Son of the Morning

by Joyce Carol Oates

  Her voice this morning was grave, troubled, querulous, yet oddly pleased. She was complaining of her son Ashton, who had shown up again to borrow money: as if he had any intention of repaying the money he had already borrowed from Nathan, back in November!

  He was spending it on a woman, Mrs. Vickery knew. That woman in the house trailer outside town, the one who had kicked her husband out, a slatternly creature, wasn’t she?—an alcoholic. Only twenty-eight years old but an alcoholic. He was spending it on her, and on liquor for himself. Her own son!—now over forty years old!—with his handsome, ruined face, his nose disfigured by broken veins, his eyes grown shrewd and malicious. She knew he was spending all his money on liquor for himself and that horrible woman. And what of his own wife, and what of his children? Why would he never answer questions about his life?

  She prayed for him daily but it seemed to do no good. And of course Nathan prayed for him, for his only uncle. But in vain.

  Nathan saw in his hand a paring knife, an inexpensive stainless-steel knife from the dime store.

  Unsleeping the night before, and the night before that, with no appetite for food or drink, he had felt something begin to unfold inside him. Had it to do with the passion of Jesus Christ, with His agony on the cross; had it to do with Nathan’s own sense of himself as befouled; had it to do merely with the chill of early spring, the procession of sunless weeping days . . . ? Great dark wings struggled to unfold, and he did not resist, did not dare resist. He was given over to it: to God. He would not resist. O God have mercy on me, he had cried, but he did not expect mercy and did not really desire it.

  He tested the point of the knife with his thumb and found it not very sharp. But it would do.

  Mrs. Vickery saw what he held in his hand, and for a moment said nothing.

  He was half-blinded, still, by the powerful vision of the night before. His eyes kept a ghostly afterimage before them; colors were neutralized, dimensions were flattened. A woman was speaking to him but the sounds were noises, bits of noise, jabber. He saw as God would have seen, he heard as God would have heard: before man had been created and given life.

  Yes? What?

  She laid a hand tentatively on his arm: Did he know what time it was? The service would begin in—

  Not wishing to be touched, Nathan drew away. He slipped the knife into his pocket and stretched all his fingers out wide, as a child might have done, to show that his hands were empty. He managed a smile. Mrs. Vickery stared at him. She had hugged him close against her massive body, she had kissed him and rocked him to sleep: her own baby. Now he smiled coldly upon her and had no need to say Woman, what have I to do with thee?—for she understood very well without his speaking.

  Faltering, she reminded him of the time. He must not forget a necktie, she had set out a clean one for him, and—

  He thanked her in his meager, trivial, ordinary voice, and turned to leave. That voice was not really his; but he must use it in the world while speaking to ordinary people.

  The great dark straining wings opened, the light burst forth, he tensed himself against terror, knowing his punishment was just and even merciful. For days, for weeks, he had had a premonition of this visitation from God; he had known it would come soon. Leonie was gone, he rarely thought of her now, he rarely woke to those piercing-sweet, lustful, ugly dreams of her, all that was gone, vanished—yet he had known he must be punished for such thoughts, and protected from them. The Devil would have no difficulty in choosing another woman to send to Nathan: there were women and girls in the congregation, even in the choir, who gazed at him in that bold, yearning, half-unconscious way Leonie had . . .

  It had been years since the darkness had broken open in him, and the paralyzing light had burst forth. Yet when the vision came—when God appeared—it was as if no time had elapsed since the last vision. The Nathan that was now shrank, pleated, disappeared; had never existed. Always that aspect of his being had been secondary, only superficial, an appearance for others’ sakes, and not Nathan himself. But the deeper self was not Nathan: was not a frightened young man who had to clench his jaws tight to keep from crying out in terror: was not human at all.

  Pale-lipped, dazed, he slipped on his suit coat and hurried the half block to Reverend Beloff’s church. He was late—very nearly late. The hours of wakefulness had been a mistake, perhaps; he was suddenly exhausted; and the ordeal lay before him. Humility. Prayer. I am the door . . . Let not your heart be troubled: ye believe in God, believe also in me . . . I am the way, the truth, and the life . . . If thine eye offend thee . . . An hour or more of almost intolerable radiance, so that he lay paralyzed on the floor, unable even to move his head or shut his eyes. My God, my God. Why such pain, why such humiliation? He had sinned, of course, both in deed and in thought, and perhaps he had sinned through his own self-loathing as well, and for his almost ungovernable sense of his own superiority. It was pride, pride as well as lust. Leonie had clasped her plump arms around his neck and kissed him wetly and hungrily and he had kissed her in return, with a child’s desperation, as if he might suck the very life out of her and come to an end of his desire for her; and at the same time he had shouted Whore! slut! pig! I hate you! And so he had sinned against God and against the woman herself, who was innocent, who had been innocent all along of his lust. It was not she but the Devil who stirred Nathan at the very root of his being, and it was not she but Nathan himself who was guilty of succumbing to this temptation, and even welcoming it.

  She had drawn his head down to her breasts, had arched her back so he might press his face blindly against her. Faint, whimpering like a sick animal, he had clasped her tight about the hips and sunk to his knees before her, to kiss her wildly, frantically, between the legs. His senses were filled to the brim: there was great danger that he would burst, and destroy her: or plunge himself so violently into her that she would be torn. Yet it was another time, it was Good Friday. He hurried along the flagstone path. Leonie was gone, Leonie had moved away, the rumor was that she and Harold were expecting a baby in the autumn, he no longer thought of her, no longer dreamed of her, did not wish her dead. What was that music? The marchlike solemnity of Good Friday, the organ’s chords that filled the church so one could hardly breathe. Nathan hurried but was without fear. Last night he had been fearful enough, but this morning he was purged of fear, for what could harm him in the world of man?—he, whom God Himself had touched?

  A packed church, which would please Reverend Beloff. People standing at the rear. Two television cameras and those uncanny overbright lights—for the service was to be televised locally—and one of the directors from the station, awaiting him. He approached, he listened, he appeared to comprehend. A part of him was quite human and ordinary, almost untouched by the interior light. He spoke courteously enough with his numbed lips and did not flinch when someone straightened his tie and suggested he comb his hair back off his face. Yes? Like this? Thank you.

  The organ continued, its bass trembling so that the very earth seemed to shake. Deeper the chords plunged, and louder: JESUS OF NAZARETH THE KING OF THE JEWS. The choir sang. Leonie was not among them. Nathan had transferred the paring knife from his trousers pocket to his coat pocket and now he touched it through the cloth, one finger after another, caressing. Just so had he kissed Leonie, through the cloth of her skirt, wishing only to thrust himself into her and destroy them both. But it was not Leonie: it was the Devil. Jeering, smirking, a redheaded child with glasses, a gaunt-cheeked man of indistinct age staring emptily at him, reflecting nothing, absolutely nothing. The choir sang. One by one the verses declared themselves. Nathan came forward as he had always come forward, calmed by the knowledge that his ministry was nearing its end, that he would deceive the faithful no longer.

  The agony of Gethsemane. The kiss of Judas, the bewilderment of Pilate, the condemnation and the crucifixion. His voice broke, speaking of it. Spikes through His hands!—through His poor naked feet! Most intolerable of all, the public display of His
suffering: for all the world gaped and sneered and felt no pity. Our pain is nothing like His, cannot begin to approach His. My God, He cried, my God, why hast thou forsaken me? The unendurable shame of His humiliation, the mystery of His physical breaking, His collapse . . .

  Accustomed to strong lights, Nathan gazed out at the congregation, at the rows and rows of people. They were his. He had no doubt of it. They were expectant, looking to him for the emotion they should feel. Upturned staring faces, strangers’ faces, brothers and sisters in the suffering, broken body of Christ. Nathan spoke calmly to them, his voice rising now and then in that small tremulous wail that so charmed them and held them fast, though he was rarely conscious of it himself. He had spent some forty-eight hours meditating upon the betrayal of Christ and the crucifixion and now he wished to take them through that ordeal, asking them to imagine the insult of the weight of the cross on His shoulders, and the insult of the hostile, mocking crowd, and the brute fact of Calvary itself; the sickening horror of the scarlet robe, the crown of thorns, the reed to be carried like a scepter in His right hand. Hail, King of the Jews! And the crucifixion itself, in the place called Golgotha. Spikes driven through flesh—through blood and tissue and bones. Ah, the cruelty of it! The cruelty of the world! Nathan’s voice began to shake with the sorrow of it. How could it be borne? That the Son of God should be broken in His innocent flesh and nailed to a cross for the multitudes to jeer at—that they should mock him with the words THIS IS JESUS THE KING OF THE JEWS. But most piteous of all was His despair. For He had called out to His heavenly Father, in His final agony, thinking God had betrayed Him—

  Nathan had spoken so passionately, had brought the packed church to such a pitch of emotion, that a number of people were crying and his own eyes were wet with tears. In a trance he continued, speaking now of the crucifixion of all men upon the cross of the flesh, and of mortality, and sin, and time. He was drawing near to the end of the service, and to the end of his ministry. In a sense the ceremony was completed: God had instructed him the night before and he had known it would be done without hesitation and in that instant it was already consummated. He had only to act out God’s will, which must be fulfilled in time, though it exists prior to all time. Crucifixion: the humiliation of the flesh: the breaking of one’s body upon the cross of mortality, sin, and death. What Christ endured all mankind must endure, for He goes before us in His human form, a model for us, a warning. He too felt the impulse of pride, and did not always resist it. And so He must be broken as we must be broken . . . As for the hypocrites, Nathan said breathlessly, raising both arms in an angry appeal, how shall they be dealt with?

  In the silence that followed he felt a single tear roll down his cheek.

  The upturned faces, the expressions of absolute concentration: they were his. But he was going to release them. It was he, Nathan Vickery, who was the hypocrite. He had spoken week after week of the need to be cleansed in the Blood of the Lamb; he had spoken of sin, and the fact that the wages of sin is death; yet all along he had been sinful himself. Didn’t they believe him? Didn’t they? But it was true—it was true! He was guilty of lust and of pride. Most grievously, he was guilty of turning away from the Lord, of being distracted willfully by the temptations of the flesh. A single moment’s distraction, he cried, might be sufficient to plunge us to hell forever, though God would not be so merciless; how much more reprehensible must be weeks and months of sinful contemplation—! Didn’t they believe him? In their innocence they remained unconvinced, they could not fathom such hypocrisy. But he would instruct them. He had set aside this day for a public confession and a public humiliation. He, supposedly one of the chosen, had falsely presented himself to them. He appeared to be a man of God but he was in fact a sinner, a hypocrite, a criminal . . .

  More and more passionately he spoke, now out of breath. At last they were beginning to believe him. There were whispers, ripples of surprise and alarm and bewilderment, a look of utter consternation on the face of one of the cameramen, who had barely been paying attention to Nathan’s preaching until now. At last, at last! He would have liked to step down among them, he would have liked to lower and flatten his voice so that it was no different from their voices. But he must continue. He must complete the ceremony.

  On this Good Friday he was going to take leave of them, and of his ministry. And he was going to demonstrate to them an act of pure sacrifice. (He had taken out the paring knife and held it for them to see, like a magician who has no tricks, no guile.) For Christ has taught us that it is better to be maimed than to be cast into hell whole in body. And Christ has shown us how He submitted to His own destruction, not without emotion, but surrendered to the agony of the body, which was to be the agony of all men, not scorned by Him even in His divinity. How then should Nathan Vickery be spared? How had he spared himself for so very long?

  If thine eye offend thee . . .

  He told the congregation that what he was going to do was an ugly, brutal, and senseless act; it was willful; it was perverse; and no one must imitate him. He told the congregation, which listened as if intoxicated, making no move to stop him, that so public an act was sinful in itself, and that its grotesque exhibitionism would be—when he recalled it in later life—part of his humiliation. He knew what he was going to do was senseless, but he did it in defiance of sense, and in obedience to God’s command. For God Himself had ordained this ceremony. Nathan must be punished, he must be broken and humiliated publicly, for he had embarked upon a public career in God’s name, and God was very displeased, and must now be placated.

  Woe unto the world because of offences! for it must needs be that offences come; but woe to that man by whom the offence cometh! Wherefore if thy hand or thy foot offend thee, cut them off, and cast them from thee: it is better for thee to enter into life halt or maimed, rather than having two hands or two feet to be cast into everlasting fire. And if thine eye offend thee, pluck it out, and cast it from thee: it is better for thee to enter into life with one eye, rather than having two eyes to be cast into hell fire . . .

  A woman screamed, and then another, and another. One of the choir members in her long velvet robe started forward, as if to stop him; but it was too late. A man shouted. It might have been one of the television technicians, or the organist, or a parishioner who sat close enough to see exactly what was happening. But it was too late. Nathan had brought the point of the knife without hesitation to his left eye, to the center of the eyeball, and without hesitation he had pressed it inward, his left hand grasping the small handle and his right hand steadying it.

  Pain? Blood? His own cry of anguish?

  He was never to know.

  Book Three

  Last Things

  I

  Midwinter.

  Stasis.

  Silence for weeks: my prayer has been broken off.

  WHAT DO I know of Nathan Vickery?

  The difficulty of re-imagining. Re-visioning. What is lost, remains lost.

  The folly of resurrection.

  Will we rise again in our bodies, they begged.

  He was struck to the heart by their greed and would have turned aside, but the Christ in them spoke to the Christ in him and he replied as gently as he could. They heard not his words but the music of his words, and went away comforted.

  He who is without ears hears best.

  And again they said to him, Are we indeed in the Final Days, and how will we know we are among the Chosen?

  He saw it was the Holy Spirit testing him, in the voices of strangers. And so he gave comfort as it was ordained he do, and they fell to their knees weeping in gratitude, having been delivered from the fires of hell which were promised in both worlds: in the world beyond, and in this world of the twentieth century.

  For we have entered upon the Final Days and the Beast has arisen to sweep all before him.

  BUT PERHAPS EVEN the Beast knows us not?

  THE AIR IS brittle with cold. It is a strain merely to look—to narrow one
’s vision against the prismatic slices of light—to make the necessary connection between one thing and another.

  Fragments of ice, ice molecules. Invisible. We are warned not to walk too quickly in the cold, not to breathe too deeply, for the lungs will be pierced by tiny ice pellets and great pain will result and in some cases even death.

  I have acquired a secondhand radio. It plays softly all night, a gentle harmless droning, a counterpart to my unsteady prayer. Another voice. Voices. They are strangers, but familiar, aggressively familiar. Someday I will be bold enough to reply to them. At the present time I am mute—sounds stick in my throat—for if I have not You to speak to, to whom shall I speak?

  I want no man, but God. I want not the trivial happiness of man, but the tumult of God.

  I want—

  TO PORT CALMAR he came in November of 1965, William Japheth Sproul III, twenty-seven years old, slight-bodied, clever, given to fey obsessions, and seeking, as he told himself derisively, Tillich’s God beyond the God of theism.

  Though he could have afforded a plane ticket, he made the journey from Connecticut by bus—an eerie, dreamlike, jarring eighteen hours during which he believed he did not sleep at all, though his thoughts were troubled by stray flattened visions and snatches of sound he could not recognize. Shy and arrogant, and needing privacy with as much desperation as others need communality, he had followed the bus driver’s directions about putting his suitcase up on the rack, but had spread his books across the seat beside him in order to discourage anyone from sitting there.