The Transmigrant

by Kristi Saare Duarte

  THE TRANSMIGRANT

  ———————————

  Kristi Saare Duarte

  Maps and Author’s Note may be found at the back of this book.

  Copyright © 2017 by Kristi Saare Duarte

  All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher or author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

  The Transmigrant/Kristi Saare Duarte. -- 1st ed.

  Published 2017

  Printed in the United States of America

  ISBN: 978-0-9971807-0-1

  eISBN: 978-0-9971807-1-8

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2017907781

  For information, please contact:

  Conspicuum Press

  PO Box 231

  New York, NY 10027

  Cover design by Alexander von Ness at Nessgraphica.com

  This novel is dedicated to my mum and dad,

  Piia and Siim Saare

  Thank you for teaching me to question everything, not to believe everything I read,

  and to think for myself.

  I miss you every day.

  In the beginning was God alone, and with him was the Word, his second. He contemplated and said, “Let me send out this Word so that she will produce and bring into being all the worlds.”

  —Tandya Brahmana, Sama Veda (Seventeenth Century BC)

  In the beginning the Word already existed; the Word was with God, and the Word was God. From the very beginning, the Word was with God. The Word was the source of life, and this life brought light to people.

  —The Gospel of John (First Century CE)

  Chapter One

  Capernaum, Galilee, AD 1

  Flap. Flippety-flap. Flap. The yellow butterfly fluttered its black-tipped wings in desperation against the synagogue ceiling, unaware of the open window only a few feet away. On a mat below, five-year-old Yeshua lounged against his father’s shoulder, squeezed in between the other Yehudi men of the village. His gaze wandered to the women’s side of the dividing curtain where his mother sat cross-legged with his younger siblings. They were still too small to understand the words of God. Not like Yeshua. No, God and Yeshua were already the best of friends.

  On top of a wooden pulpit at the front, flickering oil lamps danced in the breeze and the scent of incense filled the snug meeting room with magic. Yeshua tried to keep pace with the grown-ups who swayed back and forth, chanting monotonous words of praise. He longed to one day be just like the rabbi who leaned over the pulpit as if he carried the conscience of the entire world on his shoulders and read out loud from the Torah scrolls in Hebrew, the priests’ own language. Yeshua would stand in front of all the neighbors and, with a steady voice, teach them the true words of God. Words of wisdom.

  The rabbi brushed his wrinkled hand through the remaining wisps of gray hair on his head and lowered his tasseled head scarf onto his shoulders. When he spoke, the ambience changed like an evening sky, shifting from blazing orange to purple and pink. It became warm and vivid, as if angels had touched everyone’s heart.

  “Esteemed men—children of the Lord!” the rabbi exclaimed in a voice that could have awakened even the deadest corpse from eternal slumber. “Do you not see how he loves you more than your fellow villagers? And still, you cannot—should not—ignore his commandments. For you, he created Sabbath as a day to rest, not hurry. Forsake your worries today and revel in the divine. Ah, what a magnificent day to celebrate in God, to enjoy silence and seclusion. To sit still and hear his voice speak to us…”

  Yeshua’s chest filled with a tender glow. With paradise. And just like the graceful butterfly above, he remained oblivious of the invisible chains that bound him.

  But Sabbath came only once a week. On other days, a sleepy Yeshua rose before sunset and followed his father to the workshop around the corner from their home where he spent his days filing corners of tables and doors with an iron rasp until his hands burned with blisters. That’s what boys did; they adopted their fathers’ trade. It didn’t seem fair: filing wood was for babies. But his father said only big boys could use the fun tools like the saw, the plane, and the chisels. Yeshua peered through the window at the black-headed gulls that soared across the sky, free to go anywhere they chose. And he drifted into daydreams.

  One day, as Yeshua was helping his father unpack a delivery of cedar logs for a tax collector’s table, two impossibly tall white-robed men staggered into the workshop. They had to bow their turbaned heads to enter.

  “Water,” one of them croaked in broken Aramaic, his eyes bloodshot with thirst. He slumped onto the floor. “I please beg of you. Water.”

  The log in Yeshua’s arms fell to the floor with a bang. God said to always help the needy. He squeezed his way between the giants, and ran out the door and around the corner to their house, where his mother was baking bread in the courtyard. “Ama, Ama! Two men—foreigners. Come quickly! And bring water.”

  “Who has come?” She frowned but didn’t move.

  “Come! They need water!” Yeshua pulled her hand with all his weight. “Hurry!”

  Without haste, Ama cleaned her hands, filled a jug of water from the vat, and pulled her head scarf across her face. Yeshua stayed close behind her as they entered the workshop, then crouched in the corner while Ama served the men cool water in ceramic cups. He had seen men like these before, from afar. Fascinating men, straight out of legends, they passed through Capernaum in caravans of hundreds of camels along the trade route between Damascus and Alexandria.

  Ama dripped lavender oil onto the strangers’ palms and necks and told them to rub it in with a circular motion until their breathing had resumed a normal rhythm.

  “Now, good men, what else may I do for you?” Abba said, and gestured to his wife to leave. Yeshua leaned against the wall and tried to make himself invisible. He was transfixed by these intimidating men with wide-bladed daggers hooked to their belts and fingers heavy with golden rings. And yet there was a kindness, an almost loving presence, about them. One of the men, his eyes like a burning sunset, caught him staring and grinned. His white teeth glistened against his swarthy complexion. Yeshua relaxed; these were respectable men after all, honest travelers. The men unfurled a heavy linen scroll that revealed a circular chart with scribbles of stars, moons, crosses, and triangles. The man who had smiled at him pointed at the chart and spoke in chunks of Aramaic peppered with peculiar words Yeshua had never heard before.

  “We come looking for…a ray of light… And three hundred years ago, Prophet Zarathustra… Praise be to God for your help… Planet Jupiter and stars in the sky show the way to us…and there will come…next prophet soon…” The man stopped midsentence and pointed at Yeshua. “This your son?”

  Abba nodded.

  “Come to here, boy.” The man reached out his enormous hand, grasped Yeshua by the chin, and stared into his eyes as if searching for something. His intense gaze made Yeshua faint with fear, but he couldn’t look away. Nearby, his father breathed heavily, nervously. Yeshua swallowed. Time seemed to have stopped. And then the man burst out laughing. Thick, short bursts of laughter. Yeshua wriggled free and ran to safety behind his father, where he watched the strangers chuckle and clap their hands. Their cackles echoed around the room.

  Why were they laughing?

  The man who h
ad grabbed his chin beamed. He mumbled something to his friend, and then turned to Abba.

  “Your son, one day, great man. Prophet. What you call it—Messiah. The world waits long time for him, his message.”

  “No, no…” Abba shook his head, his voice in shards. “No!” he said again with more determination. “Forgive my insolence, but that’s nonsense. My son is a carpenter. Enough of this foolishness. Why does everyone wish for a Messiah to come and solve all their troubles?” He rubbed the spot between his eyebrows. “Those are the ignorant dreams of victims, of desperate men.”

  The strangers rolled up their scroll and smoothed their robes. The discussion was over. The man who had spoken reached into his pouch and retrieved a yellow scarf tied into a bundle, which he placed in Abba’s palm, closing his fingers around it.

  Then the strangers disappeared into the dusk as abruptly as they had arrived.

  “Abba, Abba, what did they say? What did they give you?” Yeshua couldn’t hold back any longer.

  Still shaking his head, his father patted him on the head and untied the yellow silk scarf. Folded inside was a shiny golden ring with a large turquoise stone, a clump of fragrant frankincense, and a jar of myrrh oil. When Yeshua reached to grab the ring, Abba slapped his hand.

  “No touching!”

  Tears stung Yeshua’s eyes. Why was his father angry?

  Inside their home, Abba threw the bundle at his wife.

  “Look, Maryam. Behold what they gave us. Gifts for a nobleman. A king!” He covered his eyes with his hands. “They spoke of a prophecy. Their charts depict that an extraordinary child has been born hereabouts. But I didn’t understand where. In Galilee? Maybe Judea? The Roman Empire?”

  “And?”

  Yeshua put his arms around his younger brother Yakov for comfort, shielding him from the serious discussion.

  “They search for him. That’s what they do. They make charts of the stars and planets, decipher them, and then scour the world for this child.”

  “And that’s why they gave you these presents? To help look for the child?” Ama squatted next to her husband, baby Iosa suckling her breast.

  “No. They reckon it’s—the large one.”

  Ama glanced at Yeshua.

  He hugged his brother closer. What did it mean, the large one?

  “Who are they?” she asked.

  “Zoroastrian seers. Devotees of a prophet called Zarathustra, from Persia.” Yosef pressed his knuckles together. “They wish to educate him about their faith. They will return when he’s grown.”

  “Oh!” Ama pulled her nipple from Iosa and placed the protesting infant in his cot. “Did you tell them we are Yehudim?”

  “Forget it, Maryam. Let’s just forget this.” He tied up the gifts in the yellow scarf and hid it in a hole under the stove.

  Yakov squirmed out of Yeshua’s embrace and snuggled up into his father’s lap, but Yeshua couldn’t move. Why had the men laughed? And why did they bring gifts for a king? And who was the large one they spoke about?

  Could it be him—Yeshua? Was it possible?

  Chapter Two

  Capernaum, Galilee, AD 3

  In the years to come, Yeshua observed the foreigners who passed through the Capernaum market. They came from Syria and Cappadocia, from Egypt and Cyrenaica, from Mesopotamia and Persia, and even farther east. He learned that if he sang for the merchants traveling in caravans of heavily laden camels, they often flipped him a copper coin or handed him a piece of fruit. The pilgrims and holy men, dressed in threadbare robes, were more reserved and offered him nothing but smiles. He always kept watch for the men who had visited his father’s workshop, scanning the face of every tall white-clad man, crowned by a white turban, but the mystics never appeared again.

  Once Yeshua had mastered Greek, the universal language, he approached every traveler who passed through his hometown, ravenous for information about the world. The wealthy traders told fascinating stories about the countries they had traveled, brutal bandits who had stolen their cargo, and women they had seduced. The holy men spoke only about their gods, each of them convinced that his method of prayer was the only right way and everyone else was mistaken—as if Yahweh would have multiplied and changed his rules for each part of the world just to cause confusion. Like with the Tower of Babel. Why would God do that? Wouldn’t God prefer that everyone agree on a single manner of devotion?

  One day, a red-cheeked Buddhist monk with a shaved head and glittering eyes handed Yeshua a leaf as if it were an invaluable gift. “It’s from the Bodhi tree,” he said, and wiped his hands on his tattered saffron robe. “From Gaya. In the Maha-Meghavahanas.”

  Yeshua inspected the simple coarse leaf. “What is it? A healing plant, this Bodhi tree?”

  The monk laughed so hard, his belly shook. “It’s from the Bodhi tree, the one Lord Buddha sat under when he reached enlightenment.”

  Yeshua twirled the leaf between his fingers. It looked like any ordinary leaf.

  “What’s enlightenment?” he asked.

  “Nirvana.”

  Yeshua frowned. What could one possibly reach while sitting under a tree? A shadow? Perhaps an itching ant bite?

  “Nirvana is a state of mind, when you become so wise you don’t need to be born again. You overcome suffering. Nothing worries you; nothing angers you. You awaken.”

  Awaken. Somehow, Yeshua understood the word, even though he did not understand it. Eager to learn more, he pulled up his legs and squatted on the ledge next to the monk. And right there, in the thick of the chaotic Capernaum market, the monk with vibrant eyes told him about his life and how he had left his parents at the age of five to begin spiritual training, dedicating his life to studying the teachings of an enlightened nobleman. Yeshua’s heart raced, and he leaned in to hear more. Were there many other children like him who had left their parents to serve God?

  The rabbi insisted that Yahweh was the one and only God, and that the Yehudim were his chosen people. But if that were true, were all those holy men traveling the world to spread their message wrong? Had they misunderstood the word of God? Or was the rabbi mistaken? How much did the rabbi know, anyway? He spent most of his days shaping clay into pots, and devoted only one day a week to teaching God’s words.

  The more Yeshua spoke with travelers from faraway lands and the more he compared their beliefs with the teachings of the Torah, the more confused he became. He sought answers in the synagogue. He stalked the rabbi after the Sabbath sermon, hoping the teacher would help him find answers to the questions that multiplied within him day by day.

  “How was Moses able to split the Red Sea? And why did God kill the Egyptians who chased them? Why didn’t he simply close the sea after the Yehudim had passed? What if the Egyptians also wanted to repent and serve God?”

  The rabbi continued cleaning up the pulpit. He picked up the scrolls, furled them tighter, and stored them in a trunk.

  Yeshua continued. “And why should we treat other Yehudim better than we do gentiles? Aren’t we equal in God’s eyes? Didn’t he create us all?”

  The rabbi didn’t look up as he answered. “We are God’s chosen people. We made a covenant with God, and he with us. We’re not perfect, but we must keep together as a people to keep our promise to God.”

  Yeshua scratched his head. “But…”

  The words died in his mouth. The rabbi had walked away. Yeshua followed him out the door and back to the rabbi’s house. “Why did God want us to destroy the Canaanites and the Amalekites? Isn’t He supposed to be kind and compassionate?”

  The rabbi sighed and turned back to face Yeshua. “Oh, child, wherever have you learned this foolishness?”

  “It’s in the commandments, the mitzvoth.”

  “Yes, yes, but why do you challenge the commandments of God? You’re far too young to understand. Forget about the Canaanites and Amalekites. They had their own destiny. Your only duty is to be a good boy and obey the commandments. Now, go home; I’m closing the doors.”
/>
  At home, Yeshua bombarded his father with more questions. “Why should we fear God? And why do we have to criticize sinners? Shouldn’t we help them instead, show them the right way?”

  When Abba stumbled on the answers, Yeshua realized that no one in the world knew everything, not even his father or the rabbi. They only pretended to be wise. They read the scriptures and followed the traditions without ever questioning whether they were right or wrong.

  Yeshua tried again with his mother. “Ama, why do we have laws that tell us what to eat? Why does God care? And what happens to those who don’t follow those laws, like the Tarsians and the Romans?”

  His mother explained that the rabbis made sure the slaughtered animals were healthy. Some sea creatures might carry diseases. The Yehudim were holy and therefore needed a special diet. But she could not say why meat and milk could not be eaten at the same meal or why only animals with cleft hooves were acceptable as meat.

  His brother Yakov laughed at his constant pursuit of certainty. “You’re so silly,” he said. “You think you can change the way the rabbi thinks?”

  But Yeshua didn’t feel silly. There was something odd about the laws, the way they contradicted each other. On one hand, there was love, but on the other hand, this love could not be shared with all their neighbors. And if the Yehudim were so special, wouldn’t they all be rich and live in fancy homes like the Romans? God seemed to have chosen them over the Yehudim. After all, the Romans ruled, whereas the locals picked up the scraps of work their rulers didn’t want.

  That was probably why the rabbi always spoke about the coming Messiah. Well, everyone was talking about him: the Warrior King who would come real soon and throw out the Romans and give Palestine back to the Yehudim. He fantasized about fighting side by side with the Messiah and helping him kick out the oppressors. They scared him. And they frightened his mother. She, the bravest of all, became so petrified at the sight of a legionnaire, she would pick up her children with the strength of Goliath and run in the opposite direction.