Children of God

by Lars Petter Sveen

  We did as he said, shuffled over to the door, and stared out.

  The sky was torn, and there was water everywhere. We were at the bottom of a valley, and streams were crisscrossing the fresh, green fields surrounding the stable. I’d never seen anything like it, and I had no idea where we were. Birds flew above us, large beasts were staggering about, lowing, and a boat stood propped up against an enormous tree root.

  “Who are you, and what brings you here?” came the voice of a man heading over toward us. He was tall, with his beard and hair braided together. He clapped his hands and called to the animals, then he asked us again. Jehoash coughed and said we’d got lost in the storm.

  “Yes,” said the man. “It looks like you were washed ashore by a great wave. What else can I say? Come with me, we’ve got to get you inside, you must be hungry. I’m the head of the family here, and those clothes need to be dried. You look like fish out of water.”

  We followed him across the fields and over to a house made of clay and stone. He told us to come in and said we could take our clothes off to dry. His wife and children wouldn’t be home yet; they were out with the animals. Jehoash asked where we were, and the man said he could show us the way back.

  “That won’t be a problem, I can take you. But you need to rest and dry off. How about something to eat? You must be hungry after a night like that.”

  He served us lentil soup with bread. We sat there eating, naked, while our clothes dried by the fireplace. None of us said much; we listened to his voice and everything he told us. He told us the strangest stories about the place where we were, the animals he tended to, how the weather could be as hard to interpret as signs from God. The weather had whipped and lashed me in the storm, but here, by the fireplace, it felt as if my skin, my hair, and my beard had been oiled and were soft again. The man gave Jehoram some rags to put on his wounds but said he didn’t need to dress them.

  “There’s good air here, and a blessed light, it’s good for you to let everything rest in the sight of the Lord.” Jehoash was about to say something, but the man cut him off. “You’re his elder brother, aren’t you? Keeping watch over your brother, like all of us. The blood of our brothers calls to us from the earth, can you hear it?”

  None of us answered, but he waved his hands at us. “Get dressed now,” he said. “Your clothes are dry. My wife and children will be here very soon, and they can’t see you like this.”

  We stayed the rest of the day, and he let us sleep another night in the stable. Jehoash said we’d have to head off the next day.

  “Yes,” said the man, “that’s fine. I’ll take you to the nearest road, so you can make your way back.”

  His wife made us some more food, the children ran about, laughing and shouting, even smiling at Jehoram. Reuben went to help with the animals, while Jehoash sat there with Jehoram, playing with the youngsters. The eldest child, Martha, asked me how we’d made it past all the dangers, what powers had driven us to their land. The locks of her hair hung down, there was a warm reddish color in her cheeks, and her skin was paler than I’d seen in our people.

  Her mother told me not to mind Martha and what she said. “She likes stories so much, she doesn’t think of anything else,” she said. Martha blushed and lowered her eyes. I leaned toward her and asked what kind of stories she liked. Martha shrugged, still staring at the ground.

  “Well, listen to this, let me tell you,” I said, “about the powers that called us and chased us here. It was a night as black as the deepest abyss, and we walked and walked. We fought wild animals, they chased us through the valleys, howling, snarling, and growling. When day finally broke and we thought it was all over, the storm came. It was as if the sea itself came washing over us. The water was threatening to tear us apart. But you see that man over there, the one with those eyes? That’s Jehoash. Jehoash took hold of us, found a rope, and tied us together. We were lifted up by the water, thrown down, but we were tied to each other and were washed all the way here.”

  Martha’s hands hung down by her sides, and her lips moved.

  “Well,” I said, “did you like the story?” She didn’t answer, just stood there, talking silently to herself.

  “Martha,” said her mother, “you must answer when Nadab asks you something.”

  “I’m learning the story,” said Martha. “I collect them, please, I have to tell it back to myself.”

  I let her carry on. She was a strange child. It seemed as if her eyes were always searching for something. Her fingers were long and thin like slender twigs. She spoke to me not like a little girl, not like a grown woman. Everything she said seemed to be extracted from a hidden place.

  “I’ve learned it now,” she said. “I’ve got your story now. Please can I look after it until you need it again?”

  “Yes,” I said, smiling. “Of course, it’s yours.”

  “No.” She shook her head. “I won’t take your story from you.” Her mother interrupted and told her she shouldn’t argue with guests or try to confuse them with words.

  “Mother’s stories are the best,” said Martha. “She tells them almost every evening. Can you tell us about Jesus, Mother? Tell us about when you and Father met Jesus.”

  “Not now,” said her mother. “Our guests need to rest. Didn’t you hear what he told you?”

  “Have you seen Jesus?” I asked.

  “Yes,” said Martha, her voice singing. “Father and Mother have spoken with him. They joined his followers.”

  “Why don’t you lend me a hand, Martha?” said her mother. “Leave our guests in peace.”

  “But Mother,” said Martha. She didn’t get any further, as her mother took hold of her and dragged her away, telling her softly about being quiet and doing what she was told.

  I got up and asked if there was anything I could do. Jehoash spoke up and said I could go and fetch some water. The woman looked at Jehoash, then at me, and said it wasn’t necessary. But Jehoash said it was only fair and proper, they shouldn’t be our servants.

  “If you want to,” the mother said. “If you wish, you can go down to the stream.” I nodded. The woman gave me a pitcher and told me where to go. Jehoash followed me out.

  “Have a look around,” he told me. “That’s all. Just have a look around, and then come back here.”

  A path led me through a small thicket and down to a stream. The water flowed silently through the rushes, flies and other insects buzzing over the surface. I was still dazed from the night before and sat down on a flat, dry stone.

  Martha must have followed me. She came down the path from behind me.

  “Why are your hair and beard that color?” she asked. I told her she shouldn’t be there, but she just snorted and said she was big enough to make her own decisions about where she could and couldn’t go.

  “Mother thinks I went to clear the small patch of ground where we’re going to plant trees,” she said. “Do you know how long it takes for a tree to grow?”

  I shook my head.

  “A long time,” she said. “It won’t make any difference if I go to pick up stones today or tomorrow.”

  She went on to tell me about how she always helped her father on the land, how her days were split up, and how black the nights could be. “Sometimes I can’t see anything,” she said. “It’s as if I couldn’t tell the difference between what’s up and what’s down.”

  I told her about the time when I’d been out by the coast and had seen the night reflected in the sea. She asked what the sea was like, what it smelled like, whether it made a noise, whether the water was heavier or lighter than in the stream there. I told her I didn’t know, but that it seemed heavier in a way, and that it was never still.

  “You can always hear it,” I said. “You can hear it whispering against the shore. If you put your head beneath the water, you can hear something pounding and groaning down in the depths.”

  “It can’t be the same water,” said Martha, lying down on her stomach with her ear to the
stream. A gentle breeze blew over the fields and down to us. We saw it sketch a pattern across the water.

  I asked if her mother had really met this Jesus.

  “Oh yes,” said Martha. “He comes from Nazareth. It’s a small, poor town, Father says, up in the hills. He has long hair and a beard, and Mother says he touched her and Father.”

  Her mother and father had met Jesus when they’d gone to the nearest market. They’d seen him defend a farmer who couldn’t afford to pay his taxes. “Give your master what belongs to your master, and give God what belongs to God,” Jesus had told the guards. He put his arm around the farmer and said, “We are children of God, we need our daily bread.”

  After that, her mother and father had sought out Jesus and his followers. He’d laid his hands on them, and they’d been baptized with the Holy Spirit and fire.

  “The Lord himself,” I said, and tried to smile at her, but Martha wasn’t paying attention to what I said. She went on with other stories about Jesus, stories that her mother and father hadn’t witnessed, but that they’d been told. The sick had been cured, the unclean had been cleansed. A woman who sold herself had been cleansed by Jesus and walked by his side. Rebels had come down from the mountains and lay down their arms. Violent men had received the Word of God, and fire had flowed from their fingers. Children who had been abandoned, marked by the Devil, ran around Jesus’s feet, with God in their eyes.

  Martha was no longer speaking like a little girl. Her voice seemed to have its own life, like a snake slithering and writhing, sliding and winding. The stories Martha told were broken off at the ends and began suddenly. Sometimes she would mention a name, other times a city. At first, I thought she was trying to get everything to fit together, to suggest the clear pattern according to which the world was arranged. But it wasn’t like that, no, it was different. She let her stories twist and coil, as if they were being put around me like a fortress against all evil.

  I don’t know how long I sat there listening to her, I can’t remember.

  “And Father’s favorite story,” Martha said, “is about a man who was attacked by a band of thieves and was left to die.”

  I opened my mouth but couldn’t bring myself to say anything.

  “It’s not about Jesus,” she continued. “It’s a story Jesus told.”

  And she showed me the small stones that had made the man’s feet sore. She showed me how the man had gone on anyway, how he’d wanted to find a roof for his head before darkness fell. She showed me how afraid he’d been when the band of thieves had come and taken him. She showed me how he’d been left lying, naked and beaten and kicked and torn apart, by the side of the road. She showed me how the blackness and evil had reached right up to him, in under his skin, into his aching fingers, his feet and his hands that wouldn’t obey him, one of his eyes that wouldn’t open, his battered mouth that had dried out and cracked. She showed me the sounds of the people who’d gone past, the people who hadn’t heard him, the people who’d stared and gone on their way. She showed me how he’d shrunk and shriveled, how everything had flowed out of him, how he’d smelled, how he’d tried to call out. But eventually, somebody stopped. A stranger from Samaria lifted the injured man up, gave him something to drink, laid him on top of his donkey, told him to be quiet, just to stay alive, just to hold on, not to close his eyes.

  “Father says that’s what we should be like,” said Martha. “We should help those who need help, we should be strong for the weak.”

  She fell silent. The dark locks of her hair blew in the wind.

  “So,” I said, “what does your father say about us?”

  “Father says we shouldn’t ask you what you do,” Martha answered. She crouched there, her eyes drifting from me down to the ground in front of her. “He says we offer shelter to anybody who’s lost or who needs help.”

  I said her father was a good man.

  “Yes,” said Martha, “but I’ve got to help Mother mill the grain, and Father says I’ve got to help tend to the animals in the evening too, while the others can go home. He says I’m the eldest and it has to be like that until my brothers are bigger, and when we come home and the others have gone to bed, Mother doesn’t have the strength to tell another story.”

  “Your brothers and sisters will join you sooner or later,” I said. I picked up some small stones and threw them into the stream. I couldn’t stop thinking about Martha’s story.

  “Are you a good man, like Father?” Martha asked.

  “No,” I said. “No, not like your father. Not like your mother either.” Martha was silent. “Maybe I’m waiting to do some good,” I said. “Maybe not, who knows?”

  “Why are you waiting?” she asked.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I’ve done some things that won’t go away. Things you don’t need to hear. I’ve done a lot of bad things. But you don’t need to be afraid of me.”

  Martha got up and stood there, with her hands and her long, thin fingers. Her lips moved as she talked to herself under her breath.

  “You don’t need to be afraid,” I said. “I won’t do you any harm. I’m just going to fill this pitcher, and then I’m going back. You can come with me, or you can stay here.”

  “I’m not afraid,” she said.

  “Good,” I said. I tried to smile, but I couldn’t look at her. In spite of the rain having washed me the night before, I felt dirty. I closed my eyes, and everything became dark. It was the middle of the day, but in this darkness I could rest. Nothing to see, nothing to do, just being in this darkness.

  “Why have you done so many bad things?” she asked.

  “I don’t know, Martha,” I said. “I can’t answer that. You should go now, your mother might be out looking for you. She won’t want you to be here, not with me.”

  Martha started to walk away from me. I sat still, opened my eyes, and stared at the water, at the rushes trembling ever so slightly. After a while, I got up and picked up the jug. Martha had gone. I filled the pitcher and took it back. I didn’t know what I would tell Jehoash.

  When I came back, the food was ready, and Martha’s mother shepherded me to the table. We prayed, we ate, and after the meal, we said good-bye. I sat Martha on my lap, thanked her for all her stories, and told her that if she ever went to sea, she should throw a stone in there and imagine that stone was me. Then I could lie there and perhaps be thrown back ashore a second time. She said that was the strangest thing she’s ever heard, but I kissed her and told her I was waiting to do some good, that she should remember that.

  Her father took us back to the stable.

  “I’ll come tomorrow morning,” he said. “I’ll bring you some food to take on your journey, and then I’ll take you as far as you need.” He blessed us and left us alone.

  The stable was full of shadows, and we stayed standing outside. Jehoram shook his head and said he had a bad feeling about this.

  “I’m ready,” said Reuben. “Who gives a shit about feelings? I’m ready.”

  “We’ll go back when it’s dark,” said Jehoash. “Can you find the way?”

  Reuben nodded. “Yes, I think I can find the way back without him tomorrow too.”

  I shook my head. “No, no. We can’t do this,” I said.

  “What can’t you do?” asked Reuben. “Is it that little girl you like so much? I can take care of her. You can watch if you want.”

  Reuben smirked, and I turned toward Jehoash.

  “We can’t do this,” I said.

  “I hear you,” said Jehoash. “I think you’re forgetting yourself.”

  “They have nothing,” I said. “They’ve been good to us, and there are small children there. This isn’t the kind of thing we normally do.”

  “What the hell do you know about what we normally do?” asked Reuben. “You’ve only just had your baptism. It’s time to come of age.”

  “I’m not talking to you,” I said, trying to keep my eyes on Jehoash. “I’ll go back there with you, but this isn’t
right. You know it’s not right, Jehoash. We’ve been shown something here, something we’ve never seen. There’s nothing there anyway, all they own is the soil under their feet.”

  Jehoash didn’t say anything. He just stood there, staring at me. I turned toward Jehoram.

  “Jehoram,” I said, “say something. You were with those children today, they were playing with you.”

  Jehoram turned to his brother.

  “You know I’ll do as you say,” he said. “I’m not the one who makes the plans around here. But I agree with Nadab.”

  Reuben shook his head and muttered something about everybody going soft. Jehoash sighed and looked out across the fields and up at the sky, which had begun to grow dark.

  “We’ll leave it,” he said.

  “Why?” asked Reuben. “They’re easy prey!”

  “Yes,” said Jehoash, “but there’s little to be had here. It’s like Nadab says, they don’t own anything.”

  “Jehoash,” said Reuben, but Jehoash raised a hand and cut him off.

  “We’ll start again,” he said, “but not tonight, not these people, not while we’re here. We’ve been shown something. We must be grateful for it.”

  Reuben swore and said we’d become squeamish. He muttered to himself, something about his not liking to kill children anyway, they were so small, and he slept badly after things like that. Then he went and lay down in the hay. Jehoram followed him, kicked Reuben’s feet, and told him to make space for one more. Reuben didn’t answer and just rolled over on his side. I said I could start keeping watch, but Jehoash said we didn’t need to.

  “Go to bed, Nadab,” he said. “We’ll start everything again tomorrow.”

  Night came, none of us slept. Jehoash didn’t even try; he sat at the door to the stable, staring out. I got up and went over to him, but he didn’t look at me, just moved his legs so I could get past.

  The animals out in the fields could be heard softly. A gentle breeze made my garments flap. It all glimmered up there, high above me. Jehoash said something. I wasn’t listening. What was it I’d told Martha?