Writing at the Zou

              “Who is he?” Gilad asked Hava, the elderly wife of the village butcher as he relaxed from readying the fields all morning. His body stood in perfect juxtaposition to Hava’s withered form. He towered over most people in the village and could easily outmatch most in wrestling.

                “He is a very wise man – at least, that’s what I heard,” Hava rasped. “Wherever he goes, the Torah is understood better. It’s as though he knows what it was supposed to say before all our priests started preaching it.”

                “I heard,” her husband interrupted, walking to the front of their stand with a bloody, meat-covered bone, “that he is a rebel! There is a howling crowd wherever he goes! There are hundreds now who are following him! If he comes through our village, it will be terrible! They will rip our houses apart from over our heads!”

                “It’s his army!” Hadas said, walking up to the stall. The instant the other man, Gilad’s junior by just one moon, came near, Gilad’s heart seemed to race, to tear at the reigns he so tightly tried to hold. In his fixation of avoiding acknowledging Hadas in any way, while playing with one of Efram’s knives, he dropped it and cut his finger open.

                “These are not toys!” Efram grumbled, taking the knife and cleaning it against his vest. “You may be twice my height, but you are still the foolish little boy who stole my lamb chops!”

                “They say that he is the messiah! The king of the Jews!” Hadas continued, ignoring the interruption. “The Pharisees despise him! With him, we will be free of the Romans!”

Hadas spat on the ground after mentioning the oppressive empire that hung over everything like a great storm-cloud that God had promised Moses would never again shadow the earth.

                “But they say, too,” Hava added, surreptitiously after her husband departed to give Hadas his butchered chickens, “that he is a healer! That he performs miracles!”

                “A skill useful for a king who will do battle with those blood-thirsty animals from the north!” Hadas declared. “Thank you, Efrat.” Having paid, Hadas, picked up his chickens, and departed, brushing past Gilad as he did so.

                “I see that,” Hava chuckled – a sound that could have been a sack full of grain being shaken.

                “What did you see?” Gilad asked, spinning around and almost tripping over old Efrat as he shuffled by.

                “I saw the blush that crept into your cheeks when Hadas brushed past you. There is a fire that he sets in you! I have seen it!”

                “It’s because…I hate him!” Gilad growled. “He’s boastful, proud! The torah would condemn him in a second!” The sound of Hava’s laughter again filled the stall.

                “Don’t hate him too much. A passion boiling over, like a pot over a fire, might put out its own fire! Or at least make a terrible stink!”

When they came, they came legion. The dust from their feet became visible and moved closer and as the sun drew downward, the yelping, mewing, screaming, barking crowds came rolling into town. It was as if an entire city descended on the small town with one man as its central pillar.

From where he stood, Gilad could not see him over the dust, the heads, and the tangle that seemed to envelop him from every direction. Somewhere in there was Hasad, trying to catch a glimpse of this king who walked the road like a common man. There, too, was old Hava, holding her own as she tried to touch him and heal herself of the cough that wracked her frail body for the last year.

Evening fell and the strangers moved to the edge of town where a stream flowed past the village. There they made camp and what seemed like a field of stars unfolded across lands that were normally dark and forbidding.

Laying on his pallet in the dark, Gilad could hear the strangers, even so far away, rouciously celebrating their journey. Tomorrow, the village would rail against these loud, dirty mongrels who brought insanity and disease with them, if they didn’t just rise up and chase them away during the night.

“I can’t sleep,” Gilad told his mother, who also turned over in her place. “I’m going to the stream.”

“Be careful, Gilad. Don’t talk to any of those travelers. They are misfortune! This man they follow, he is ill luck to those who are near him! He will bring his loved ones tears…”

Letting out a deep sigh, Gilad plunged into the silver night.

Outside, the moon stood watch, as a shepherd over the stars, in the vast, clear sky. Even as he approached the stream, the travelers seemed to get more quiet and, one by one, put out their fires. It appeared that the night’s festivities were coming to a close and none too soon. But Gilad was already up, deciding to get a drink of the clear waters of the stream before returning home.

Traveling upstream to avoid the dozens of women washing clothes and babies in the river, Gliad found a place where the banks came low to the water but stood unobscured by reeds or water-muck. Around, choruses of insects sang as though the lord of the universe were in their audience.

“This is a beautiful place,” a gentle voice said as Gilad finished drinking and sat back in the grass.

“It is?” Gilad asked. The stranger was on the opposite bank, but Gilad could still clearly see his features by the moon’s light that shined on him and almost seemed to emanate from him.

“Yes. Gilad, I think I dropped a copper coin in the dirt behind you. Would you get it for me? I will come and help look for it.”

Taking his eyes off the remarkable man, Gilad turned and looked for any tell-tale signs of a piece of metal amidst the dirt. Surely enough, but some miracle, there was just enough light to shine off a small coin that Gilad picked up and dusted for the stranger.

“Thank you,” the man said, accepting the coin. By now, they were both together on the same side, though Gilad had not heard a splash to signify the man had crossed. But, perhaps it was just easier to have jumped anyway, Gilad mused.

“How did you know my name?” Gilad asked, “I do not know yours.”

“I am Emanuel. I am the Son of Man. I am Jesus of Nasareth.”

“The king! The prophet!” Gilad said, stumbling backwards and falling to his knees. Suddenly, the rather demure figure was imposing and powerful, even in the darkness of night.

“Gilad, do not fear me. You wanted to see me. I am here.”

“Jesus – who are you?”

“What do you believe?” Jesus asked.

“You are a wise man. You talk to God. You are very close to him,” Gilad said.

“That is what you have heard. You are very special, for you see what others dare not. Now, what do you believe?” Jesus knelt down to look Gilad in the eye and smiled.

“You are closer to God than any prophet. But…how can…”

“One god. One son. Eternal.” Jesus smiled as Gilad felt a shake go through his body. Without really thinking, he fell to the ground, bowing to the man who seemed to pluck the light from the night and shroud himself with it.

“Stand with me, Gilad,” Jesus said, putting a warm hand on his shoulder.

Standing anew, the night seemed stranger and more wondrous than ever before.

“You wanted to ask something of me?” Jesus asked as Gilad watched him near the stream.

“I…I cannot ask anything, not from you,” Gilad said and bowed his head, swallowing the pain. Here stood God’s son, and still, he turned it down, his chance to be free of Hadas’s haunting eyes, the allure of men’s bodies that the torah, the priests said, condemned.

“Don’t ask it of me,” Jesus said, turning around, “ask it of god. Come.”

Gilad approached carefully, feeling as though he, himself, glided across the grass. When Gilad was close enough, Jesus gently rested his hands on Gilad’s shoulders. Perhaps it was the moonlight, but Gilad could have sworn that a smile played on Jesus’s lips.

“A man has many hurts, many faults, many…ill desires…” Gilad said, barely pushing out the last part before taking a breath and continuing. “Will you ask your Father to cleanse me? To remove the ills that have afflicted me since I was a boy?”

“You shall be pure in the words you hear and know truth,” Jesus said and brushed over Gilad’s ears. “And you shall see faith and goodness, and know it to be true!” Now, those warm hands ran down his face and over Gilad’s eyes. “And you shall be pure of heart and no evil desire will torment you,” Jesus said, his words echoing on the breezes that spun together the night. With his right hand, Jesus pressed on Gilad’s chest where his heart was.

“Your faith will keep you,” Jesus said with a smile. Speechless, Gilad fell to his knees and bowed before Jesus again.

“Thank you!” he said.

“It is only through my Father that this can be done. And only through your faith could it happen. Thank him! And remember!”

When Gilad dared to look up again, he was alone in the night, a golden coin lying where Jesus had stood. Gingerly, Gilad picked up the coin and tested it to see that it was not a dream. Gilad rose and returned home, tucking the gold coin into his belt.

Morning awakened Gilad where the noise of a dozen people walking around and stepping over him did not.

“Son, will you go to the baker and get bread?” Gilad’s father asked, handing a pair of copper coins. Glad to breathe in the fresh air, Gilad left the hut and walked down the street to the baker’s hut. It was as though the entire world had been reborn and shined more beautifully than ever before.

“Hey Gilad,” a voice called from behind. Even without turning around, Gilad knew there could only be one whose voice would inspire such a combination of terror and hope. “Did you notice the strangers leave? They must have departed very early! Even before anyone could yell at them for trampling some of the best grasses!”

“You didn’t join their army?” Gilad asked, bitter that his heart desired Hadas more than ever.

“They weren’t an army,” Hadas said, his voice resigned. “That man they follow, he was something else. Maybe Hava was right. Maybe he is a master of the torah, but the people around him swear he’s something more. Have you seen him?”

The question struck Gilad like a thunderbolt. Frozen where he stood, Gilad could not take another step.

“What’s wrong? Did you see him?”

“Is that gold?” Hadas ran his hand down Galad’s side until it reached his belt.  Pausing there, Hadas withdrew his hand, along with a brilliantly shining gold coin.

“I…saw him,” Gilad said, turning and looking at his friend who had captured his imagination since boyhood. “He spoke to me. He said I was special…”

“You are very special,” Hadas said. “I could have told you that.”

Gilad watched the man smile and felt Hadas gently tuck the coin back into Gilad’s belt, then pull him in for a kiss that shattered the gates of night letting the golden morning into his heart.