Children of God

by Lars Petter Sveen

  Andrew gets up. He looks at me and Naomi.

  “There are many of us,” he says. “Many of us who were there, who heard everything he said, whom he touched. But it’s never been easy. Even my brother, Simon Peter, has been full of doubts. I saw him wandering about sleeplessly at night while the Master was still alive. I don’t understand everything the Master told us, nor everything he did. I’ll say only this to you, Jacob, so you know. We’re alone, but he’s here.”

  I don’t have the strength to speak. It feels as if my legs had been walking all day. My neck hurts, and I try to breathe calmly and quietly. Somebody starts singing nearby, and several others join in. I don’t have the strength to look up. I just sit there staring down at the ground. I’m alone, he’s not here.

  The next day, Naomi goes down with me to the lake. We don’t say much, just walk along the shore. The boats are out on the water, some men casting their nets in the shallows. The sky’s gray, a cool wind blowing the water, making small, white-capped waves. It looks like many people are busy salting the fish that’s come in. A group of children run away from Naomi, but she just smiles at them. Then she stops and asks if I know him. I don’t know what she’s talking about or whom she means, until I look up and see the old man from the day before. He’s coming toward us.

  “I don’t know who it is,” I say. “He was here yesterday too.”

  “Maybe he recognizes you from when you lived and worked with your father,” says Naomi.

  I don’t answer her, just staring at the old man coming over to us instead. He’s broad shouldered in spite of his age, and his hands appear huge. His eyes are sharp, and he’s tall.

  Naomi says hello to him, and the old man is clearly surprised when she speaks instead of me. He stares at Naomi’s face, but then turns his eyes to me.

  “I’ve heard of you people who follow Jesus of Nazareth,” he says. “I’ve heard that you’re different.”

  Naomi tells him she isn’t quite sure what he’s talking about.

  “I’m an old soldier,” he says. “I’m a Roman, and when I was young, I worked for King Herod the Great. That was long ago now.”

  Naomi looks over at me. I’ve already taken her hand to pull her toward me.

  “Why aren’t you saying anything?” the old man asks me. “Can’t he speak?” he asks Naomi.

  I ask him why he’s been following me, and what he wants. He stares at me.

  “I’ve never heard anybody talk like that,” he says.

  “What do you want from us?” Naomi asks him.

  “I want to save something,” he says. “Not everything was lost that evening when your master was born, and not everything was lost when they killed him in Jerusalem. I thought you’d run away when you heard what I used to be. But you were alone, and I thought that it would be easier to talk to a person alone than to a whole group.”

  Naomi seems nervous and looks around her. But there’s only us there, some children, and the fishermen who haven’t gone out on their boats. The old man holds my gaze.

  “There’s nobody else here,” he goes on. “Nobody lying in ambush, I’m alone. Look at me, I’m old, I’m dressed in rags. I only want to speak with you.”

  “Who are you?” Naomi asks him. “What are you doing here?”

  “My name’s Cato,” he says. “I was there, in Bethlehem, when your lord was born.”

  When evening comes, Naomi goes to the synagogue. She wants to tell the others about Cato and what he’s told us. She wants to see if Andrew would like to meet him. Cato stays with me, and we sit by the small house, wrapped up in blankets that the family’s let us borrow. The wind isn’t blowing anymore. Cato points up to the sky and says there was a star that night, shining so brightly.

  I look up, and everything’s black. When Cato asked Naomi what happened to her, she told him the whole story. I’ve heard her tell it before, but it was as if the story were different this time. I don’t know why, but it was as if I’d forgotten parts of it. Cato was moved by the way Naomi opened up to him, a stranger. He took one of her hands between his.

  “We break each other into pieces,” he said.

  Then he told his own story. It was difficult for him; he stammered and had to start again, not sure which parts he remembers and which he’s added in retrospect.

  He told us about that night in Bethlehem, years ago. All the houses they’d gone into. All the small children he and the others had killed. I thought of the children in the family we were staying with now. Cato told us that they took the lives of boys even younger. They did what they were hired to do.

  “I’ve done other things too,” he said, “but this is all I wanted to tell you. I was there. There were a number of us, we did all we could, but your prophet still got away. I’m glad he did, I think that if he’d been one of the ones we killed, then there’d be nothing left of me.”

  When Naomi asked him why he’d come to us, why he wanted to tell us this, Cato fell silent. He said he didn’t really know. He’d been going over it in his mind for a long time, what he was and everything he’d been.

  “I don’t have much time left,” he said. “I’ve lived longer than many. I’ve always believed in what I was doing, I was one of the best. But when I became older and they no longer had any use for me, I was given a new life. I’ve traveled around, and when I meet people like you, I try to tell them about what I did that night. It’s always been with me, it won’t go away.”

  Cato’s quiet now, staring up into the sky. It feels strange, but I like sitting here with him. I don’t want to meet the others. I don’t know if I can stand being with them anymore, it only makes me think about everything that’s gone.

  “Has it always been like this?” Cato asks.

  I turn toward him.

  “The way you speak,” he says. “Has it always been like this?”

  I nod, but tell him not always. There was a time when it had gone.

  He lets me finish, and then he continues: “And then it came back?”

  I’m about to say something, to tell him that Jesus got rid of it, but he shakes his head.

  “Maybe it won’t go away,” he says. “Maybe it’s a part of you.”

  I tell him that it’s not a part of me. It’s a sickness, something that’s been put inside me.

  “But it changes,” he says. “I can hear it now. It’s not getting stuck as much as earlier today. You can control it yourself.” I stare at him. “Maybe it’s not something inside you, Jacob, maybe it’s the way you are. The way you speak, that’s you.”

  I tell him I’m not like that. I tell him that I was like him, tall, my father’s firstborn. I spoke with Jesus, I was full of his power. I can be another person, I was another person. But now I’m nothing, I’ve lost everything, I can’t hold on to it.

  “That’s doubt,” says Cato. “It’s a part of us. And just like there’s doubt inside us, there’s evil inside all of us too. It’s a part of everything we are. We have to live with it, fight it so it doesn’t take over. I let it take over, but you’ve always fought it, you haven’t let it consume you. You’ve got to keep on like that, Jacob. We must make it a part of all the good we do.”

  I tell him it’s not like that. I say, “It’s something else, it’s been put inside me.”

  Cato falls silent again.

  “You can’t know this,” I tell him.

  “It doesn’t matter that much what I can or can’t know,” he says, “but I believe in it. It’s how I try to carry on. Something lured me in, something called to the evil in me, and I obeyed. I chose that story. But I’ve chosen something different now. I don’t want to be a part of the story that was made for me anymore.”

  His voice almost turns into a murmur, but he looks at me and smiles.

  “It won’t go away, Jacob,” he says. “You speak the way you are. We’re transformed by what we do. Not by what we think, not by what other people tell us. Jesus gave you what I’m telling you now, didn’t he? He gave you the courage and stre
ngth to be somebody else. He didn’t take away what makes you twitch, what makes your words get stuck. He got you to do it yourself. He showed you how you can live with it.”

  Somebody comes toward us; it’s Naomi, moving through the dark with a candle in her hand.

  “Jacob,” she says, “Cato, they want to see you.”

  Cato gets up. I stay sitting down.

  “Are you coming?” Cato asks me.

  I shake my head.

  Naomi is about to say something, but Cato puts a hand on her shoulder.

  “He’ll be here,” he says. “When we come back, he’ll be waiting for you. He won’t go anywhere.”

  Naomi looks at me, and then she comes over, kisses me on the cheek, and strokes my bald head.

  “Come on,” she says then, and Cato follows her. They walk through the evening air with the small candle flickering like the wings of a bird.

  We stay in Capernaum. Neither Naomi nor I want to leave. We move to a house at the edge of the town, together with another couple who have traveled around too. Cato is taken in with all the rest of us who believe in Jesus’s words and life. In the morning, while the night is still hanging in the air, I walk down to the harbor and meet Cato. We look at the boats heading out, we stroll along the shore. Sometimes we talk to each other, while other times we don’t say anything. Cato tells me about the times before he became a soldier. He talks about things he doesn’t want to see again, and says that’s the way it must be. He says that nobody will find him here, but he found his way to us.

  Our mornings together do me good. Something’s loosened. When the words get stuck in my mouth, I try to let it happen, not to change it, not to fight against it. I tell him about my father, about our journeys. I tell him about the time when Naomi and I met the one-eyed man, and when I was lured into the cave. I no longer dream at night. I close my eyes when I go to bed, and when I open them, it’s daylight.

  One morning, Cato and I join a boat going out onto the water. The whole world moves, the lake is heavy and alive, like something lethargic pushing us out. We help to draw up the nets, and the fish look as if they’re all joined together like a glittering, shimmering blanket.

  When Cato falls ill, and Naomi and I take turns sitting by his side, he often talks about that morning. About the lake, about the boat, about the fish. One evening, when he’s hot and sweating, he says that he’d like to be wrapped up in a blanket like that, a glittering, shimmering one.

  Cato gets better, but it takes him a long time. He looks even older, and his skin is pale in the sunlight. I hold him as we walk down to the harbor, but he usually just wants to sit peacefully. There’s a large tree by the house where we live. I’ve made a small, simple bench there for Cato to sit or lie on during the day, in the shade of the branches.

  Naomi and I have decided to travel onward. It feels like I’m ready again. If I get stuck, I’ll try to leave it. I won’t fight against it. Maybe the people we’ll meet will find something reassuring and genuine in what we are: a woman with a battered face, and a man who stutters and stammers when he talks. We’re still equal in the eyes of the Lord, we’re still embraced by his love.

  The evening before we go, Cato falls ill again. I tell him to sit still and try to drink more of the water we’ve boiled for him.

  “Listen to you,” he whispers. “Keep talking to me, Jacob.”

  So I talk to him, about the Sea of Galilee and the waves that suddenly rise up and then can suddenly disappear. About the first time he came to us, about the evening when we sat there, wrapped up in blankets, talking to each other.

  “It’s a good story,” he whispers. “Isn’t it? I’ve saved something now. Not everything was lost.”

  12

  MARTHA’S STORY

  One time, long ago, there was a little girl called Martha. She was often out working in the field. She was the eldest, and until her brothers were big and strong, she had to go along to help her father. Now they’ve been working all day, and her father’s hands and feet are dirty. Martha’s dirty too. Her fingers hurt. But it’s evening now, and they’ll go home soon. Then her mother will tell her a brand-new story.

  Martha likes evenings very much. She likes evenings better than mornings. When darkness falls and everything’s hidden in the black of night. When her brothers and sisters are crawling around her, and everybody’s warm and cozy. When her mother sits down and starts telling a story.

  Martha knows several of the stories by heart. Sometimes, when they’re all out in the field, Martha tells stories. Again and again for her brothers and sisters. There are six of them: Jehoahaz, Joseph, Jacob, Jehu, and Omri. And Martha.

  “Tell us one of Mother’s stories,” says Joseph. And Martha tells them.

  She tells them about the time the sun and the moon swapped places. She tells them about the hyrax that wandered all the way from the sea into the desert and back again just to find its baby that had got lost. She tells them about the bear that lives in a cave up in the mountains. She tells them about the snake and the lizard, always arguing about who’s smartest. And when Martha tells these stories, she can hear her mother’s voice inside her.

  One evening, it’s been a long day and Martha’s so tired. She and her father are out in the field until darkness creeps in. Martha’s been cutting and harvesting flax stalks. Her fingers hurt so much. Her father says it all has to be finished before the autumn rain comes. Martha misses helping her mother mill the grain.

  While she’s standing there, she sees a group of people over on the road. They’re wrapped in filthy clothes and are walking so strangely, as if on tiptoe. Suddenly, one of the group turns toward Martha. His nose has gone, his teeth shine white from a large, red gash. It looks as if he’s smiling at her. Martha screams, and the man turns away. Martha’s father comes over to her and lifts her up.

  “They’re ill,” he says. “They’re not dangerous. We’ve had people like them in our home.”

  Martha’s father holds her and kisses her hair, and the group vanishes into the night.

  Her father takes her home, where her mother and siblings are waiting. It’s dark now. The light from the oil lamp falls around them like a soft blanket. Martha’s mother puts her on her lap and starts telling a story. It’s a beautiful story about a grasshopper who tries to play music even though one of its wings is broken. Martha closes her eyes, trying to forget the face with the white teeth. She feels her mother’s warm fingers around her.

  The next day, the sun comes up, tearing apart the darkness. Martha’s father tells her to stay with her brothers and sisters this morning. Joseph asks if they can play hide-and-seek; all the others shout “yes” and look at Martha. Martha smiles, and off they run.

  Jehoahaz sits down behind a rock, and Joseph lies down flat by a bush. Jehu has almost finished counting, and Martha runs over to the pile of rocks by the field. Her father’s standing some distance away, he waves to her, and Martha waves back. The stones are still cool from the night before. She sits down to hide, stroking her fingers over the cold stones. She doesn’t notice that nobody’s shouting or laughing. The stones are almost soft. Everything’s fallen silent.

  Then she hears Joseph crying. Martha runs out from behind the stones. All her brothers and sisters are sitting over by the thicket behind the well. It looks like they’re talking to someone. But their father’s out in the field, and their mother’s gone down to the stream. And why is Joseph crying?

  When Martha gets over to them, she sees a man sitting in the thicket. He’s old, his eyes are a grayish white, pale. He smiles, and says, “I’m blind, and yet I see many things. I’m what stays in the shadows while the light falls elsewhere. You must be Martha. Big sister Martha.”

  “Why’s Joseph crying?” Martha asks him.

  The man is still smiling as he turns toward Joseph.

  “I told Joseph a little story,” he says, “but I don’t think he liked it.”

  Martha puts her arms around Joseph and strokes his hair.


  “Joseph told me that you like telling stories too,” the man says.

  Martha looks for her father, but he’s nowhere to be seen.

  “Listen to me when I’m talking to you,” the man says, and something in his voice makes Martha feel cold. She looks at him.

  “Have you got a story to tell me?” the man asks.

  Martha shakes her head.

  “Well, I’ve got another story,” the man says, “and since you’re all gathered here, you can all hear it.”

  “We don’t want to hear your story,” says Martha.

  She puts her arms around Joseph and signals all her other siblings to leave.

  “Your mother and father aren’t here,” the man says. “I could take one of you and leave, never to return.”

  Martha feels like she’s freezing now, and something’s pressing right at the top of her stomach. Joseph won’t stop sniffling.

  “Or we could make a deal,” the man continues. “I’ll tell you a story, and then you can tell a story, Martha. If I make you cry, then I win. But if you can get your brothers and sisters to stop crying and to smile, then you win.”

  Martha nods.

  “Good,” says the man. “I’ve got a story I’ve been saving for you.”

  “Far, far away from here, there’s a lake so black, so black. And out in the middle of that lake is an island. Every summer, children went out to that island. Their parents rowed them across the water and waved good-bye when they left. The children taught each other songs, they made each other food. And when the summer was over, their parents came to get them. Nobody knew exactly what it was, but the children used to be different when they came back from the island. It was as if they’d been filled with a strange light.”