John

by Niall Williams

  This is my prayer. Now, Lord.

  Now.

  Further along the shore Papias finds the footprints. The parting tide has left a virgin floor of sand, and upon it in the curved pathway of the blind is a pair of barefoot prints. Heel-heavy, stagger-stepped, by the white salt frill the prints make a route towards the water. Papias hurries after them. His head is still needled, his stomach unwell. Is a fever establishing in the caverns of his body? Warm droplets glisten on his brow, fall like stars past his eyes. The prints blur in the softened sand and sink, vanished into the shallow pools and low waters of the tide. Papias feels his heart drop. The Master is gone into the sea, he thinks, and without reason he thinks again of the large fish, the symbol of the Christian, beached on the stones, and steps himself into the first skirting wave. The water is shocking with cold. It seizes his ankles like ice manacles, burns his toe wound. He is gone, he thinks, gone; and with utter grief he scans the waves coming toward him and thinks he will fall into them and never rise such is his loss and guilt and regret.

  He wades forwards and scans sideways into the sea, his vision smeared, and grief delirium not far. Gulls raucous wheel and hang overhead. Long, ragged ribbons of weed are in the tide and twine about him. He presses further into the freezing waves, peering down at what touches against him, half expectant to see floating and dragged there the drowned apostle.

  Papias sees what may be the white head. It is some way out, in the high, rolling waters. If it is a man, he is to the point of his depth and faces the waves that come higher than him, making his head vanish in the foam.

  Now, Lord.

  Now.

  I am here to meet you.

  By water. As in the beginning.

  Come now.

  'Master! Master!' Papias calls. His voice is carried away, but in the expiration of another wave he sees clearly now that it is the Apostle deep in the sea. Papias calls to him again and wades forward. The water is ice against his chest, his breath is crushed. But he pushes on; John is thin and weak and will drown in moments. What madness is this? Why has he blindly gone into the sea? Is his mind overthrown? He must be saved. Unevenly the sand floor falls away, and suddenly Papias is deeper and loses footing and drops beneath a wave, wide-mouthed and gulping. He cannot swim; he paws wildly at the sand glitter and a long, slimed scarf of weed that enwraps his neck. His life bubbles furiously; kicking and flailing he sinks to drown.

  In blind underwater his eyes are bulged O's of astonishment that it will end so. He calls out another grey bubble, is by a wave rolled upon himself so his garment swirls as a sea flower, and his white legs are strange stamens, loose and long and darted through by silvered fish in that fish-full sea.

  Kicking done, a sandal falls free, spins, floats, sinks, heels into the home of sea lice and sea worms.

  Papias is taken out by the hungry tide; the one who came to save, drowned. His eyes are open, white and pinked as scallops, his fingers pale starfish, all his body a bountiful island of feed. Underwater, the motion of the waves is soothing, is as waves of sleep coming, one after the other, each taking him further. He lets go, lets go of rescue, of struggle, of overcoming the sea. In the same instant, as if his life departs from him like a ship and he watches it go, Papias feels float from him the service of the Apostle. Floating from him are the years he has followed the Master since he heard the Christians were banished on Patmos and came himself in a fisher's boat to be baptised and stay. From him go the years of prayer and attendance and faithfulness, dissolving goes the night he has spent, the woman Marina, her dead children just ahead of him now on the journey into the everlasting. All sails into the deeps. Papias lets go, is dragged down by the undertow, wave-spun, his chest crushed for last air. A briny nothingness takes him. His brain is dulled, a sea cabbage, his final expression empty surrender.

  The undersea sounds constant pounding. As though all is within a great ear, pulse and thrum, susurrus, the ceaseless sighing. Fish, silent as death, slip one direction for another. On the sea floor a shell moves minutely. Black weed waves funereal slow. The body of the man sinks unevenly, feet down, head up, as if to foot off water sprites or land walking in the afterlife. It is as ascension in reverse, slow, deliberate, hands outwards, hair fanned, garments waving even with heavenly majesty, but in descent. This floating sinking is for ever, a journey not many feet but enduring out of time, the sea's small mercy before the body touches bottom and does not rise.

  But then it does.

  It defies the laws of death and dominion of the sea.

  It surges upwards, past waterweed and fish shoal and bursts headfirst through the waves.

  Papias does not feel the hands that grasp him. His eyes are away, his mouth agape. He does not know how the drowned return, how life is measured, cut, or granted, how in the vastness of the sea the blind apostle has found him. Has he pulled back the tide like a cloth? Has he seerP. Papias has no mind to ask. Lifeless, he does not feel the fierce strength in the old man, but is fallen against the Apostle's breast, is cradled there, where the sea seems to withdraw from them. What daylight shines, what air enwraps them, are all unknown to the drowned servant; what prayers may be said, what words called up to the very gates of heavens, unheard by him.

  He is held in the arms of the Apostle.

  Then brusque life returns. Violent air like fierce light is thrust into the flooded chambers, and Papias is convulsed. He gags and his head shudders. John holds him. The sea about their waists. With brief flickering the eyes of the drowned open. Papias sees where he is.

  He opens his mouth and speaks a spew of seawater.

  'Praise God,' the blind apostle says.

  And Papias turns to the grey swirl of sky all about them, as if he might see just then, the sight of the Lord himself departing.

  7

  'His mind is lost,' Matthias says. 'In his blindness he does not know day from night. He wandered out and did not know where he was and could have perished in the sea. This is the truth. Prochorus, tell me, is this not the truth?'

  They sit inside the open doorway of Matthias's dwelling of skin and sticks, planking and rock. Iron light falls, the sea beyond rough.

  Matthias offers a dried fig, gnaws on its aged wrinkling when it is declined.

  'You have known him, Prochorus. He is no longer the same man. You cannot say so. And yet we follow what he says. Answer me this: if he says we must all walk into the tide and drown in the morning, what shall we answer?' Matthias's hooded eyes seek the scribe's, but Prochorus looks away.

  'I tell you this. We do nothing here for the Lord. This is not what God wants of us, Prochorus. He spoke to the Ancient many years ago, but does he now? The others will not ask this question, but they think it. I know they do. You do, too, don't you? You must wonder where is the one singed with fire that dictated the revelation? Where are the revelations he promised were at hand?'

  The fig requires harsh chewing to find flavour. Matthias works it, pursed in his cheek, fingers out seed caught in his teeth. His voice is clear and unafraid; he has calculated what he is to say and has chosen now, and Prochorus, with whom to begin.

  'Consider,' he says, and draws another fig from the pouch, offers it, is declined, eats. 'Consider this: Jesus of Nazareth was a man. He was the son of Joseph the carpenter. A Galilean. As a child he was a child. He did not cure the sick, raise the dead. He was as you or I, Prochorus. There were no signs. Nothing. Why so, if he was the Son of God? Why, if the Son of God, and his cousin is dying of a snakebite, his aunt lame, why not lay a hand and heal? Why not begin God's work at once? Illness and hurt were always present, why wait? Why play with other children and live an ordinary life if Jesus was the Son of God?'

  Prochorus is uncomfortable on the timber stool. He feels flushed. The sweet smell of the fig on Matthias's breath is turning his stomach. His face is parched and stiff from the salt wind.

  'Answer me, Prochorus. Why?'

  'I need water. I am thirsty.'

  'There is only one answer,
' Matthias continues, the water in a pouch behind him. 'The Son of God would not play with children, would not learn the trade of carpentry. For what? For what purpose learn to plane wood? No, these are human things, Prochorus. Listen to me. Listen.' Matthias's lips are thin, his face a thin triangle climbed with black beard. 'The truth is, Jesus was as you or I.'

  'Jesus was the Christ.'

  'But first he was a man, then God descended upon him. Just as he had on the Baptist before him, and before him on David, and on Moses, and Elijah, and so on into ancient time. The Lord descended upon him and he became the Christ and was no longer the carpenter. God came upon him so that Jesus might do his work. It is the truth; I know it, Prochorus. And answer me this, why would the Son of God allow himself to be scourged like a man, to be spat upon, humiliated, and hung to his death on the cross?'

  Matthias leans forward; the zeal of his words carries him. His brows are brought together in a deep furrow. Impatiently he waves a thin-fingered hand in the air as if warding off a bird.

  'What was to gain by that? How many more followers might we have if at that moment he had shone forth with blinding light? If he was truly the Son of God and had been able then to strike,' he fists a hand, smacks it to the other, 'if enemies and unbelievers were made to fall to their knees then, and he proved himself the Almighty?'

  He draws his stool closer; his voice is throaty now with passion. 'Think, Prochorus, what would have been then. Think of how he may have thrown off the cross like a stick, how he may have risen in air clothed in light and all would have seen and believed. Believed, Prochorus. Think of it. All would have believed, and for all time. We, his followers, would not have been persecuted. Despised by the world. We would have been honoured. And would the Son of God not want that? Would he not know that by showing himself then and not hanging on the cross all would have known it to be the truth: that Jesus of Nazareth was the Son of God? And none could deny it. His followers would have outnumbered Roman legions. So why, Prochorus? Why then did Jesus not do this? Did he want us to suffer? To be hated? Flogged at the walls of synagogues? To be banished by Roman emperors to live on such a barren rock as this?'

  Prochorus does not answer. He palms his bald head. His brow is bubbled with sweat, a furious itch is on his cheek and neck. He works at it. He wants water, but has not time to ask before Matthias says, 'What is the answer? How can it be explained?' He taps his fingertips together, a tent in desert wind. 'My learned friend, I will tell you. Jesus of Nazareth was not the Son of God, but a man like you or I. When he reached the age to be useful to our Lord, God descended upon him so that he might do his works. Christ did not come in the flesh, but in spirit. And so, too, God departed from him and left Jesus before Calvary. And Jesus knew this. He was again a man. He cried out as much. The power of the Lord, the spirit, had gone from him, as from all of the prophets. He suffered, he died on the cross, Prochorus. He could not shine forth or throw off the cross, because he was as you or I then and could do nothing. Do you see?'

  The light in the hut is low. The wind is gone away. There is curious stillness, on the damp sand floor a converse of flies.

  'I need water,' Prochorus says.

  The other does not move. His eyes are fixed on the scribe.

  Prochorus works the itch on his right cheek. 'Matthias, a drink,' he gasps. 'Water.'

  'Water, yes,' Matthias stands and from a table behind him lifts the water bag, holds it. 'You are learned, Prochorus. You are knowledgeable, able to discern truth. I respect you. That is why I have spoken.'

  The scribe's hand is reached out, the water not yet given.

  'As the Lord visited Jesus, Prochorus, so, too, he can visit himself upon others. You know this. We are not meant to remain here. It is not the Lord's intention. We who follow him have been chosen, and are free from sin, and must not live uselessly here in banishment. Prochorus,' Matthias whispers, 'J know this to be true' Then he gives the scribe the water bag.

  Prochorus drinks. His eyes are already fevered, the side of his face red with rash. And whether because he sees this or he judges he has risked enough for now, Matthias says no more. He sits on the stool, tents his fingertips. No wind at all blows.

  I hated them for wanting always a sign. 'What sign can you show us?' Always asking. 'Go on, a sign, a sign!'

  I did not need a sign. I believed.

  You know I did.

  We went up to Jerusalem when Passover was near. A dry season. In the temple precincts the animal sellers, the coin changers changing the denarii and drachmas to pay the temple tax of a half-shekel. Calling out their rates to those approaching. Oxen in the passages, sheep, cages of doves. Noise of trading. Hot sun. The long journey we had walked to come there.

  When we come to the temple, something will occur, I thought.

  On the long walk up the hillsides you did not speak. You walked swiftly. I was by your side.

  When we came, they had already heard of you. Their murmurs we heard: 'That is him! That is Jesus, the one who did those things. They follow him. Look!'

  And some called your name, and others asked did we want strong oxen, fat sheep, cheap rates for coin changing. They pulled at your sleeve. I struck one in the face. James another. He kicked a table of coins. Spilling in the sunlight. The cries of the animals, the sellers waving their hands. James with his hands about the neck of another.

  Because we had imagined it otherwise. Because we had walked that long walk up the dry hillsides, thinking, Behold, the Son of God comes to Jerusalem.

  And we, the chosen, alongside him.

  But no glory was in this. Dirt and noise and fighting. A man pulling me back, striking me.

  Another standing before you offering a jewelled brooch, pulling at your garments. Thinking because we were your many servants that you were wealthy.

  You bent down to the bedding of the oxen and entwined the straw and reed to make a whip of cord. Raised it in the air.

  The only time I ever saw your anger.

  James and I and Philip and Andrew wild with fighting, furious as beasts.

  You were ashamed, I thought. Of them. Of us, too. And knelt down in that deserted passageway of the temple.

  To repent.

  For the glory of the Father could not be won that way.

  In two days the sellers and the coin changers would be back. You knew that. You knew and knelt and knew already the history of what was to come.

  The merchants went running to the chief priests and the elders and told them of you, how the people would not be able to pay the temple tax if there were no coin changers.

  And the chief priests came and asked, 'What sign can you show us, authorising you to do these things?'

  I confess, Lord, I, too, wanted a sign then. I wanted them struck down, made lame, prostrate on the ground before you.

  You placed your hand on your chest. 'Destroy this temple, and in three days I will raise it up.'

  We did not understand then. No more than the priests. I looked at the temple walls. I expected you would make them fall by raising your hand. Such was my belief.

  Such was my love.

  'Master?'

  'Papias. I hear in your voice you are recovered.'

  'I have brought a bowl of lentil pottage. Master, will you eat?'

  'My thanks.'

  It is mid-morning. John sits near the cave entrance, his white head tilted back, brown blind eyes open to the weak sun. There is a little wind. Before him the island prison is stilled and empty, bleak rock and brooding sea.

  The young disciple carries a small wooden bowl, places it in the Apostle's hands, sits by him while he eats. Papias has told none that John was in mid-sea when he found him. For in the aftermath of the rescue he was not sure himself what he saw. He has said only that he came upon the Apostle wandered down by the shore. He has not said he himself was drowned and found by his blind master in the deep waters, for the puzzle of what happened is too profound and unclear in his mind.

  'Your foot is lame?'


  'It is a small thing, Master.'

  'I hear you limp.'

  'It will be soon healed.'

  John spoons the pottage, the lentils long soaked and thick and savoured with fish tails and herbs.

  'I have been weak, Papias,' he says. 'I have surrendered to impatience.'

  'You are our master. If you are weak, we are weaker. You are the beloved disciple of the Lord himself,'

  Do not call me that. I am no more beloved than another — all are beloved.'

  Papias purses his lips, does not ask the question he wishes to, what the Apostle was doing in the tide. He is filled with restlessness, wild birds of the unasked, the untold. His hands tap softly on his thighs. He studies his wounded foot, raised lips of scar, sandgristled. He wants to tell of the woman Marina and her dead children and her belief she is with demons, but feels a cloud of guilt over it. He did nothing wrong; he stayed with the woman, he prayed for her, he prayed for her children safe passage to heaven. But still, in him is guilt and restlessness.

  'Tell me of the sky,' the Apostle says.

  'The sky, Master?'

  'Yes. Tell me.'

  'There is cloud. White cloud. Moving slowly. And some blue in the east. Pale. Very pale.' Papias does not know what else to add, whether there is something of significance he misses. The old man says nothing. He sits, face angled to the light, silent.

  Is it this sky or another in memory he sees? Papias wonders. In his blindness does he remake the world as it was once? Where does he go in the long silence of the days here on the island? Papias is too young to have known him in his vigour. The Apostle was already blind when the youth sailed to Patmos, and so he has not seen the strong figure of the fisherman, the muscled, brown-haired figure who in his own youth had walked into Jerusalem by the side of Jesus Christ. But he has heard a thousand stories. Boanerges, Jesus had called the sons of Zebedee, Sons of Thunder, for their temper and strength. Papias had heard of them in preachings from wandering Christians who came in from the desert lands beyond Antioch. He had heard of the twelve, the followers of the Galilean, and how one was little more than a youth; this one loomed in Papias's mind. To be of that age and see the Christ, what would it have meant? Would Papias himself have known? Would he, too, have abandoned his family, the fishing business, to follow? He had listened to the preachings carefully, the stories they told beneath a held awning on sticks, of the signs at Cana, the healing of the royal official's son, and come back the following day to hear more. In dazzling sunlight he sat cross-legged and heard from the blistered lips of the Christians' accounts, grossly detailed, of the scourging of Jesus. Blood spatter, lacerations, spearings, stones thrown, all were vividly painted. Thin arms out-spanned, head thrown back, one with ragged twist of dusty beard and eyes baleful and prominent, made alive the agony of the crucifixion, the nails driven, the pulp of hand bursting, the raw torment when the cross was risen up and the Christ hung.