Christ the Lord: Out of Egypt

by Anne Rice

  I wanted to go off the road and wander in the woods, but we couldn't do this. So I'd run ahead sometimes and wander a little. Someday, I thought, there'll be time for wandering to the little villages everywhere in the little valleys, but for now life was full.

  How could anyone ask for more than we had?

  19

  I DON'T KNOW how many days it was before I began to feel sick.

  A fever came on me in the afternoon. Cleopas knew it before I did, and then James, too, said that he was sick, and Cleopas put his hand to my forehead and said we had to go back to Nazareth now.

  Joseph carried me the last hour of the way. I woke up thirsty and my throat hurt, and my mother was frightened as she put me to bed. Little Salome was also sick. It turned out four of us, and then five were bedded down in the same room.

  I could hear coughing everywhere around me, and my mother kept putting water to my lips. I heard my mother say to James, "You have to drink it! Wake up!" Little Salome was moaning and when I touched her, she was hot.

  My mother was talking to me: "Who knows what it is," she said. "It could be from the Romans. They could have brought it. It could be that we've been away and now we're home. No one else in the village is sick—only our little ones."

  But my aunt Mary was sick, too. Cleopas brought her in and laid her down. He said her name. He said it as if he was angry, but he wasn't. And she wouldn't answer him. These things I saw but I was half asleep. Old Sarah sang to us. When I couldn't see her clearly in the shadows, I could hear her voice.

  My whole body hurt me—my shoulders, my hips, my knees—but I could sleep. I could dream.

  For the first time it seemed to me that sleep was a place.

  When I look back on it, I know that up to that point in my life, I always fought sleep. I never really wanted to run away into it. Even when I was afraid in the hills and the fires were burning, I wanted the fire to go away, the angry bandits to go away. I didn't want to flee into sleep. Flee into my mother's arms, yes. Flee to our own safe house, yes. But not to sleep.

  But now, in this sickness, when my shoulders and legs were hurting me, it felt good to tumble down into deep sleep.

  I dreamed while I was still awake. It was the most pleasant dream I'd ever had. I knew I was in Nazareth. I knew my mother was there and my aunt Mary was lying close by. I knew I was safe.

  But at the same time I was walking in a palace. It was far larger than Philo's house in Alexandria, and when I came to the edge of the room, I saw the blue sea. The rocks went up on either side, and the coastline curved, and there were torches down below in the garden. So many torches. Columns held the roof over my head. I knew the style of the columns, the carved acanthus leaf capitals.

  On a marble bench, there sat a being with wings. He looked like a man, a very comely man. I thought of Absolom, the son of David, who had been comely, and the strangest

  thing happened: this man on the bench grew longer, fuller hair.

  "You're trying to look like Absolom," I said.

  "Oh, you're very clever for your age, aren't you?" he said. "The Rabbi loves you." He had a soft musical voice. His eyes were blue like the sea. There was a shine to his eyes. There was green and red embroidery along his tunic, a vine full of the tiniest flowers. He smiled at me. "I knew you'd like that," he said. "What I want to know is . . . what do you think you're doing here?"

  "Here? In this palace?" I asked. "I'm dreaming, of course." I laughed at him. I heard my laughter in the dream. I looked out over the sea and I saw the clouds piled high in the sky, and on the far limit of the sea, I saw ships moving. It seemed I could see the oars dipping, and the men at the helm. How clear was everything under the full moon.

  All was beauty around me.

  "Yes, it's a palace fit for an Emperor," he said. "Why don't you live in such a palace?"

  "Why should I?" I asked.

  "Well, certainly it's better than the dirt and filth of Nazareth," he said in his gracious tongue with his gracious smile.

  "Are you certain of that?" I asked.

  "I lived in both," he said. His face went dark. He looked at me with contempt.

  I looked at the ships again, moving so fast, so smoothly out under the moon, sailing at night when night was a dangerous time for sailing, but so beautiful.

  "Yes, they're coming out of Ostia," he said, "those beautiful galley ships. Your Archelaus is eager to be home. And so are his brothers and his sister."

  "I know," I answered.

  "Who are you!" he demanded. He was impatient. After all, this dream would shortly come to an end. All dreams came to an end.

  I looked at him. He was angry and he was trying to hide it. He couldn't hide it. He made me think of my little brothers. But he was no child.

  "And you're no child either!" he said.

  "Oh, I see now," I said with the greatest satisfaction. "I didn't before. When you're with me like this, you don't know what's going to happen, do you? You don't know what's to come!" I laughed and I laughed. "That's your doom that you don't know how it will end."

  He became so angry that he couldn't keep the smile on his face.

  But as his smile broke up, he began to cry. He couldn't hold it back. It was a grown man's broken crying, which I'd almost never seen. "You know that I am what I am from love," he said. "This that I am is from love."

  I felt sad for him. But I had to be careful. He had his hand to his face, and he was looking at me through his fingers. Crying, yes, but watching me, and it filled me with terrible misery to look at him. I didn't want to look at him. I could not do anything for him.

  "Who are you!" he asked again. He became so angry that he stopped crying and he reached out for me. "I demand that you tell me!"

  I moved back, away from him.

  "Don't lay your hands on me," I said. I was not angry or excited, but I wanted him to understand. "Never, never lay your hands on me."

  "Do you know what's happening in Jerusalem?" he asked. He was so angry that his face was red with it, and his eyes getting bigger and bigger.

  I didn't answer him.

  "Let me show you, angel child!" he said.

  "Don't put yourself to the trouble," I said.

  Before us, instead of the blue sea, I saw suddenly the great courtyard of the Temple. I didn't want to see it. I didn't want to think of the men fighting as they'd been when I was there. But this was far worse.

  On top of the colonnades archers were shooting arrows down at the Roman soldiers, and others threw stones, and all manner of fighting went on until flames leapt out beneath the columns, flames, dread and terrible flames leaping up and catching the Jews unawares as the colonnades filled with fire, and the gold work on the outside of these places began to burn, and bodies fell down into the fire, and people screamed and cried for the Lord to save them.

  The whole courtyard was girded with fire, yet some of the Jews threw down their armor and ran into the fire, roaring and hollering, and some Romans ran in where they could, and other Romans came out with arms loaded with treasure. Temple treasure, sacred treasure, treasure of the Lord. The screams of the suffering people were more than I could stand.

  "Lord in Heaven, have mercy on them," I cried. I was so afraid. I was shivering. I was shaking. All my fear came back to me and was worse than it had ever been. One fire after another filled my mind, as though each fire were ignited from the one before it until the blaze reached to the stars. Out of the depths, I cry unto thee, O Lord.

  "Is that all you can do?" this strange creature asked me. He stood very close to me, handsome in his rich clothing, his blue eyes full of anger even though he smiled.

  I put my hands to my face. I wouldn't look. I heard his voice in my ear:

  "I'm watching you, angel child!" he said. "I'm waiting to see what you mean to do. So go on: walk like a child, eat like a child, play like a child, work like a child. But I'm watching. And I may not know the future, no, but I know this: your mother's a whore, your father's a liar, and the floor
s of your house are dirt. Your cause is lost, I know it's lost, it's lost every day and every hour, and you know it is. You think your little miracles will help these foolish people? I tell you, chaos rules. And I am its Prince."

  I looked at him. I knew that if I wanted to, I could answer him. The words would come easily and they would tell me things I didn't know now; they would draw this knowledge out of my mind, as surely as the sound would come out of my mouth. Everything would be there before me, all the answers, all the whole span of Time. But no, it wasn't to happen. No, not this way or any other way. I said nothing. His misery hurt me. His darkening face hurt me. His fury hurt me.

  I woke up without a sound. I lay in the dark room, covered in sweat and thirsting.

  The lamp was the only light. It seemed everywhere there were moans. I didn't know where I was, this room, this place—and my head ached. It hurt so badly I couldn't bear it. My mother was near but with someone else.

  Cleopas was praying in a whisper. I could hear a strange voice, a woman's voice. "If this goes on like this, you don't want her to come back. ..."

  I closed my eyes. I dreamed. I saw the fields of wheat around Nazareth. I saw the flowering almond trees that we'd passed when we first came into the land. I saw the villages of white houses tumbling over the hills. Thin curling leaves flying in the gentle gusts of the wind. I dreamed of water. That creature wanted to come again, but I wouldn't let him come.

  No, not the world of palaces and ships, no. "Stop," I said. "I will not."

  My mother said, "You're dreaming, I'm holding you. You're safe." Safe.

  It was days and nights before I came to myself. I found that out afterwards.

  And even then I slept most of the time. Only the wailing woke me, the wailing and the crying, and I knew then that someone had died.

  When I opened my eyes, I saw my mother feeding Little Symeon who was under the covers, and propped against a blanket roll. Little Salome slept nearby, her face very damp. But she wasn't really too sick anymore.

  My mother looked at me and smiled. But her face was white and sad, and she'd been crying, and I knew it, and I knew that one of the people moaning and crying in the far room was Cleopas. I heard it, that broken grown man crying that I'd seen and heard in the dream.

  "Tell me!" I whispered. The fear came, a grip on my throat.

  "The children are better," she said. "Don't you remember? I told you all this last night."

  "No, I want to know who?"

  She wouldn't answer me.

  "Is it Aunt Mary?" I asked. I turned to look. Aunt Mary had been lying right next to me and she was gone.

  My mother closed her eyes and groaned. I turned towards her and put my hand on her knee, but I don't think she felt it through her robe. She rocked back and forth.

  When next I woke up, it was the funeral feast that was happening. It must have been. I could hear the music of flutes that cut the air like wooden knives.

  Joseph was with me and he made me drink some soup.

  Little Salome was sitting straight up next to me, and she said with very wide eyes,

  "Did you know my mother is dead?"

  "I'm sorry for it," I said.

  "And the baby too is dead because the baby was inside her."

  "I'm sorry for it," I said.

  "They already buried her. They put her in the cave."

  I didn't say anything.

  My aunts came in, Salome and Esther, and they made Little Salome drink soup and lie down. Little Salome wouldn't stop asking about her mother. "Was she covered up?" she asked. "Did she look white?"

  They told her to be quiet.

  "Did she cry when she died?"

  I slept.

  When I woke up, the room was still full of children sleeping, and my older cousins were there, sick, too.

  It wasn't until the next morning that I got up.

  At first I thought no one was awake in the house.

  I went out into the courtyard.

  The air was warm, and the leaves on the fig tree were big. There were white flowers all over the vines, and the sky was very blue yet full of clean clouds that didn't mean rain.

  I was so hungry I could have eaten anything. I'd never been so hungry ever that I knew.

  There were voices coming from one of the rooms that Cleopas and his family used on the other side of the court. I went in and saw my mother and my uncle seated there on the floor, talking together, before a meal of bread and sauce. The window had only a thin veil. The light fell on their shoulders.

  I sat down beside my mother.

  ". . . and I'll take care of them, I'll gather them to me, and hold them to me, because I am their mother now, and they are my children." This is what she was saying to Cleopas. "You understand me? They are my children now. They are the brothers and sisters of Jesus and James. I can care for them. I want you to believe in me. Everyone has always treated me as if I were a girl. I'm not a girl. I'll care for all of them. We are all one family together."

  Cleopas nodded but he had a faraway look.

  He passed the bread to me, and whispered the blessing and I whispered it too. I gobbled the bread.

  "No, not so fast," said my mother. "I mean it. You mustn't. And drink this." She gave me water. I wanted the bread.

  My mother ran her hand over my hair. She kissed me. "You heard what I said to your uncle?"

  "They're my brothers and sisters," I said, "as it's always been." I ate some more of the bread and sauce.

  "That is enough," said my mother. She took all the bread and the sauce and got up and went out.

  I sat there alone with my uncle. I drew up close to him.

  His face was calm as if all the crying had gone away and left him empty.

  He turned to me. He looked very serious.

  "Do you think the Lord in Heaven had to take one of us?" he asked. "And when I was spared, he took her in my place?"

  I was so surprised I could hardly breathe. I remembered all at once my prayer for him to live when he'd been praying in the Jordan River. I remember the power going out of me into him when I laid my hand on him as he sang in the river, and he hadn't even known.

  I tried to say something but no words would come out.

  What could I do but cry?

  He gathered me in his arms, and rocked me. "Ah, my own," he said under his breath to me.

  "O Lord of All Creation," he prayed, "you've restored me. It must have been for my good that I've known such bitterness ... we who live thank you, as I do now, the father will tell the children of your faithfulness."

  For weeks we didn't go outside the courtyard.

  My eyes hurt in the light. Cleopas and I painted some of the rooms with fresh whitewash. But those who had to work in Sepphoris went to work.

  Finally all had recovered from the illness, even Little Esther for whom we'd feared the worst just because she was little. But I knew she was all right because she was screaming her lungs out.

  Rabbi Sherebiah, the priest with the wooden leg, came into our house with the Water of Purification so that we could be sprinkled one time and then again in the following days. This water he made up with the ashes of the red heifer, which had been slain and burnt at the Temple in accordance with the Law to make the ashes for this, and with the living water from the stream beyond the synagogue at the end of the village.

  With this Water of Purification, not only were we sprinkled but also the entire house, and all the cooking vessels and the jars that held food or water or wine. Everything was sprinkled. The mikvah was sprinkled.

  We bathed in the mikvah after each sprinkling; and after sundown on the last day of the sprinkling all of us and our house were clean.

  This was from the impurity we had taken on from the death of our aunt Mary under our roof. And it was a solemn thing to us, especially to Cleopas, who had recited the passage from the Book of Numbers which told of this cleansing and how it was to be done.

  My mind was much captured by this ritual; I made up my
mind that I wanted to see the slaughter of the red heifer with my own eyes someday in Jerusalem.

  Not now, when there was fighting, no. But someday when it would be peaceful and we could go there. The slaughter of the red heifer and the burning of the heifer, along with her skin and her flesh and her blood and her dung, to make these ashes of purification—what a sight it must be, I thought. There was so much to see at the Temple. And the Temple was now in the midst of fighting.

  That was the only way I could remember it, full of dead bodies and people screaming, and that man killed before my eyes, and that soldier who on his horse had come in my memory to look like a horse and a man put together, with his long spear full of blood. That and then the fiery battle I'd seen in the dream, the strange dream. However could I have dreamed such a dream?