Rewind Rewrite
By Justin McKeating
Text copyright 2015 Justin McKeating
All rights reserved
Cover image credit: leksustuss / 123RF Stock Photo
Beneath the Archbasilica of St. John Lateran in Rome – the mother of all churches – is a chamber. It measures one hundred feet by one hundred feet by one hundred feet. Lit from above by ingeniously excavated channels that bring sweeping beams of Heaven’s light to the floor below, it has but one door which is set in the centre of the south wall. The door’s lock has but one key. The walls and floor and ceiling are always-cool white marble, unflawed by the long centuries of words and deeds the chamber has witnessed. In the centre of the chamber, facing away from the door, is a simple, high-backed pine chair. Its uncarved arm rests and uncushioned seat are worn smooth by long centuries of heavy cares and duties until death.
In the chair sat a man.
He was the holder of the chamber’s key. No other could enter while he was inside. It was here he came to commune with, to take orders from, to make suggestions to, and to beg, his God. A lonely man needs a lonely room. Emotionally and theologically, this one was built at the pinnacle of a pyramid.
He was not there on this occasion for one of his conferences with the Lord, however. The message he had brought with him today was meant for others. He pressed send on the satellite communication device in his left hand and the message was sent:
A credible witness to truth and to the values of the Gospel is urgently needed.
Across Christendom and the other, lesser, fiefdoms the message sped. In a myriad of languages it propagated across the planet’s electronic communication networks, the man’s desperate hopes urging it on. How long would he have to wait for a reply?
Not long. Not long at all.
Precisely between him and the pristine wall, floating on his eye level, a pearl of strobing turquoise light appeared, accompanied by a bass pulse that wub-wub-wub-wubbed in four-four time. His robes rippled as the pearl accreted rapidly and drove the air in the chamber before it. When it was seven or eight feet in diameter, it stopped strobing, pulsing and expanding.
Directly in front of him, a man stepped from the light. The man tapped his wristwatch with a finger and the pearl collapsed to a point and faded with a whine. This time the air tugged at the man in the chair’s robes as it rushed to fill the vacuum created.
“Your Holiness,” said the man through his toothy grin, “so sorry I’m late. Atticus Justice at your service once more.”
“Atticus, Atticus, my son,” said the Pope, rising with difficulty from the chair and warmly taking the tall hero’s soft and pale hands into his shaking and stiffened own. “I knew you would get my message. I knew you would be the first.”
“Just me so far?” said Atticus, looking around the chamber.
“Other time-travellers are surely on their way. How many do you think will come?”
“Hard to be sure. It’s a curse that I’ve heard many tales told about many others but never met a single one in person.”
“We shall see, we shall see,” said the Pope. “Come, we have work, you and I.”
The content of the message had already told Atticus what his mission was to be. Guided back into his chair by Atticus, the Pontiff gave his reasons.
“Atticus, it took almost four hundred years from the birth of Our Lord Saviour for the Church to agree on the immutable text of His message. The great conclaves of the first millennium laboured over sixty differing accounts of His life to find the truth and give us God’s New Testament. Can you imagine? Yet to this day, to many, the Word of Our Lord remains imperfect, open to question and full of inconsistency. This, of course, we do not discuss.”
Atticus couldn’t tell if that “we” meant him and the Pope or the Church in general.
“Our Church faces perhaps its final crisis,” the Pope said. “In this age of reason and science some say it is under siege. Its battlements are cracked by the assault of those seeking truth. Seeking proof. I have decided that, if the Church is to survive, I must provide that proof.”
“So, time for a visit to Judea in AD 30, then.” said Atticus.
“So insightful, so reliable, my son.” said the Pope, standing again and kissing Atticus on both cheeks. “Go, find the Lamb of God. Follow Him, watch Him, record His words. See Him and hear Him. Bring us the proof that we may survive.”
The Pope’s robes were ruffled then tugged once more and Atticus Justice was gone.
“Computer,” said Atticus, back at the controls of his timeship, “bring up the files on early first-century Judea. Have the Nano-Loom spin me typical, non-obtrusive clothing.”
“Confirmed.”
“Fashionable though, nothing too infra dig. I don’t want to be seen in last year’s robes. And find an acceptable alternative to sandals. I simply won’t have them.”
“I know.”
“Upload the local customs and languages to my cerebral cortex. Better throw in Latin and Greek, as well, I suppose. Make sure my vaccinations for any diseases I may encounter are up to date.”
“Linguistic neural-uploads confirmed. Administering vaccine updates now.” A small vent directly above Atticus began pumping vaccinated air into the timeship’s cockpit. He breathed deeply.
“Initiate my antiquity-recognition and finance-management cortical subroutines. No point in going home out of pocket.”
“Already initiated.”
“And Computer?”
“Yes, Atticus?”
“Make sure the timeship’s cloaking device is fully charged this time. We don’t want to upset the natives again like we did the Mayans.”
“No, you don’t,” said Computer.
Judea in AD 30 was just as Atticus had expected: hot, dusty, his clothes were itchy, and Computer hadn’t been able to pinpoint any decent bars or restaurants. Thirsty and irritable, he began his search at the first inn he came to.
“Hello, sir. I’m looking for Jesus, the young carpenter who’s making a name for himself in these parts,” he said to the innkeeper who was at a table in the common room counting, as Atticus’s antiquity-recognition cortical subroutine confirmed, denarii, shekels, sestercii and drachmas into a wooden chest.
“Jesus? Hang on,” said the innkeeper, turning his head to the other people in the room. Atticus discreetly pocketed a handful of the coins while unobserved. The pension didn’t contribute to itself, as his finance-management cortical subroutine kept reminding him.
“Two of them are over there in the corner,” said the innkeeper, pointing.
“Two?” said Atticus.
“Aye, only the two today. There’s usually more of them in but they’ve been quite busy lately.”
“Thanks,” said Atticus, a growing bacteria of realisation loosening his bowels. The innkeeper sold him a cup of the foul local vintage and he sat down close to the two Jesuses.
“So they won’t drop it?” said the Jesus with the smooth, jet tresses, armour-piercing blue eyes and cheekbones to die for.
“No. They said they have as much right to be here as us,” said the Jesus with the tousled, caramel locks, armour-piercing blue eyes and wolfish teeth.
“How many more times do we need to have this conversation? We can’t have twelve Jesuses roaming the place.”
“Excuse me, gentlemen,” said Atticus, leaning towards them while flashing his most charming grin and radiating an assuredness he wasn’t feeling. “Did you say twelve Jesuses?”
“Well,” said Jesus Cheekbones, finishing his eighth cup. They’d all been on Atticus’s tab. “The first time-traveller to show up accidentally runs over the actual Jesus while parking his timeship. He realises what he’s done and decides to be the understudy.
”
“The rest of us turn up not long afterwards and decide to help,” said Jesus Teeth, signalling the innkeeper for a ninth round. “Plus, it’s a prestigious contract and none of us were going to miss any of the action.”
“He’s dead?” said Atticus. The wine had failed to deaden his shock. “Why didn’t someone go back and prevent the accident?”
“We wanted to but Jesus Wilson said something about creating potentially catastrophic paradoxes,” said Teeth.
“I thought it was the Novikov Self-Consistency Principle?” said Cheekbones.
“Was it?” said Teeth. “I forget.”
The various theories of time-travel weren’t something Atticus had really bothered himself with. Everything had always sorted itself out in the end with little tinkering needed from him. He supposed he could take the risk, travel back to before the accident and see what happened. Imagining what the whole of space and time imploding might look like, he downed his ninth cup.
“So what happens next?” he said, waving for more drinks.
“We divide up the territory and each take a patch to cover.” said Cheekbones.
“And that’s where the real trouble begins,” said Teeth. “Co-ordinating the whole thing’s going to be a nightmare.”
Atticus wondered how they were going to explain all this to the Pope.
“We all agreed that we’d dress the same, have similar hair and beards, say the all same stuff, you know, sermons and that.” said Teeth.
Atticus ran the Jesus Christ biographical file through his cerebral cortex.
“What about the miracles?” he said.
“We’ve got most of them planned already. Some are easier than others. One-man jobs,” said Teeth.
“The more spectacular ones, we might have to pool our resources,” said Cheekbones.
“Can I help?” said Atticus.
Cheekbones and Teeth looked at each other.
“I doubt one more Jesus is going to cause much more grief,” said Teeth.
“Hosanna in excelsis,” said Cheekbones, raising his cup in a sarcastic toast.
In the following weeks, after he’d got over the sunburn and developed a taste for the atrocious local wine, Atticus began to think that the plan, stupendously dangerous and dangerously stupid as it was, might actually work. Computer's Re-Facialiser had given him dark, silk-straight hair, armour-piercing blue eyes and a solemn dignity. He presumed all the other travellers had done something similar, the odds against twelve time travellers all resembling the accepted images of the Saviour being pretty high.
Before anything else, they all took shifts in fasting in the desert for 40 days and 40 nights. All agreed afterwards that Satan was erudite and witty company when he wasn't daring them to do idiotic things like eat stones and jump off synagogues.
Atticus asked, then insisted, then vehemently demanded he be the one to perform the miracle at the Wedding at Cana. He was determined that the guests wouldn’t be served any old rotgut. So, when the wine ran out and while everybody else was dancing, he slipped out the back and added a powdered 1978 Henri Jayer Cros Parantoux Vosne-Romanee Premier Cru to the amphoras of water. It was a splendid day that Atticus remembered fondly long afterwards. As a gift, he gave the bride and groom the coins he’d taken from the innkeeper. His biblical hangover the next day required twelve hours of Molecular-Rehydration and Electrolytic-Supplementation from Computer, but did nothing to take away the strange feeling of contentedness.
The following months and years saw something of a riot across Judea as the Jesuses tried to good-naturedly outdo each other with their words and their wonders. While they had all raucously toasted Jesus da Vinci’s animatronic Lazarus, most of them agreed it was the smaller, quieter acts of awe that had proved most poignant and resonant.
“I can’t help feeling sometimes like it’s cheating though,” Atticus said one day to Jesuses Dunworthy and Brown as the three of them splashed and cursed in the dark while trying to position the thick sheet of transparent perspex.
“Atticus,” said Dunworthy, “we’re three time-travellers suspending a huge piece of plastic just below the surface of the Sea of Galilee to make it look as if one of us can walk on water. That sounds pretty bloody miraculous to me.” Atticus could see his point.
Joy, fulfilment and camaraderie can be short-lived beasts, however. The day they’d all tried not to think about and had avoided discussing was soon not far away.
“It can’t be done with practical special effects and a hologram won’t do either,” said Jesus Foyle, in the private room above the inn in Jerusalem. “People are going to handle the body so that means no mannequins or animatronics.”
“One of us is actually going to have to go through with it?” said Atticus.
Nobody spoke for a long time.
In the end, Jesus Cheekbones had pulled the short straw from Atticus’s fist and Jesus Teeth had wept inconsolably for his friend.
They gave Cheekbones one hell of a send off. Only two of them were missing. Jesus Nebogipfel was walking upon mountains green and on pleasant pastures. Jesus Casey had taken his wife and children to France to establish a dynasty. They had both sent Cheekbones their apologies and heartfelt best wishes.
“The last Last Supper,” said Atticus much later as he drained his lost-count cup of the evening. They’d all had parting meals with their respective trusted lieutenants earlier and were now fully devoted to their friend’s final hours. Cheekbones wasn’t allowed to pay for a single drink, and promises of state of the art analgesics from the others to ease his forthcoming ordeal and proud toasts to his memory fortified him. Atticus didn’t think badly of those who chose to flee that night. One by one, several had announced they were visiting the latrine and never returned. At first light the next day Atticus changed his clothes and had Computer restore his own face.
As the rain came down that Friday afternoon, Atticus held Jesus Teeth’s hand while they watched until the end. Computer had condensed dark, mournful clouds over Golgotha and then seeded them. Idling the timeship above the cloud layer had given an impressive display of righteous and furious lightning.
“It is finished,” said Atticus, blinded by tears.
Back in the city in a deserted alleyway, he touched his wristwatch, stepped into the pearl and he, too, fled. Teeth had insisted he be the one to stay behind and had arranged for his most faithful followers to find him and his prosthetic stigmata on Sunday morning. He would spend the next several weeks honouring his friend’s death before leaving himself. The last time Atticus saw him, Teeth was striding with dark purpose towards the city’s Temple where he would hack and slash and rend its veil.
Atticus was back in the lonely chamber.
As is always the case, things had changed. There was no Pope waiting for him with fervent anticipation even though Atticus had been away for less than a second. The chair in the centre of the chamber looked as if it had never been used. It, along with the chamber, was covered in the dust and cobwebs of long centuries, and both were unmarked by words or deeds or cares or duties.
On the one door which was set in the centre of the south wall, he hammered long and hard. It was much later when someone finally heard him and much later still when they eventually found the key to unlock the door. The Swiss Guards on the other side escorted him to a small, shabby garret not far away.
In a chair sat a man.
“Time-traveller,” said the (same-but-different) Pope, rising with difficulty and warmly taking the tall hero’s calloused and tanned hands into his shaking and stiffened own. “I have been heard as I had hoped I would be. You have surely been sent by Our Lord.”
“Er,” said Atticus.
Helped back into his chair by two attentive priests, the Pontiff gave his reasons.
“Time-traveller, it has been over two thousand years since the birth of Our Lord Saviour and in that time the Church has failed to agree on the immutable text of His message. The great conclaves of the first, second and third
millennia have laboured and still labour over 780 differing accounts of His life to find the truth and give us God’s New Testament. Can you imagine? Yet to this day, to us all, the Word of Our Lord remains unfinished, unattested and shamefully, sinfully, unheard. This, of course, we do not discuss.”
“Er,” said Atticus.
“Our Church faces perhaps its final crisis,” the (same-but-different) Pope said. “In this age of reason and science many say it is as if the Church were never born. Its battlements never built. I am seeking truth. Seeking proof. I have decided that, if the Church is to live, I must provide that proof.”
“Er,” said Atticus.
“And so you have received my message, time-traveller, and my heart is glad. You are the only one to answer it. ”
“Message?” said Atticus. Smiling, the (same-but-different) Pope gestured to Atticus’ wristwatch. On its screen, Atticus read:
A credible witness to truth and to the values of the Gospel is urgently needed.
“Er,” said Atticus.
About the writer
Hello, I’m Justin McKeating, a writer based in Brighton. I used to have a political blog called Chicken Yoghurt which I wrote from 2005 to 2012ish, was liked by a few people, and is remembered fondly by even fewer.
In 2005, The Guardian said I was a member of “the new commentariat”. Many, including me, disagreed. Still, I was on the paper’s front page which pleased my Mam.
I also used to write for the now sadly defunct and much missed (by me at least) The Friday Thing, and also occasionally at the excellent The Sharpener and The Guardian’s Comment is Free.
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