John

by Niall Williams

  'Matthias! Cease, be silent,' an elder, Ioseph, says.

  But others, Auster, Linus, Baltsaros, move slightly forwards and Matthias continues: 'How does it serve to be silent? Are we not human? Is it not of man to seek to know? How can this be wrong if it makes stronger our faith? That we might better serve by knowing, surely this is truth. Is this not the truth, Master? All want to know what only you can tell us. How long more? How long more will we wait for the coming?'

  'Brother,' the bald figure of Lemuel says, 'it is not for us to ask.'

  'But it is. It is for us to ask and for our master to tell. How long? How long more are we to live on this barren island? I am not alone in asking how a life here, far from all, serves the Divine. I am not alone in asking, only in asking aloud. I am speaking the truth for us all. Surely there is a sign for us. Surely he has told you and you can take us from this darkness.'

  At this, Matthias drops to his knees before John. He reaches out and takes the old man's hand and places it upon his own head.

  'Behold, I touch the hand that touched the Christ,' he says. 'Of he that has seen. When will you guide us into the light of his presence? Master, tell us.'

  'Matthias! Enough!' Ioseph steps forward, puts his hand on the other's shoulder to draw him back. But Matthias pushes it off.

  'Does the Lord speak to you still, or is he silent?' he asks.

  The sea sounds at the cave's entrance. All watch the old apostle's face. It is impossible to read what thoughts travel there. His mouth is tightly closed, his lips thin. As if in deep communion, or scrutiny for something precious lost, there is a deep furrow between his brows. His breath through the long, straight nose is inaudible. He has such stillness as do the dead. His long white hair falls thinly in serene compose. But within him may be thunders and lightnings. None can say.

  Matthias holds his hand firmly. He will not let go until he has his answer. 'Is he silent to you?' he asks again. 'Does he speak to you?'

  The slightest thing now may be a sign. There is turned on the old apostle's face such study and concentration as to note each quiver of muscle, each infinitesimal flickering of nerve, and such as may betray the truth of his response. His blind eyes are open and clear as sky. His lips press together and then — is he going to speak? The disciples dare not make a sound. Those who know they should admonish Matthias and leave do not. Those who so desperately hunger for an answer allow themselves to lean ever so slightly forwards.

  John's tongue touches his lips.

  Beside him, the youth Papias stands.

  'I am the servant of the Lord, Jesus Christ,' he says. 'As are all of you. Because we were called. I heard the calling, and I have undertaken the Lord's work until he comes again.'

  The elder disciples nod, comforted even by so few words.

  But Matthias asks, 'Will he, Master? Will he come again? Will we see him with our own eyes? And when will he come? Is there a sign?'

  'Matthias!' the scribe's voice calls out.

  'Be calmed, Prochorus,' says John. He raises his brows as if so he might lift the weight on his spirit; his voice is quiet and firm. 'He will come again, Matthias. You will see him with your own eyes. As will I. The Lord has told me so himself.' He pauses, as if the saying aloud of this has renewed him in some way, as if he has traversed some shadowed terrain in himself into a naked light. 'He will come again,' he says simply.

  'Soon, Master?'

  'The hour grows near,' John answers. He withdraws his hand and holds it in the other.

  The hour grows near.

  3

  The storm passed, a boat lands. It brings news of the outside world, and Papias carries this to the cave.

  John sits outside on a rock, his face to the pale sun. He hears the footsteps of the youth and interprets their heaviness.

  'Papias, you may tell me,' he says.

  'Master, it is sad news. The boatmen say the persecution continues.'

  'This is not their only news.'

  'No, Master.'

  'Tell me.'

  'They say there was news of a new Christian martyr. He was one who had travelled, it was said, as far as the Caucasus Mountains to preach the word of the Lord, and had preached to the Scythians and from there went to Byzantium, then to Thrace and Macedonia, down the Corinthian Gulf to Patros in Greece.'

  'Tell me.'

  'Aigeatis, the governor of Patros, became enraged at his preaching and ordered him brought before a tribunal, where he was asked to renounce the Christian faith. But he would not.' Papias pauses. He studies his master's face, for it shows something he cannot explain. It is as though what he is telling is already known, or has to the old apostle been foretold. 'The governor Aigeatis ordered him to be crucified, Master,' he continues.

  'Yes.'

  'Do you know already, Master?'

  'Tell me.'

  'They say he was scourged and hung upon the cross, that he hung there for three days in suffering. The people came around him, and in his suffering he cried out to them to love the Lord Jesus. For three days he would not die. He was scourged further while he hung on the cross, but yet did not speak against our Lord. The boatman says his last words are reported, "Accept me, O Christ Jesus, into your eternal realm.'"

  Fear and sorrow and awe pause Papias. He thinks of the agony of the martyr and his own intolerance of pain. He thinks of what it would be to have the ropes bind his arms to the cross, of the muscles tearing, and the wounds from the scourging crying out. He thinks of the thirst, and the sun burning, of the hunger and the anguish and how all such would be relieved at once if he were only to renounce. He blinks himself out of such thoughts.

  'The boatman says the martyr's name . . .'

  'Andrew,' says John.

  'Yes, Master.'

  Andrew, the first. The fair-haired. Brother of Simon Peter. His father, Jona; his mother, Joanna. Andrew, who believed before I did. Who saw Jesus walking and jumped to his feet at once. That blue morning. We ran to be up with him. The first words our Lord spoke to us, 'What are you looking for?'

  I, too timid to answer.

  Andrew asked, 'Rabbi, where are you staying?'

  'Come and see.'

  How he ran back for Simon Peter, shouting, 'We have found the Messiah! We have found him!'

  The beginning.

  The day being dry, the old man walks out on the island with Papias. The youth gives his right arm. He does not speak unless spoken to. He believes himself honoured to be attendant on the Apostle.

  The place is mostly rock, the wind cool. Sea sounds and seabird calls fill the air. They take a route up from the shore, the old man in his white robes frail and shaped thin by gently pressing wind. The youth is dark-haired and strong. White clouds cross swiftly above them, freeing and capturing the sun.

  While to the others the island of their banishment has become smaller with time, to John in his blindness it has become boundless. In the dark in which he walks it is a landscape endless as eternity. He has seen it years previous, but forgotten the exactness. Now it is only the dark place where he is waiting for the light. He has Papias guide him up across the weathered rock face, past the low dwellings of the other disciples, and away on to the higher ground, where there is a view of the open sea and the island's perimeter. It is the highest point.

  Whether the Apostle knows this exactly Papias is not sure. Whether he brings them there to the closest point to heaven on purpose or it is an assigned place and the Lord has communicated this to John, Papias does not enquire. In the holiness of the Apostle he believes completely. He believes all things John does are for a reason, and that this will be revealed in time. In recent months Papias has heard others in the community murmur doubt about the old man's memory and cogency. Matthias is not the only one to question. Others, too, are grown restless and impatient, the ascending columns of their prayers thinning at the base. Papias hears, but says nothing. He tells none of this to the old man, for it seems a betrayal, and his own faith is still absolute.

 
When they reach the high point, the wind blows more vigorously. John's hair is taken back, his white beard laid against his neck. His blue eyes look about, as though they had sight.

  What is happening in his mind? Papias wonders. What sights does he see? His master is like a cave full of secrets.

  The sea below is white-capped and the seabirds hover and cry. There is a ship on the horizon sailing west. John stands without a sound.

  It is as though he expects something to happen here, Papias thinks. It is as though at any moment a door might open in the heavens above him. Papias looks up at the blue and the white clouds crossing. For the old apostle he anticipates what it might be that is shortly to happen. He pictures a brilliant light; he imagines music of trumpets, and all manner of white horses, winged and golden shod, beating down in majesty out of the upper realms. Papias sees an order of angels swoop from the entranceway of the Eternal and flank the incandescent light. He anticipates a bliss divine. Upon the head of this ancient man he foresees a white fire alight and all grow radiant in such dimension as to blind with whiteness and make men fall to their knees as the Christ descends to be once more, there, by the side of his beloved disciple.

  While they stand, Papias sees it so. In the furnace of his youthful faith he forges this perfect image. He imagines it will be at any moment. He is certain this is what his master awaits.

  John says nothing. He attends the wind.

  An hour, two hours pass. The silence is absolute. The old man's ankles ache. The bones of his legs are brittle and full of pain.

  Clouds come from the east, darkening.

  Nothing happens.

  When he fears that he will fall, John reaches out to allow Papias to support him. He leans on his arm, but says nothing.

  He stands there on top of the island. To the north is the risen darkness of Mount Kerketeus, clouds gathered upon it. Together the Apostle and the youth wait.

  When the bell rings noon, they come back down for prayer.

  'It is written,' Matthias says that evening to a small gathering in the narrow confines of his dwelling, three sides of timber planking against rock. He holds open the scroll of the Book of Revelation. ' "And when he had opened the fifth seal, I saw under the altar the souls of them that were slain for the word of God, and for the testimony which they held. And they cried with a loud voice, saying: How long, O Lord, holy and true, dost thou not judge and revenge our blood on them that dwell on the earth?"

  'Amen,' Auster says, and nods toward the thin, flaxen-haired figure of Linus.

  'Amen,' say the others.

  Lambs all of them, Matthias thinks. Lambs that can be led.

  He turns on his heel, spreads open his hands. 'How long, O Lord? How long? Yea, I dare to ask. While Domitian reigns there continues persecution. The crucifixion of the apostle Andrew is only one of many. The soul of the slain. I hear him crying out. We will be slaughtered from the earth and none care. We will be forgotten.'

  'But Matthias, ours is not to question,' Cyrus says. 'Ours is to wait and keep the faith. '"Yet that which you have, holdfast until I come." '

  'But so, too, it is written, Cyrus, "Behold I come quickly",' Matthias replies.

  Cyrus nods. 'This is true,' he agrees. 'We believe our Lord is coming, Matthias.'

  'But why does he wait?'

  The lamb can't answer.

  'How many crucifixions does our Lord want? Five hundred more? Five thousand? How many more crucifixions will mark the roads of Domitian's empire while we sit here?'

  The lambs don't bleat. 'Recall,' Matthias says, 'the Apostle himself wrote: "And behold there was a great earthquake, and the sun became black as a sackcloth of hair, and the whole moon became as blood; and the stars from heaven fell upon the earth, as a fig tree casteth its green figs when it is shaken by a great wind.

  ' "And the heaven departed as a book folded up." ' Matthias does not need to read; he knows the words. ' "And every mountain and the islands were moved out of their places; and the kings of the earth and the princes and tribunes and the rich and the strong and every bondmen and every freeman hid themselves in the dens and in the rocks of mountains. And they say to the mountains and the rocks: Fall upon us and hide us from the face of him that sitteth upon the throne, and from the wrath of the Lamb. For the great day of their wrath is come, and who shall be able to stand?" '

  He pauses, his face flushed, and he looks at each. They are a small gathering, chosen, asked from among the others to come to debate the way to truth. They are mostly the younger of the disciples. Their beards have no silver, their faces are unlined. They have come in recent years, many by choice, to be in the company of the Apostle, to await with him the coming. But time has worked on their faith, the nothing that has happened each day since eroding mountains.

  ' "The great day of their wrath. The great day of their wrath is come, and who shall be able to stand?" ' Matthias continues. 'But tell me, where is this wrath? When is this day? This I ask you. Tell me if you know. Tell if it is only poor Matthias who does not understand. Take him from his ignorance. Is it to come while we sit here on Patmos? Verily, is this the intention of the Divine? Tell me, tell me Baltsaros, Linus, is it the intention that we wait on till old age and weakness come? Is this what you think Cyrus, Auster? Or' — Matthias raises a finger as if to arrest a thought, as if there passes in the air just then a solution hitherto unconsidered — 'might it be, might it be that we are to go forward to meet it? As an army on a plain is emboldened by the approach of another legion, should we not make the great day happen ourselves? Should we not show ourselves willing to the Divine?'

  'It is a vexing question, Matthias,' says the high voice of Phineas.

  Bald-pated fool of a lamb, eyes too close to each other for clear thought.

  'But how can we know?' Phineas whines. 'Only the Apostle has seen the Lord, and he commands we abide here.'

  The others nod and voice agreement.

  Lambs indeed.

  Baltsaros says, 'We are all grieved, Matthias, to hear the news of the apostle Andrew. But his place is assured at the table of our Lord in heaven. His work was complete. In that we can rejoice.'

  'Rejoice because every day we are less, not more?' Matthias arches his eyebrows. 'Truly? Truly? Well, I cannot rejoice. What work for God do we do here? Are we not the same as those dead? What keeps us here in banishment? An edict from Rome? Because if we leave this island we will be persecuted and crucified? Consider this: perhaps this is our destiny, and we hide from it here, are cowards. I do not rejoice in the death of Andrew, I grieve and anger. As should you all.'

  Aware of how incautious are his words, he stops. He must bring the lambs back into safe pasture.

  'Forgive me my weakness, my brothers. Pray with me that I may know the way to truth,' he says, and before them kneels down and bows low his head.

  A brilliant stratagem. As though I ask them to show me the way. These lambs that think they are lions.

  Matthias closes his eyes. The seeding is begun.

  4

  And the beast coming up out of the sea having seven heads and ten horns, and upon the horns ten diadems. The beast that was like to a leopard, and feet the feet of a bear, and mouth of a lion.

  And the seven vials of the wrath of God. The sore and grievous wound that fell upon the men with the character of the beast. The blood poured into all the sea, wherein every living soul died. The rivers and the fountains made blood. The sun afflicting men with heat and fire so all were scorched and blasphemed. The vial that was poured on the seat of the beast so his kingdom became dark and they gnawed their tongues for pain. The sixth vial that was poured into the river Euphrates and dried up the waters. And from the mouth of the dragon, from the mouth of the beast, three unclean spirits like frogs. Spirits like devils working signs. And the seventh vial poured on the air, and a voice out of the temple saying, 'It is done.' And lightnings and voices and thunders, and a great earthquake, and the great city divided into three parts, and every island fled awa
y and the mountains not found. And falling then the great plague of hail.

  Did I see such things as these?

  Did I?

  Did those words come from me?

  I remember not.

  Was there a vision so clear?

  When Papias reads it to me, it seems familiar yet strange.

  Dear Lord, remember your ancient servant. Have pity. Pages in the book of my memory fall away.

  Did the angel come to me truly?

  Did I see such vision? And then was blind?

  But Jerusalem fell. The mountain Vesuvius opened with fire. Nero's Rome burned. Such things did happen.

  And yet you did not come.

  Papias reads to me: ' "And I, John, who have heard and seen these things. And after I had heard and seen, I fell down to adore before the feet of the angel who showed me these things."'

  But now I am afflicted, Lord, and cannot remember.

  My spirit thirsts for salvation.

  John kneels in the rock chamber and confesses. Papias is gone to see what fish have been caught. The old apostle's head is bowed. The news of the death of Andrew has struck him like many blows. Though the crucifixion may have happened a long time ago and the news taken this time to travel, it is to him as though yesterday. Cut as wounds into his mind is the history of the suffering of each of the twelve. Accounts he has heard. Each of these return him to one moment on the road.

  They were passing through Phrygia and the country of Galatia when they met a traveller in purple. He was a wizened creature, humped, with ragged beard. Sun blazed upon them. 'O Christians!' he called out, his head tilted upward, his rheumy eyes aswim. 'Come, buy from me!' He had a wife and a loaded ass, gestured with a long-nailed hook hand for them to pause. The Apostle and his followers had nothing to trade. And when he discovered this, the traveller spat into the sand. 'Ye are not worth spit,' he said, and waved his wife to stop unloading the goods. 'Ye will be dust soon,' he muttered for consolation, glare-eyed, blister-cracking his lips. 'Ye're heads will roll like the son of Zebedee,' he said with undisguised glee and turned away.