Untitled Novel: The Doorkeeper

[Passage from an untitled novel, written 23/24 September 1992]

The doorkeeper came in, obviously awed by the great magician. “You sent for me, my Lord?”

“Yes,” said Simon. “I have learned that a certain man has come to this city today. This man has come to undo the good work we have done here, and to turn people away from the True Path. Do you understand?”

The doorkeeper stared vacantly ahead, his eyes fixed on nothing in particular, his mouth gaping.

“Do you understand?” repeated Simon sharply.

“I’m sorry, Lord,” the doorkeeper said slowly. “My wits are no longer what they once were, and they wander about like woolly sheep in a blizzard.”

“You’ll have to pardon him,” said Marcellus, “He’s old, and he’s never seen a magician before.”

“I am not a magician,” said Simon wearily. “That’s a vulgar term used by people who do not understand the source of my power. I do nothing—I can do nothing—nothing at all, do you understand me?—without the power of God. A magician attempts to bend the forces of the cosmos to his own will; a man of God submits his will to the forces of the cosmos.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” said Marcellus, “I know all that. But you will have to admit, that it is not every day that a man comes into the presence of a great magician.”

Giving up the point, Simon returned to his main difficulty. “There is a man who has come to the city to undo our work here. His name is also Simon, but he is called Rock, and by that name you will know him.”

“Is he your evil twin, Lord?” asked the doorkeeper.

“Yeah, sure, that’s close enough,” said Simon. Good and evil were meaningless abstractions, but what was the point of rubbing the poor old man’s nose in it? “This man will soon show up here, to break apart our discussions and to confuse our counsels. There is no point in debating with him; I’ve tried, and his mind is like a sheet of iron—impenetrable to the slightest new idea or concept. When God allowed us free will, the only real freedom he gave us was the right to be wrong—” He broke off, realizing that he was wandering again.

“So what about this man, Lord?” asked the doorkeeper.

“What about him? When he comes here—and he will come here, you may be sure of that—when he comes, at whatever hour of the day or night, tell him that I am not in.”

“But what if you are in, Lord?”

“Tell him that I’m not in,” said Simon impatiently.

“I am to lie then, Lord?”

“Yes?”

“But what if you’re not in, Lord? Am I to lie then too?”

“No,” said Simon, “In that case, you tell the truth.”

“So if you are in, I lie and say that you’re not in, but if you’re not in, I tell the truth. What if I don’t know whether you’re in or not? Do I lie then, Lord, and say I do know?”

“Whatever you like,” said Simon. “It’s very simple. In any case, and under all circumstances, you tell Rock Simon when he comes that I am not in. Not in. Do you understand?”

“Not in the least, Lord,” replied the doorkeeper cheerfully, “But that will not keep me from carrying out your orders to the last detail. I do not understand orders, Lord; I merely obey them.”

“You may go,” said Marcellus to the doorkeeper.

“Will he do as he’s told?” asked Simon.

“Oh, of course he will,” said Marcellus. “He may talk like a blithering idiot, but he’s really as sharp as we are. Now, what was it you were saying about the relationship between accidents here on earth and the power of God?”

So the rest of the day passed pleasantly enough in such discussions and in the blessings of the power of God. The next day, however, was a different story.

They were at breakfast when there came a cry from outside the house: “The dog’s loose!” This was a scarcely necessary observation, for the dog himself came bounding in to the dining hall with great enthusiasm.

“What is the meaning of this?” said Marcellus angrily, jumping to his feet and addressing the dog as if he expected an answer.

Unsurprisingly, the dog ignored his question. Surprisingly, however, he addressed Simon. “Simon,” he said, in a clear ringing voice, “Rock the servant of Christ is standing at the door, and says to you, ‘Come out in public; for on your account I have come to Rome, you most wicked deceiver of simple souls!’”

For a moment Simon was speechless. The single overwhelming thought that went through his mind was the mental equivalent of a series of exclamation points. The man was clever, no doubt of that. Who would have thought of his using a dog to get by the doorkeeper? Or had the doorkeeper somehow given the show away? The old man had not seemed to be that bright, despite what Marcellus had said. The moment of surprise lost Simon his advantage, no doubt as Rock had intended. Marcellus had left the table and gone off to see what was going on at the gate to his house.

“Go tell Rock that I’m not in—not to him, anyway,” said Simon to the dog.

“Wicked and shameless person,” said the dog, “enemy of everybody alive who believes in Jesus Christ; you see before you a mute animal given human speech to prove that you are a con-man and a liar. Did it take you all night to come up with this lame excuse? Aren’t you ashamed of yourself, doing your feeble best to contend with Rock, the servant and messenger of Christ? Don’t get me wrong, none of this is for your benefit; this is for the benefit of those that you are sending to destruction. You are therefore cursed as an enemy and corruptor of the way to the truth of Christ, who shall prove you iniquities which you have done with undying fire, and you shall be in outer darkness.” And with these words the dog ran off, followed by the people, who after all, had never seen a talking dog before. This was a marvel greater even than Simon the magician, and so Simon was left by himself.

“It’s a cheap trick,” he said to himself. But it worked.

Untitled Novel: The Forum [1996]

[passage from an untitled novel, written 12 August 1996]

T

he Forum didn’t come cheap, Simon said to himself, marvel­ing at Rock’s coup. How had he managed it? The Romans were flocking to see the great magic show, no doubt of it, and the money poured in. It wouldn’t be the first time, he thought; you couldn’t go broke underestimating popular taste. Without think­ing twice Simon disappeared and, invisible to all but unseen spirits, strolled through the gates unobserved and no poorer than he had been before.

The audience was boisterous and unruly; clearly they came expecting a good time. Had word of mouth brought this response? And how many dogs had Rock killed to get the result? How many talking fish had he suborned for the purpose? This was child’s play; a misuse of the powers beyond for trivial and disgusting ends. Simon wafted through the crowd like a gentle summer breeze and soon found himself in front.

Rock stood in the center of the arena, coolly facing the audience. He had no nerves. Simon knew that, but again he won­dered at the stolidity of the man. Rock didn’t enter into it; the man was a boulder, a granite cliff, solid and hard and unmov­able. There was strength in that, sure, but there was also enor­mous weakness. When a cliff crumbled, the ruin was great. Bet­ter to be smoke in the wind than an avalanche—the pain was less.

“Show us your god, Rock,” called out somebody behind Simon. “What makes him so great?”

Simon laughed—he could recognize a shill when he heard one. And as if on cue somebody else shouted again.

“Simon gave us hard proofs—let’s see yours!” The crowd roared its approval.

Rock raised his hands and the crowd fell silent. The man was impressive—Simon had to grant him that. “Romans!” he shout­ed. “You be the judges. I am come to say that I believe in the true and living God and I bring you evidence—hard evidence—solid and irrefutable evidence—that he and he alone is the ruler of the universe. I ask you only to put your eyes and ears in the service of your mind, to see and hear the evidence I am about to put before you. I have seen it—I have heard it—I have felt it—and there are many among you who themselves have witnessed the workings of God in this world for themselves!

“Now you’ve seen the magic tricks of Simon the imposter. These are nothing. Where is he now? Where is he hiding? This is the man I drove out of Judaea for his cruel and heartless tricks played on Eubola, an honest and upright widow. So what does he do then? He looks for new victims, new sheep to slaugh­ter, new jewels to steal. But he is powerless, a whimpering coward who flees the power of God like a rabbit running from an all-consuming brush-fire. He does not dare face me—no, he hides in the darkness and confusion of his lies and deceit, full of fear and delusion. Or why else is he not here to face me. If I am the liar, why does he not show me up? Where is Simon?”

Simon knew an opportunity when he heard it. Stepping invis­ibly into the arena he invoked a stroke of lightning, called for a thunder-clap, and appeared in a whirlwind of colored smoke. There was a collective gasp from the audience, a moment of stunned silence, and then a burst of applause that threatened to bring down the Forum. Simon smiled and gave a slight bow towards Rock. “You wanted to know where I am, Rock?” he asked politely. “I’m here, fool and charlatan, to show you the power of God once and for all.”

Rock looked at Simon expressionlessly. “All flash and noise, Simon,” he observed.  “And nothing but a foul stench left behind. How appropriate.”

Something was wrong. Rock was giving nothing away, but suddenly Simon had the feeling of having walked into a well-planned trap. He felt the quicksand sucking away at his feet, but showed nothing to his enemy. “So tell me, Rock, how comes it that I am not afraid to cross swords with you, if I have not the power of God behind me?”

“First tell me this, Simon the sorcerer,” said Rock, “when you groveled at my feet in Samaria, when you begged me for the secret of the Holy Spirit

Untitled Novel: Reality Shift [1996]

[passage from an untitled novel, written 2 August 1996]

Heat—suffocation—a sense of overwhelming oppression came over him.  He was sweating like a pig.

“Would you like some roast badger-balls?”  Marcellus’s voice seemed to echo, as if he were speaking through a hollow tube of infinite length.  “My cook makes them from the ambrosia of the Leptunian snake-gods.”

The words made no sense.  Nausea fought thirst for the pos­session of Simon’s soul.  He rose hastily to his feet, groping blindly for the corridor to his private chamber.  “I—it’s—there’s an important—something—” he gabbled.  His vision was beginning to shut down, and before him danced the shimmering heat-waves of a reality-shift.  Time.  There was no time.  A blinding flash of pure insight struck him and he fell to his knees.  Oh God, he thought, let there be time enough—

Something hard struck him, and there was nothing.

#

Not darkness.  Not light.  Nothing.  The stuff eternity was made of.  Yards of it surrounded Simon like a woolly cocoon, pressing him, cutting off his breath.  Where was he?

“I am come, Simon of Gitta.”

The voice came from all sides, like wind in the trees.  There was something familiar about it.

“Have you?” Simon said.  “What is that to me?”

There was an unnatural silence, as if sound itself had been cut off—the silence of caves, the complete silence of death.  Then the voice came again.  “You don’t know who I am, do you?”  Amusement tinged the question.

“I know,” said Simon.  “I know.  Did you think, Simon Rock, that you would be able to sneak into Rome like a thief in the night?  Did you think you were unobserved?  No, Rock, let me tell you that I have watched your progress every day.  I know the tricks you played on that poor captain of the vessel you came in.  I know how you stopped the wind to plague him, and started it again when it served your purposes.”

“It was the will of God,” said the voice.

“Was it?” returned Simon.  “You have delusions of grandeur.”

“It was.”  The voice sounded a little sullen now.

“It is strange, isn’t it,” asked Simon sarcastically, “just how often God’s will and yours somehow coincide.  Isn’t that a bit thick, Rock?  How long can you keep on using that threadbare excuse for following the whims of the flesh and feeding the needs of the corpse you live in?  God’s will, Rock?  Or yours.”

“They are the same.”  This time the voice was definitely defensive, on the run.

“Ha!” said Simon.  “You admit it.”

“I admit nothing,” snapped the voice.  “If what I want is what God wants, it isn’t because I am making myself equal to Him.”

“Then what is it?” demanded Simon.  “What else can you call it?”

“Humility, Simon the Magician, the ability to stop my thoughts and let God’s fill my mind.  The ability to silence my will and let God’s will move me.  The ability to shut out the distractions of the senses and receive God’s truth.  That’s what I possess, Simon of Gitta, Simon the false prophet, Simon the liar and stealer of men’s souls,” said the voice.  “And that’s what you could do with a little of.”

Simon laughed harshly.  “The ability to blind yourself and grope helplessly in the dark.  The ability to deafen yourself to everything but your own thoughts.  The ability to cut yourself off from the Truth—that God gave you your wits to use them, that God gave you your eyes and your ears and your mind for you to put them to use, not for you to pretend a stupidity you do not and cannot possess.  Save that stuff for your sheep-like followers.”

“Enough, Simon,” said the voice.  “It is God who has given us this shared vision, and it would be criminal of us both to waste it in pointless bickering.”

“Yes, Rock,” said Simon.  “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you for the past twenty years.”

“Listen, Simon,” said the voice.  “I will be coming to Rome tomorrow, as you know.  Will you not repent and believe in the Lord?  Will you not do His work on earth?  I warn you, Simon the magician, you are treading close to the abyss.  You and I, or rather you and the Lord, are close to the final moment of truth, and I do not envy you this confrontation.”

“Still confusing yourself with God?” Simon asked derisively.  “Well, Rock, I will not repay the compliment.  I will not ask you to reform, since I know there is no hope of it.  You are too deafened by your own words to know the truth, too blinded by your own light to see it.  But I do warn you, Rock, to stay out of Rome.  You betrayed your Master once.  If you come here—and I say this from the most absolute and certain of foreknowledge, my beloved namesake and enemy—if you come here, Rock, then you will be in the utmost danger of betraying him again.  So take care, my enemy—stay away from Rome, as you value your very soul.  Stay away.”  And with a supreme effort of will Simon pushed back the nothingness and began to struggle to his feet.

But emptiness and blankness refused to retreat, and the voice put in one final shot.  “I thank you for your warning, Simon the magician—for what it’s worth.  But I know myself too well to imagine that I will ever betray my Savior again, and so Rome has no terrors for me.  Farewell—and look out, my one-time friend.  For I know—and I say this from the most absolute and certain of foreknowledge—that you are near the end, and if I have to go down to end your infernal wickedness, then, Simon—it is a sacrifice I am very willing to make.”  And with that the fog cleared and Simon pulled himself to his feet—and found himself facing Marcellus and the other guests, staring at him from the door to his chamber.

“What was it?” asked Marcellus.  “Some kind of fit?”

Simon took one or two deep breaths to clear the Nothing out of his spirit.  “No,” he said.  “It was not a fit.”

“It was a vision,” said one of the guests.  “I’ve seen what happens when a spirit seizes a man before.”

“Yes, you looked dead,” said another.

“Yes, well, in a way I was dead,” said Simon, “dead to this world and alive to another.  Listen, my good Marcellus, could I have a word with your doorkeeper?”

“With my doorkeeper?  Whatever for?”

“I can’t explain,” said Simon, “But I know there is a man coming tomorrow—coming here tomorrow.  And I cannot meet with him.”

Marcellus laughed.  “You—a magician, afraid?”

“I’m not a magician,” said Simon, “and I’m not afraid.  Not the way you mean.  But I know—I know—that this man will bring an end to all our works if he and I are allowed to meet again.  And this cannot be allowed to happen.  So look, man, for God’s sake, let me talk with your doorkeeper!”

Marcellus motioned to a servant, and in a moment the door­keeper came in, obviously awed by the great magi­cian.  “You sent for me, my Lord?”

Untitled Novel: Mission to Egypt [1995]

[passage from an untitled novel, written 22/23 June 1995]

“I

n the end,” said the Baptist, “Egypt is going to be impor­tant.”

“Egypt?” Simon couldn’t see it.

“Yes, Egypt. Moses left Egypt, you know,” said the Baptist vaguely, “and the Egyptians pursued him, to bring him back. Of course they failed; they were trying to go against God’s will.”

“Were they?”

“Yes. The Lord’s will is not to be flouted.” The Baptist nodded. “No,” he went on, musing, “I must try to keep that in mind myself. The Lord’s will cannot be flouted. We forget that sometimes, become puffed up with our own self-importance. That’s why—” he turned abruptly on Simon—”That’s why Satan never real­ly succeeds. The most he can achieve is the brief appearance of success. There is a power that ties us all to the earth, and while we may attempt for a moment to escape it, the most we can have is the illusion of flight. Even the birds return to the earth to nest. Remember that, Simon. That power that holds us to the ground is the will of the Lord, and it will break itself for no man.” He turned away. “Not even for me; not even for the messiah.”

“But Egypt,” prompted Simon. “You were talking about Egypt.”

“Was I?” asked the Baptist vaguely. “Was I indeed? Yes, Egypt it was. Your people believe in Moses, do they not?”

“My people?”

“The remnants of the House of Joseph,” John said. “You have your own prophets, your own history, your own temple, broken though it may be, but with us you share the Law and him who brought it.”

“Yes,” said Simon. “What of it?”

“Moses led the people out of Egypt,” said the Baptist. “So the history books say. But it never was that simple, was it?”

“No,” agreed Simon. “Not all the people came out with Mo­ses, and many have gone back in the thousand years since his time.”

“Exactly,” said the Baptist. “The flock has strayed far afield. And who is to say that the Lord’s hand is not in this? Yes, the lost sheep of the House of Israel roam the four corners of the earth, and it is our job to gather them back into the fold. The Kingdom is for them also.” He trailed off, reflec­tively. “The Kingdom in the Sky is full of sheep,” he added.

“But Egypt,” said Simon. “What about Egypt?”

“Yes, that’s the point,” said John. “What about Egypt? The Egyptian branch office is no longer reporting, and somebody has to find out what is going on there.”

“Do you want me to recommend somebody to go to Egypt?” asked Simon.

“No, no, not at all. You’ve missed the point entirely,” complained the Baptist. “You, Simon. I want you to check it out personally, find out what’s happening there, and report back. Do you understand?”

“But—but I don’t think that’s a good idea,” said Simon. “The times are bad. Things are heating up here, and who can be trusted to keep the lid on it—”

“Simon,” interrupted the Baptist. “Egypt is important. You know that. I know it. Who else can I trust on this mission?”

“What about Dositheus?”

“You’re not serious,” said John, chuckling. “Don’t let your squabbles infect your judgment.”

“Squabbles?”

John moved a hand impatiently. “It is no secret to me that you two get along as well as two tomcats in the same backyard. You undervalue Dositheus; he is a competent administrator, and a positive genius at making arrangements for food and the like, but can you seriously picture him on a fact-finding mission? No, Simon, you are the one called for this mission.”

“Am I to report back to you, then?”

“Let’s just say that you are to report back,” said the Bap­tist.

“Not to you? Are you saying this through caution, or do you have some kind of prophetic insight?”

“I don’t know,” said John. “I really don’t know. But I have a strong feeling, Simon, that when you have gone to Egypt, I shall not set my eyes on your face again in this world. Not in this world, and perhaps not an any other.” His voice trailed off. “At least not until time itself turns back and the whole cosmic drama replays itself again. We are all puppets, Simon, dancing and jigging on our strings, and the music we dance to is the will of God. The will of God—there is no escaping it.”

Untitled Novel: Something Has to Give [1990]

[rough draft of the opening of an untitled novel, written 29 April 1990]

“S

omething is going to happen,” said the Astrologer. “Epochs pass. The eras change. One runner falls and another takes up the torch. Something is beginning anew.”

His assistant studied the chart. “I don’t see it,” he complained. “The planets—”

“It’s not in the planets,” said the Astrologer. “I feel it in the crosswinds of empire, in the stretch of the cloth of society, in the currents of the actions of men. The time is ready. Rome is pressed to the breaking-point. Something has to give.”

“Get some sleep,” advised his assistant. “You’ll need your strength when you meet the Emperor.”

“The winds,” muttered the Astrologer. “I feel it in the winds.”

#

T

he Emperor Tiberius sweated in the summer night, tossing and turning in his bed despite the sea-breezes that blew in his retreat on the isle of Capri. All Rome stagnated, and flies buzzed around heaps of decomposing garbage in the canyons of the city. Sejanus, yet unfallen, dreamed of extorting another golden tribute in exchange for a distant office. One of his appointees, a Pontius Pilate, discussed with an engineer imported from Macedonia his plans for the construction of a new aqueduct for his tiny province of Judaea, late at night at his residence in Caesarea, on the coast of the Mediterranean sea. And in a nameless cave in the Judaean desert John the Daywasher was having nightmares. And because of his nightmares history would jump channels and flow into a new course.

Because of his nightmares Simon of Gitta would never become a merchant like his father. Because of them Joseph, a Levite from Cyprus, would sell his estate. Because of them one Helene would see the inside of a brothel in Tyre, Eleazar of Bethany would lose a fortune, and Saul of Tarsus would be executed in Rome. Because of them Pontius Pilate would be recalled in disgrace to face charges before the emperor. Because of them Salome of Nazareth would prophesy in Egypt, and because John had had his nightmare, her brother would die painfully before his thirty-fifth birthday, and his name would be a curse for thousands of years.

#

“Still awake, brother?”

John shook his head slowly. “I have been—dreaming. Dreaming, brother—” He paused. “What hour is it?”

“The seven sisters have risen.”

“Then sunrise comes soon.” John took the other’s arm. “Listen, brother,” he said intently, “I have to go—at once.”

The other’s expression did not change. “Go? Why?”

“The Lord wills it. I have dreamed dreams and seen visions, and I know I have been called. Now is the hour.”

“What have you dreamed and what have you seen?”

John shook his head slowly. “I can’t say,” he said helplessly. “There was—”

“Tell me,” said the other intently.

“I saw—I saw—” John groped for words to convey the immensity of his vision. The other waited patiently. “I saw a man winnowing,” he said at last.

“Yes?”

“It was the Lord. I think it was the Lord.”

“Go on.”

“He was holding a gigantic fork in his hand, tossing the wheat into the air, whole fields of wheat at a time. And a mighty wind was blowing, a storm. And the chaff blew away, and I heard it screaming as it blew, and it screamed with the voices of men.”

“What did the voices say?”

“They were screaming in terror of the fiery pit,” said John. “And the grains of wheat were singing in praise of the storehouse, and the wind was howling. And then the man turned to look at me—that’s when I knew he was no man, but the Lord Himself—he looked at me, and he said, “John, my servant, fire is not quenched with fire, but with water. And through water alone can men be saved.”

“And what happened next?”

“I woke up,” said John. “I woke up and I was cold, and the night was hot.”

“Yes.” The other paused for a moment. “This is not the first time you have had nightmares,” he observed.

“That’s why I have to go,” said John violently. “This is not the first time. He’s coming, coming soon, and I have to be ready for him. Everyone has to be ready for him.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know,” said John. “But I will. He wants me to meet him at the Jordan river.”

“How do you know? Was that in your dream?”

“No.” John paused. “You know my father was a priest.”

“Yes.”

“A priest in a temple of thieves. There was a time when I dreamed—but no, it’s not worth the telling.”

“Wait until the morning,” cautioned the other. “Tell the Brethren your dream. Perhaps they will be able to enlighten you.”

“No, I have to go now. I may already have stayed too long. Tell the brethren—” John raised his hand, then let it fall. “Tell the brethren whatever you want. I’ll be at the Jordan River.”

#

T

he news drifted out, like ripples on the surface of a quiet pond, from Jericho to Bethany to Bethlehem, that there was a new prophet on the banks of the Jordan. His dress was wild, his words wilder, and no one knew how he stayed alive in the desert. The priests from the temple at Jerusalem sent out a team to investigate, but there was nothing to say. He didn’t claim to be a prophet, let alone the Prophet like Moses that was causing such a stir among the heretical Samaritans, he didn’t claim to be Elijah or Enoch returned from heaven, and especially he didn’t claim the most dangerous rôle of all, that of an anointed king come to rule over the ancient and forgotten Kingdom of David. And yet the crowds came out to see him, to hear him, and to be washed by him in the River Jordan. It all seemed harmless enough—if it weren’t for the crowds.

“There has to be something more to it,” complained

Thirty White Stones [1996]

[passage from an untitled novel, written 28 April 1996]

T

here were thirty white stones in the leather bag; all the others were black. To the touch there was no difference among them; no way for the fingers to tell the color. It was in the hands of God, or perhaps left up to the whims of blind chance.

Simon glanced up to encounter the hostile stare of the other Simon, the son of Zebedee. The man gave him a tight smile, a mirthless grimace, and then deliberately turned to the Baptist. “I can understand,” he said flatly, “why a descendent of the ‘House of Joseph’ should draw lots with the rest of us, but why are there women here? What have they to do with these high matters?”

The Baptist gave him a broad grin and shrugged. “Who am I to meddle with the will of God?” he asked. “If it be His will that a woman should sit in the circle of the thirty, then what is it to you?”

The son of Zebedee gave him a look of exasperation. “Are you saying that God’s hand is in that sack? that God’s hand will guide the rocks to the right people?”

“Nothing happens that is not God’s will,” said the Baptist. “But then,” he added, “not everything that happens is God’s will.”

A movement from the other end of the table caught their attention. It was typical of Dositheus, thought Simon, to so effortlessly turn the attention of men. He should have been an actor.

“Can you think of a fairer way to make a decision?” Dositheus put in smoothly. “We are all taking chances just by being here. Is it not an honor merely to be here? Who knows whether the white stone may not be a sentence of death? If God’s hand is not in this, then it is in nothing we have done.”

Simon could not get the hang of the currents in the room. There was something buzzing under the surface, something as real as a rock in the path of a plow. Why was the son of Zebedee so angry? Why was Dositheus not making his usual objections? The conviction grew on him that something was off-center in the business, that the lottery was fixed in some manner he did not understand. But how could that be? He looked over at the Baptist, but John’s expression was bland, open, giving nothing away.

“Enough,” he said abruptly. “It’s been decided. Let’s get this thing over with.”

The Baptist took the leather bag and handed it over to Nicetas, standing close by. He thrust his hand into the bag with a spasmodic jerk, then pulled out his stone. It was black. Expressionlessly he passed it to the next man, a dour Galilean. His stone also was black.

The first man who drew a white stone took it out almost with a look of fear. It was Judas, the man of Kerioth. Something felt wrong there, but Simon was distracted. It was Helena’s turn to draw. He watched her closely.

She closed her eyes, tentatively reached her hand into the sack looking as if though she thought it might contain scorpions or snakes, and pulled out a stone. She did not look at it for a second, then opened her eyes and spread out her hand. It was white.

Across the table the son of Zebedee made a sudden movement—suppressed fury, thought Simon—and he missed seeing the next man draw in consequence.

No Isaiah

[Passage from an untitled novel, written mid-January 1996:]

T

he prophet of the Dead Sea was as shaggy and unkempt as rumor made him, and for the life of him Joseph could not see what the people found in him. “He’s no Isaiah, that’s for sure,” A―― said under his breath before dismounting.

Still there was something unworldly about the scene; the gray-robed half-human shape knee-deep in water, the milling throngs on shore, the endless procession of men and women going up to the water’s edge to be shoved under and—they imagined—to be purged of their sins.

A―― advanced to the shore and shouted to attract the “prophet’s” attention.  The wild man’s eyes met his, examined him, dismissed him, all without an indication of his thoughts, and without interruption to the bizarre rite he administered.  A woman emerged from the water, her hair wet about her shoulders, shrieking incoherently.  “Glory to God in the Highest!” shouted somebody on one shore.

Joseph dismounted, following A―― reluctantly. What did the Temple authorities mean, sending him on this wild goose chase? He felt obscurely disappointed. What had he expected? Did he really think the heavens would open, that angels would appear, that a prophet had come to take away the world’s sins? He laughed at himself, but his laughter tasted bitter.

Now, abruptly, the “prophet’s” eyes met his, and something extraordinary did happen. It was as if he was being examined inside and out; he felt as though his spirit, even his soul, were being examined coldly, dispassionately, by an Intelligence beyond this world, alien and unnatural. As if the sediment of his mind were being stirred up, Joseph felt forgotten sins rise to the surface of his memory and flood him with shame and a sense of overwhelming desolation. He could no longer feel the solid earth under his feet, the rasp of robe against his skin. All reality seemed to be sliding away from him and then—

—and then it was nothing, just the dirty-robed “prophet” and his deluded flock wallowing in the river Jordan. The man gave him an ironic half-smile before returning to his business. Joseph felt embarrassed, humiliated, as though caught masturbat­ing in public. To cover it he strode forward angrily. He was on official business of the Temple, of Yahweh’s House on earth, and no fraud of a prophet was going to keep him by some sort of shell game.

A man officiously blocked his way. “Excuse me,” he said belligerently, “If you’ve come to be baptized, you’ll have to wait your turn. And if you’ve come for anything else, you’re wasting your time as well as ours.”

“And just who are you?” Joseph wanted to know.

“My name is Andrew bar-Zebedee, and I’ve been appointed by the Baptist himself to keep the crowds in order,” said the other man. “More to the point, however, is who you are. Or should I say perhaps, who you think you are.”

“I am Joseph Bar-nabas, and I am sent on important business from the Temple to talk with John, called the Baptist,” said Joseph, nettled. “Will you be so good as to inform him of my arrival?”

Andrew stared at him a moment, apparently consulting some internal manual, then spun on his heel and waded out into the river. He spoke quietly to the Baptist, who nodded, and then raised up his hands for silence, motioning the next candidate to wait. “Friends,” he announced, “we have important visitors.”  Joseph thought there was an odd emphasis on the word important, but could not tell what it was. Was the Baptist being ironic? Was this a code word of some sort? There was a collective inten­sity in his audience which suggested something of the sort, but there were nuances here beyond him.