by Bear, Robert
The water twirled him around and sucked him down. Jesus tried to hold his breath, but the force of the water was too strong. Water entered his lungs, but just as he thought he was finished, the crude vest pulled him to the surface. He coughed out the water and gulped fresh air before the cycle repeated itself. And again. And yet again. But then the current smashed into him sideways and hurled him away from the cliff. It dragged him down and, far below the surface, while he was tumbling head over heels, the force of the water slammed against him and squeezed the last gasp of air out of his lungs. He kicked and struggled, but the current was vastly stronger than he was. But suddenly it released him, and Jesus found his head in the sunshine, the buoyant vest keeping him from sinking. He choked on the bitter seawater, caught his breath, and looked around. He was in the middle of the patch of calm water that he had seen from the cliff. He realized the current was pulling him out to sea. Inch by exhausting inch, Jesus kicked and paddled. Though he was no swimmer, the motions of his legs and arms felt like the right way to propel himself forward. He finally gained the beachhead and crawled over the rocks out of the water.
Jesus lay on the beach exhausted and coughing. At last he could stand. There was a cliff to climb from the beach, and the way up was slippery and treacherous. He slid back several times, but finally made it to the top by grabbing exposed tree roots.
He walked toward the hut. It was ominously quiet at first, but as he crossed the threshold he made out a wheezing sound. The hearth was cold, and the hermit, barely alive, shivering, lay on the hut’s only bed. His face and body were gaunt from hunger and thirst. The hermit did not wake up, but his lips and tongue responded when Jesus moistened them with water. Little by little, Jesus managed to get some water into the man. Then he retrieved flints and kindling from the supplies he had passed down earlier in the bucket and got a fire going. Finally, the scent of hot lamb stew replaced the stink of dampness and cold.
It took days for Jesus to nurse the hermit back, if not quite to health, then at least to the point where he could make himself understood. In the beginning, the hermit only held down broth. When he was able to eat solid food, he continued mumbling under his breath. Slowly some color began to come back to his cheeks.
One morning Jesus got up to tend the fire and saw the hermit looking at him. “I am Jesus bar Joseph of Nazareth,” he began.
“I know who you are. I have been waiting for you.”
“How did you know? I was told to come here to study with a hermit who lived here. Is that you?”
“Well, do you see any other hermits about?” He coughed. “No, only me. As for how I know who you are…this is not the first time we’ve met, although I must say you have grown quite a bit.”
Jesus moved a tripod stool to the bedside. “How could you know me? The farmer said you have been living on this island for more than fifteen years. He said you came with two others, but he thought they had died.”
“I met you only once, shortly after your birth. My name is Melchior. My companions were Gaspar and Balthazar, but they died years ago. I am the last of the magi who brought you gifts the night of your birth.”
“I was told you came from the east. What are you doing among the Celts and druids?”
“We followed the star to Bethlehem, expecting to meet the king of the Jews. After we left you, we were warned in a dream to avoid Herod, so we returned home. Later, the same spirit told us to journey westward and that one day you would come to us. The waiting was hard—harder still after Gaspar and Balthazar passed away. It wasn’t so much the loneliness. It was knowing that they had waited until the end of their lives for you in vain. I could not help but wonder if the same fate would befall me.”
“The farmer who sent you food told me you have not appeared to get your supplies for more than a week. He thought you had died.”
“Sensible man. I grew so weary. I was ready for the end. I stopped caring whether I lived or died.” He gave a hint of a smile. “But now you are here.”
“My parents told me of your visit. They said the three of you were mysterious magi. There are still Jews living among the Persians. Are your people Jewish?”
“No, we are followers of Zoroaster. Our people came to know the Jews when they were exiled to Babylon. Some say the Zoroastrians influenced Emperor Cyrus to allow the Jews to return to Israel. We are the oldest religion that holds to a single god.” He gasped for breath. “I grow weary, and I would rest now.” Once again, Jesus left the old hermit to rest.
The next morning the magus was more animated. He had to hear everything Jesus could tell him about his life. He explained that he would have to know as much as possible so he could understand what it was that God wanted him to teach Jesus.
Jesus began that morning to tell the old man everything he could remember, starting with his own vague first memories and the things that Mary and Joseph had told him about those days. He spoke of his studies in the synagogue and of the time he taught in the temple in Jerusalem. He answered the man’s questions about his friends and what he liked to do for play. Jesus described his adventures in Britain, good and bad, including Pirro’s betrayal and punishment.
“My great dream, though, is to be a worthy Messiah for the Jewish people and lead them to freedom from the yoke of Rome.”
The hermit peppered him with more questions, not finishing until late in the evening. The hermit said he was again tired and needed to rest for the night.
When he awoke Melchior said he needed to commune with the Holy Spirit through meditation. Only then would he be able to instruct Jesus. Jesus was growing impatient, but how could he argue? He busied himself with cleaning and cooking, as the hermit sat in a trance for the day. When night came, Melchior slept.
The next morning he spoke. “God, your Father, has revealed something to me, and has blessed me by once again making me the instrument of his will. He wants me to tell you that he is well pleased with you. He wishes to make you a gift of your choosing. It must be something he can grant to you in this time and space in Britain, so you cannot ask for something like a future victory against the Romans or for your mother to live forever. You can have wealth or power or the pleasure of a woman, anything, but not more than one specific thing. Whatever you choose will be granted to you, so you must think carefully what to ask for. You must think about this for the rest of the day. I will ask if you are ready to respond when the sun sets. Until then, I say no more.” With that the magus went back into his meditative trance.
The sun finally dipped below the western horizon. Melchior came out of his trance and ate the supper Jesus had prepared. Then he looked at Jesus. “Are you ready?” he asked.
Jesus nodded. He drew his breath. “My mother and I are rich already in the love of God,” he said. “We have everything we need. I have only one wish.”
“And what is that?”
“It is about the slave Pirro. I want my Father to remove the tattoo the Britons marked on his forehead.”
“There are other ways to rid yourself of him. You could sell him off or leave him so the natives will kill him as a runaway. This man has given you every reason to despise him. But you give up the chance for all the treasure one can imagine to give this criminal his freedom. Are you sure?”
Jesus nodded.
Melchior meditated for a short time before he continued. “It is done. You know you cannot expect him to be grateful.”
“I know.”
“Now, I am ready for my final rest.”
“What about my instruction?”
“I have nothing to teach you. You have been taught by a far greater teacher.”
“Who? Uncle Joseph? God, my Father?”
“I wasn’t thinking of them. Your greatest teacher has been Pirro, for he has taught you compassion. Now, I must rest.”
The next morning, Jesus awoke and approached the bed. The magus was no longer breathing. Jesus prayed for him. He did not know whether the Zoroastrians preferred burial or cremation. Then he remem
bered something the magus had said about feeding the vultures, so Jesus left the body out for them to feed upon. That would be the Zoroastrian way.
Pirro
The farmer made use of Pirro, but not in a cruel way. The work started in the early morning. There were pigs to slop, cows to milk, and stables to clean. Beyond that, the farmer had no real use for him. He did not trust Pirro to sow seed properly, and it was too early in the season for shearing the sheep. The farmer’s wife used him to help tan the leather, not a pleasant job by any means, but not particularly hard on his body. Sundown marked the end of the workday. Pirro had only one more task assigned to him, to fetch a bucket of fresh water from the pond.
Jesus had said he would pay the farmer in exchange for not working Pirro too hard. The farmer had kept his word. But Jesus will not know that. Pirro’s complaining had never worked with Jesus, so he had refrained from that over the few days they had been traveling together. Being quiet and sullen seems to gain me some sympathy, but I cannot keep that up indefinitely. Perhaps once Jesus comes back and we leave the farmstead, I can say how cruelly the farmer used me. He will not have any way to know otherwise, unless he journeys back to the farm to ask.
Pirro crouched at the water’s edge to fill the bucket. He caught a glimpse of his reflection, and he could not believe his eyes. He stared for a long time, astonished at his own reflection. Some kind of miracle. The tattoo was gone. He could go anywhere and find a way to make a denarius, and no one would be any the wiser. They would take him for a free man—a Roman at that. He looked at his reflection again to make sure. It was gone indeed.
Pirro brought the bucket of water back to the farmhouse. It is best that they not see me. He called out to the family that he was leaving the water outside and that he felt too ill to eat with them. He went to the barn, but he did not stay to sleep on the straw. He grabbed a pouch of bread the wife had left and one of the sheep. If only I could carry more. Perhaps I should set the place afire. No, that would serve them right, but it would only attract pursuit.
Pirro looked around the barn. Are there any other valuables? I guess not. Pirro laughed to himself. I never even had to tell the boy I was sorry for betraying them all at Rumps. Then he vanished into the night.
Jesus
By the end of his third week back in Bangor with Elsigar, Jesus’s studies had taken a most unexpected turn. Elsigar had moved on from druidic theology; he had also finished teaching whatever conjuring, divination, and potion skills these novices had to master. I am glad the druids covered most of that while I was with Melchior. I am still a Jew, and I doubt the Father would have sent me here to learn pagan sorcery. Elsigar had once said the advanced students must learn to think like druids. For so-called barbarians, the druids had a surprising foundation for their way of thinking—the Greek philosophers.
Jesus felt intellectually outdone, as his classmates debated the finer points of the teachings of Pythagoras and Plato. The rabbis in Nazareth frown upon Greek ideas. Most still resent the legacy of Alexander’s conquests. The Zealots, the Pharisees, the Essenes, the Sadducees—all are quick to brand Jews who take up Greek ways, or even Greek thought, as Hellenist collaborators. As a Roman, I should know these things. It is the stuff on which civilization has been built, but these so-called barbarians know more about Greek philosophy than I do.
Jesus had trouble focusing on the subject without having anything written down. Why do I struggle so? The Father tells me I share his divine substance. Why do I not know this the same way I know a new language? Why did Father give me a gift for the Scripture of my people and the gifts of speaking and understanding any tongue, but not philosophy? Perhaps the real learning is in this struggle—a power of ideas that is only obtained in the grappling. Or perhaps Father is testing me by making me struggle as all men do, rather than by sailing along on the power of divine gifts.
Elsigar described how the Celts of the Danube region were neighbors of the Greeks for centuries. They had even launched a raid on the famous Greek temple at Delphi. Celtic tribes had migrated as far as Asia Minor in the classical age. It makes sense that they would have picked up quite a bit from the Greeks. Elsigar related a legend that said the British Celts were descended from the survivors of the destruction of Troy. That part seems unrealistic.
It was clear that the aesthetic life espoused by Pythagoras excited the druids. Could this be a pathway for mortal men to touch the divine? Can they escape the troubles of the world by abandoning comfort and embracing community, humility, and simplicity?
The discussions grew heated. Elsigar raised his wand to regain the attention of the class.
Other elder druids entered and stood solemnly in the front. “The time has arrived for us to draw this year’s school to a close. Tomorrow we journey once more across the Afon Menai to Ynys Môn, where we will walk the Path of Destiny. The chosen among you will be divided from those who are not chosen. May the gods be with you all.”
Late the next day, Jesus sat with the elder druids who lined both sides of a pathway through a patch of woods at the summit of a small hill on Ynys Môn. The main path came up the hillside and then branched into two, one branch leading down the other side of the hill to the left and the other to the right. Elsigar sat on a stone between the branches holding a wand.
One by one the novices were led up the path in blindfolds. Elsigar sat impassively as each novice stood before him in turn. Jesus noticed the elders making silent signals to each other. Occasionally, Elsigar made a signal of his own. The signals made no sense to Jesus, except at the end of each novice’s evaluation. Without a sound, Elsigar pointed his wand to one side or the other, designating the pathway for the novice.
No one but the druids knew which pathway was for the chosen and which was for those not chosen, but after a few of his classmates passed by, Jesus detected a pattern. All the best students are being led to the right. He smiled as Genofi was brought forward and led that way. The boy was the youngest of the novices, a few years younger than Jesus, but clearly among the most gifted. Victrikta was led up a few minutes later. Yes, she always contributes to class, and Elsigar is sending her to the right as well.
As the last of the novices was being led down the path to the left, Elsigar turned to Jesus. “We are about to start the rite in which the chosen are graduated. They all have several years of study ahead of them in their individual specialties, but tonight we ordain them to join the ranks of the druids in spirit. You are welcome to watch.”
“I would like very much to share this night with my new friends among the chosen, if you are kind enough to have me. I am sad for those who are not chosen, but they can come back to try again next year, I suppose.”
“Many of them do. But before you come to the rite, we must bind your wrists and blindfold you. This is the rule when we invite outlanders. I am sure it is not necessary with you, but it would offend our gods if we took no precautions against interference.”
“As you know, I come to druid rites because the spirit of my God moved me to learn and observe. This sounds as though I might be participating in some way, and that is something I cannot do and remain faithful to my God.”
“You will join us only as our honored guest. You have my word that this is just a precaution to satisfy our gods that you will not interfere. It has been this way when outlanders attend since the times of the Tuatha Dé Danann. You are not expected to do anything except watch.”
“I trust that you will not require me to do anything more.” Binding my hands seems outrageous, but these druids have so many strange rules.
Jesus was blindfolded and led down the path to the right, where he expected to join his friends among the chosen. It felt odd. Whenever he tried to say anything, his guide told him abruptly to remain silent. He was led down a long slope. He finally sensed that he was entering a large clearing, as the air seemed to move more freely than on the confined pathway through the dense forest.
The guide stopped and pushed Jesus back against a post.
“I must leave you here for a few minutes,” he whispered. “I will return soon, but I need to tie you for now.”
“Elsigar said nothing about—”
“Don’t make me gag you,” said the guide. “You must stay silent.”
Jesus could hear the murmuring of an assembled crowd. Something dramatic was happening. Elsigar should have told me I was to be bound to a post. Is this some treachery? Elsigar would never do anything to harm me—would he?
A large forearm reached around his head and ripped away the blindfold. An apparition loomed in front of him, jogging an almost-forgotten memory of a passage he had once read in a scroll at the house of Uncle Joseph’s friend in Arelate.
The wicker man stood before him, just as Julius Caesar had described in his memoir of the Gallic War. The frame was twenty-five feet tall, with outstretched arms rising even higher. A small rise of land in front obscured the view of its feet and lower legs. The figure was covered by a basketlike weaving of branches and reeds, similar to the wattle framing Celts used in the construction of their huts, but not so tightly woven. In the falling light of dusk, Jesus could see the sacrificial victims climbing through the inside. Did they not know they were going to be trapped? Did they not know the horrible doom they faced in the flames? Incredibly, there was no sign of panic among them. At least not yet.
A hush fell over the crowd. Elsigar and the other senior druids advanced slowly on the wicker man, chanting in syllables meaningless to Jesus. They all bore lit torches. The druids coming from the right passed in front, while the ones from the left passed behind, forming a circle around the figure. They turned to face the apparition.
As the druids advanced, the hollow at the foot of the structure appeared to swallow them—only their heads and their arms holding up the torches could be seen. In the glimmering torchlight, the faces and features of the victims could be made out. Jesus gasped. These were not strangers; nor were they the rejected candidates who had been led down the pathway to the left. There were young Genofi and Victrikta, climbing toward the top among the best and brightest, the candidates Jesus had thought surely had been chosen. What kind of school is this? Why do they study so hard for years and try to be the best they can be, only to be offered up as human sacrifices?