances might have been suicidal. He had a new-found confidence that made him feel invulnerable. When he reached the bottom it set him apart from the youth standing distraught in the stream, contemplating the black orifice into which the waters flowed.
When the boy prevaricated it was no chance thing that directed the toss of the coin and his choice of call. The power of the arm that doubled the boy had only purpose, and held no malice. He regretted throwing the stone but, if the end had been determined, what point was there in not hastening it?
The force of the stream seemed to lessen and the elements of the water began to assume more harmonious murmurs. Thomas looked up to a new quality of light filtering through the swaying branches. A fresh gust brought down a shower of drops. He felt it as a ritual cleansing, washing away inhibition and bestowing purpose. In the reflection in the pool he noticed for the first time the width of his shoulders and the rake of his jaw. He smacked a fist into the palm of his other hand.
The owner of the voice that carried sweetly across the lawn was no longer invincible. She would deserve his answer, and he was set to deliver it. And then? Well, then there was the matter of Henry…
A Jerusalem Trilogy
Lazarus
Judas
Judas Thomas
Lazarus
Paul Southery, having finished his mid-morning coffee, peered through the glass window of the library door, over the notice in Hebrew affixed to it – which he could just translate – requiring silence from its readers and consideration for others. The rule had been flagrantly broken: even through the closed door he could hear the animated voices of those clustered around the reception table within. Intrigued to know what the excitement was about he opened the door and went in. There on the table – the focus of attention – was a single page of script in Greek.
Standing beside him was Maria Goldman, a postgraduate like himself specialising in New Testament studies.
‘What’s the fuss about?’ he whispered.
‘Apparently it arrived in the post yesterday,’ she replied, ‘but what it is and who sent it no-one seems to know.’ She picked up the document. ‘You can read Greek, you tell me.’
‘The hand looks post-reformation,’ Paul said.
‘Well, the egg-heads here think it’s a copy of a letter from a second century church father – Clement of Alexandria. Apparently its warning someone to be suspicious of the authenticity of an unknown version of the gospel of Mark. It quotes a passage that our friends here can’t find in the canonical version – about the raising of Lazarus.’
‘But that’s only in John, not the other gospels.’
‘Exactly,’ Maria said.
When the excitement had died down and the library had assumed its usual sepulchral feel Paul looked at the document more closely. The relevant section began: And they came to Bethany. And a certain woman whose brother had died was there. And, coming, she prostrated herself before Jesus… ‘The story’s familiar, but not like in John,’ he said.
‘No,’ she replied, ‘but if you look at Mark chapter ten you can see where it would fit.
‘Edited out, you think?’
‘Looks that way.’
Paul looked out of the window. In the distance he could see the road following the Kidron Valley around the foot of the Mount of Olives on its way to the Judean desert, Jericho and the Dead Sea.
‘Bethany’s just round
that bend, where it happened,’ Maria said.
‘Come with me, to take a look?’
‘If we’re quick, with the Sabbath starting later. So I’d better drive.’
The entrance to the tomb from which Lazarus was alleged to have risen turned out to be a low aperture in a featureless stone-built wall flanked by the mosque of al-Uzair. ‘Why do you think it’s authentic?’ Paul asked.
‘There’s been a continuous record since the fourth century, and before that an oral tradition. Unlike many of Jerusalem’s sites, this was far enough out to escape damage by the Romans. There’s no reason for it not to be genuine.’
‘I believe you,’ Paul said with a supercilious smile.
From the entrance they descended a flight of twenty or so rough steps to reach a square vestibule. They saw that further steps led down into the vaulted chamber of the tomb itself. In a hushed voice Maria said, ‘We believe this is where Jesus stood when he ordered Lazarus to come out. Then there would have been a stone covering the entrance to what at the time was little more than a cave.’
‘So who moved the stone?’
‘I think there would have been quite a gathering – and no shortage of hands. The family was well-off and Lazarus’ death had attracted many well-wishers.’
‘Did they know in advance Jesus was coming?’
‘I think they must have done, don’t you?’
Leaving Maria to get fresh air outside Paul descended into the tomb, where there were still niches to take the bodies of the dead. Becoming accustomed to the gloom he ran his fingers over the stonework, feeling the dampness there.
Maria called down to him, ‘The Sabbath begins at sunset and its already beginning to get dark – we need to be quick.’
But Paul had no intention of leaving. His mind was full of imaginings of what had taken place here, growing more powerful as the minutes passed.
‘Paul!’
‘You go on without me. I can easily walk back to the city.’
‘You be careful then. This is not a safe place to be, especially at night.’
He emerged from the tomb to see Maria’s car disappearing round the corner. Nearby was a stall selling snacks and drinks and he sat there for a while, cup in hand, on a low stone wall. When it began to get dark he looked stealthily around him and re-entered the tomb. He squeezed his body into the largest of the niches and asked himself why the apostle Mark had not thought to record what had happened here – or, if he had, why it had been suppressed.
In the end it came down to a matter of timing. He’d assembled his thoughts, re-read the scriptures and tested out his ideas – admittedly in an oblique way – in the few synagogues where he’d been invited to speak. But few had understood his message. And that included his own disciples, now blissfully sleeping in chairs or on rugs on the floor around him. He asked himself if any shared his dream. Perhaps that was too much to expect. To be in sympathy, to have a vague awareness of where it all might lead, that was about all he could ask. More than once he’d been direct: ‘Who say you that I am?’ And back had come the reply, ‘You are the Messiah,’ because that’s what people were saying about him, in the markets of Galilee and now in Jericho and other settlements in the Jordan valley. Sometimes he did not know whether he was leading their expectations or assuming a mantle that had been thrust upon him. He saw stretched out around him absolute loyalty and trust, of that there was no doubt, but aside from Mary – his beloved Mary, who feared for him – it was beyond this little band that he had to look for understanding.
They’d been in Jerusalem in the middle of winter and the unusual cold had not favoured the delivery of his message. Or if it had got across it was only the Temple police who had been excited by it. In a gathering on the portico steps he’d heard for the first time the threat of stoning and it perplexed him that his words were falling on deaf ears. The lodgings in Bethany provided comfort only for himself – in the house of Lazarus and his sisters; the twelve had to make do with unheated stables and cattle sheds. It pricked his conscience that he had insisted on frugality, as was their rule.
He spoke of it as Lazarus’ house, though the two sisters of this seventeen-year-old boy – Mary and Martha – were both several years older. With each visit to the city the bonds between them strengthened, but it saddened him that Mary – his Mary, as distinct from the sister of Martha – could not slip so easily into the relationship. Now, as he looked at the beautiful face of the sleeping figure beside him, he still felt unable to take her with him. So he wrote her a note saying where he was going and placed it with an orange blossom in her hand, gently closing her fingers over it. Then he kissed her goodbye and went out into the darkness.
He had waited for a full moon, without which the walk – perhaps climb would be a better word – would be hazardous if not impossible. He had with him his long staff to protect himself, if the need arose, as well as to help him negotiate the rough track. Bethany came into sight as dawn broke. It was too early to disturb the family, yet he had to remain unseen, so he settled on his haunches in a nearby straw barn and ate a crust of bread and some cheese. When the sun was fully up he made his way unseen to the house.
They sat together at the table, as they had done so many times before. From them he learnt that his name – in different contexts – was still mentioned in the city. Out of consideration for their sensibilities he refrained from explaining his grand and desperate plan, whose culmination would be at the coming Passover. And of his planned death he said nothing, speaking only in terms of demonstrations and rituals. Mary asked him what he hoped to achieve. He smiled and said, as if a joke, the kingdom of God of course; but knew they could see beyond his levity.
‘I’m here,’ he said at last, ‘to ask you to help me prepare the way. My works you know about by repute, but of my methods you are completely ignorant. There is something I must do, necessary for my purpose, and for that I need your complete trust. You will not fully understand what I am about to ask.’ He raised his eyebrows, inviting dissent, but Mary just said, ‘Tell us what we must do.’
They walked down the hill to the cemetery. ‘This one belongs to the family,’ Martha said, pointing at what was little more than a flat stone covering a hole in the ground. Together Lazarus and Jesus moved it away and squeezed inside. Jesus said, ‘You will need warm blankets and enough food, and a means of ticking off the days.’ ‘I’ll pass by frequently,’ Mary said from above.
When they were back around the table he handed Lazarus the glass vial. You will have four hours of unconsciousness, so have the shrouds ready. To the women he said, ‘Only send word to the city when you’re sure of the effect, so that some may arrive in time to see the tomb closed.’ ‘Risky,’ Lazarus said. ‘What’s new,’ Mary replied.
The next four days Jesus spent in the Judean desert, as he had many times before. When word came by messenger that Lazarus had died the awful thought occurred to him that something might have gone wrong. But he fought the urge to go there and stuck to the plan. It would take him two days to mobilise his little army and make the journey back under less than a full moon. It was critical they arrived with hours of daylight in hand, so that their presence in Bethany would draw in the curious and the hostile from the city.
He took with him only Simon Peter, his own Mary, and James and John. A sombre Martha was waiting for them on the Jericho road, just out of sight of the village. ‘Mary needed to stay home to guard the house.’ she said. But as they approached the tomb Simon Peter ran ahead to fetch her.
Mary’s head and body were draped in concealing black cloth. Her stooped walk suggested tragedy. She lifted her veil a fraction and brushed her cheek, as if to wipe away a tear. Jesus’ doubts became indubitable fact: Lazarus had indeed died. His foolish self-confidence had again led him into another disaster of his own making. His own tears welled up and he let out a violent scream that engendered pity fro
m all around. He looked towards his own disciples, all heads bowed, and at his own Mary, whose expression was of deep pity. Even the normally inscrutable faces of those he knew to be in the employ of the high priest were lowered in sympathy.
Jesus raised his eyes skywards. This was the biggest test of his faith he had ever been called upon to make. He fell to his knees and prayed, then slowly rose to his full height, motioning to his disciples to roll away the stone. Facing the aperture in the ground he shouted, ‘Lazarus, come out!’
A minute passed. There was a movement within the tomb. Shedding his shrouds, Lazarus emerged, blinking in the sunlight.
They had to help Jesus to the house, so great had been the effect upon him. Slowly the crowd dispersed, some returning to the city along the road, others walking over the summit of the hill of olives. One of the last to leave was a young priest called John, who had helped guide Jesus back to Lazarus’ house.
It was two days before Jesus’ fever abated. By that time his disciples, except Simon Peter, had returned to the Jordan valley. Afterwards, those well-wishers favoured enough to see him commented on the blazing conviction in his eyes and the fervour of his arguments. To some he seemed a changed man. Meanwhile Lazarus and his two sisters reflected upon their deceit. But as no harm had come of it – and Jesus’ standing had clearly increased – they chose to remain silent, knowing that to reveal the truth would be devastating. ‘An honest man knows not how to act,’ Martha had told Lazarus in justification, and there the matter had ended.
After six days had elapsed – with rumours of the Sanhedrin’s hostility towards him emanating from the city – Jesus, with Simon Peter and Mary, prepared to leave Bethany. His last act, in a session lasting well into the night, was to explain his teachings to Lazarus. But neither Jesus nor Lazarus was to know how instrumental this young man and his sisters would be in shaping Jesus’ destiny.
Paul threaded his way through the tables to where Maria was waiting. Her eyes were wide with mock expectation, her lips pursed with a hint of derision. He took the seat opposite her.
