Revelations (10 page)

And just why is it I torture myself with these thoughts, when I should be preparing myself to face his death yet again? Or is that the reason for my increasing agitation, the knowledge that his time upon this earth is coming to an end? As well as my own, for our fates are ever intertwined. And then we’ll return to his father, await the next coming, whenever, whatever that might entail. I was so very hopeful, though, that perhaps this would be the right time for he and I, the right place, even. That this might be the opportunity I’ve sought for over two thousand years. Mother Mary’s words had given me such hope. And yet…and yet…

Is it really necessary that he die?

I have never questioned the wisdom, the purpose of this act before, but suddenly I find myself wondering…why does it have to be this way? Why shouldn’t Jesus be allowed to live his life all the way through, to live and love, fully and purposefully, as other people are allowed to do? Why should it always be different for him? Does simply being his father’s son preclude him from happiness by virtue of his birth? This is not blasphemy, I merely wish to understand...

Some may ask why can’t I be content to share the other world with him, the one we inhabit when we are between lives, between earthly visitations—with his father. Would not God allow us to be together there at least? The truth of the matter is that I’ve been too cowardly to even try…

My wanderings have drawn me back to the selfsame pond once more, the site of their recent escapades. Mary’s teasing words of encouragement seem to hang in the very air I breathe. None of them are currently here, for which I’m profoundly grateful, although not really surprised. They’ve no doubt found other entertainment, gone somewhere else, even out here, in the proverbial middle of nowhere—without me, obviously. Their favorite form of entertainment, don’t you know—anything that does not include Judas. Not that I miss their companionship, I can easily do without it. Or any feeble attempts at camaraderie, nor do I wish to hear the brothers-in-arms lecture either. Don’t mistake my honesty for self-pity, far from it. I need no one and nothing. The only one whose company I actually miss is Jesus, the only one whose company I desire, the only one…

Damn, what is that? My introspective reverie is broken by a sound in the darkness, and I’m instantly wary, for there is no telling whom it might be, or what they might want. Whether they be friend or foe, although I have very few of the former and too many of the latter. I prepare myself for anything, or for anyone…

What I’m not prepared for is to have Jesus himself step into my field of vision, his gentle brow furrowed as if in pain; his eyes reveal a sense of relief upon spying me, as if he’s been seeking me. But no, I read too much into his expression.

Or do I?

“You left,” he says, in his voice a gentle condemnation that I have deserted my post, I should know better. What can I really say? I know that I did, so I cannot contradict his words. But I’d rather not go into reasons, not right now. “And you didn’t come back. I was worried about you. Jude, you’ve been gone for hours.” I’m surprised that he’s noticed.

No, not really surprised. Of course he noticed, he sees everything. But I have to admit that I’m pleased, although it was never my intention to cause him pain. And yet I seem to keep doing it.

“You and Mary fought, didn’t you?”

“I wouldn’t say that, no.” I dance about the point like a fencing master avoiding the tip of the blade, waving my hand in dismissal of the topic of the whore, that unappetizing strumpet. “It’s immaterial now. It’s over. What’s done is done.” I find myself swaying toward him for just a moment before I realize what I’m doing, catching myself as I turn aside, remembering the kiss, and damning myself for wishing for a repeat.

“Please don’t say that,” he pleads, as he runs one slender hand through his dark tresses in a seemingly weary gesture that goes straight to my heart. “It’s not immaterial. And it obviously disturbed you.”

“Jesus…” I take a step toward him on impulse, my hand smoothing back that soft raven mane, without consideration of what I’m actually doing. I continue to not address his concerns, as if my doing so will simply cause them to evaporate into the air between us. “It’s late, you should be asleep. We have much to do, and not much time…”

“Not much time? Not much time? Don’t you think I know this?” His agitated words dance toward me, slicing me in a verbal rapier fashion. “Why does it have to be this way, Jude, why do we have to do everything in such…a short…time? Why can’t—” He breaks off, wincing, casts a chagrined glance upward. “Forgive me, I don’t mean to doubt you, Father. I do not mean—”

His words cease abruptly and an alarmed cry escapes my lips as his figure begins to crumple. Without hesitation I reach for him, gathering him into the shelter of my arms before he can hit the ground. I hold him close to me, as if by doing so I can protect him from the doubts that apparently assail him. The insecurities that are wearing him down, tearing him apart. Placing my panicked hand upon his chest, I search for a heartbeat even though I know this is not the way in which he will leave this earth—certainly not here and definitely not now. There it is. I can feel the rhythm, faint but palpable, and I breathe a wordless prayer of thanks to his father.

His eyes are shut, and I find myself staring at the too pale skin, as if willing them to open, yet also dreading the same, for I fear my own eyes reveal only too well the plethora of emotions that flood me at this moment.

Oh, why do I torture myself thus with these thoughts, torment myself with what cannot be, no matter how much I might wish for it? Because Judas isn’t nearly as hard as he thinks he is, his impenetrable shell is a mere facade he hides behind which a simple look from Jesus can crumble into so much dust. He’s the one, the only one that can get to me in this way, any others are mere dalliances, ways to pass the time and satisfy my libido. Scratch an itch, if you will. Jesus is the one I wish to delve into, to explore this world with, to love and protect from all those that would seek to harm him, to be with in every way that two people in love can be together…

And yet what reason do I have to think that he could possibly feel that way about me? I’ve never had any reason—at least not until that kiss. And now I have to wonder…or perhaps it’s simply wishful thinking? And what an exercise in futility this is. My Sisyphean thoughts are broken by the sound of his voice.

“Don’t be afraid, Jude,” he whispers faintly, so softly I’m forced to lean closer to take in his words, his gentle tones hinting he understands the vortex that is my soul, roiling with unexpressed passions, and that he wishes to reassure me everything will be all right. Even now, in his weakened state, he is utterly beautiful, and I find myself daring to reach for his lips, wishing to make this connection between us again, as if I’m compelled by forces which I dare not disobey. I don’t know at this moment which of us is the more vulnerable, or who is taking advantage of whom.

I’m suddenly thrust back into the real world, the illusion—if that is what it is—

shattered by the sound of shocked voices coming from behind us. In my distraction over his well-being, I have let my guard down, lost track of the world around us, and now we are about to pay the price.

“He was right, they
are
sodomites—”

“They want to teach our children? What do they want to teach them?”

“Unnatural creatures!”Their voices ring out accusingly, and I quickly pull Jesus and myself up on our feet, placing myself protectively between him and them, whoever “them” may be. There are about a dozen of them. All piously dressed. All carrying either Bibles or hymnals. Who was right? What are they talking about? And what are they doing here, at this time of night, in the literal middle of nowhere?

My questions are answered as the man himself steps out from among the shadows that shelter him. I should have known. After all, everything’s in the script, isn’t it? Not like we don’t know that it will happen, we just don’t know when or where. Or how. Fucking Lucifer—or whatever name he’s going by in this time—

and his fucking band of merry hypocrites. Those pleasure-leeching do-gooders who can’t stand the idea that anyone might actually enjoy themselves in the here and now. Instead they’re saving it all up for the image of the afterlife which they’ve built up in their minds. Do they have a big shock in store for them…

He doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t have to, does he? Apparently the tableau before them speaks for itself. We could not be any guiltier to them unless they’d caught us in the proverbial fucking act, and yes by that I do mean the act of fucking. Dammit, it’s started. Again. Wheels are being put into motion. Even now I can feel them in my heart, a most excruciating pain.

A man steps forward. Perhaps he intends to play spokesperson for the group.

Middle-aged or beyond, nondescript, I’ve seen his kind before, I know what words of venom he possesses, but when I make a move toward him, Jesus holds me back with a gentle but firm touch. I turn toward my young prince in frustration. His glow is one of resignation. I’m sure mine is far redder, were it even visible to them.

Much more sanguine.

The man indicates the book in his hands. “The Bible does not suffer sinners such as yourself. Have you no shame? How can you preach His word and not realize that what you’re doing is perverted?” His brethren murmur their agreement.

How brave they are en masse, these mangy, hypocritical sheep. And how very much I despise them for what they are about to do.

“Let he who is without sin among you cast the first stone...” Jesus’ reply is given calmly, no hint of defiance of any sort. That would be my purview. And yet his simple words produce a mass gasp from the bible thumpers.

“We’re only trying to help,” a woman bleats. The others nod and nod and nod.

“For our children,” a man interjects. “For my son.”

I take a step toward the rabble, although I’m unclear as to my intent. Jesus restrains me, softly. “Please, Judas, no,” he begs, and I cannot move. My eyes flicker over them. I hope my disdain is more than evident. I think I recognize some of them. They were at the show tonight, I’m sure of it. That man, the one who spoke of his son. I think he was the one I saw talking to Thomas. What exactly does he think his son needs saving from?

“Fall down on your knees and beg God’s forgiveness. Give up your evil ways,” the first speaker demands in a holier-than-thou sort of way. Again with the head bobbling from the pseudo-Greek chorus behind him. And still Lucifer remains silent. He has no need to speak, it is all being done for him.

“He has no reason to beg forgiveness,” I hear myself blurt out, despite Jesus’

attempt to curb my tongue. “He is innocent and pure. Go about your business, you have none here.”

“We saw what we saw,” the man insists. “You can’t deny that, can you? That wasn’t innocent, that was evil. Both of you need to pray to God for the salvation of your immortal souls, or you’ll never be able to get into Heaven…” I think that’s the point at which I begin to lose it. I’m laughing at his words, at the very idea, at the absurdity of the notion his words attempt to convey.
Us
, not get into Heaven?
US?
T’ain’t that way, Farmer Snodgrass, I think, he’s fucking Jesus Christ, that’s his father’s fucking house, but luckily I’m too busy choking out guffaws for any words I might have to make any sense, or even be heard. What a lovely time to become hysterical, right?

The whole situation is just too ridiculous. Jesus takes my arm as if he’s had enough; I can feel his weariness. I sense his reluctance to have this particular discussion right here, right now. Not to mention his need to get me away from them in my present condition. He bids the rabble a polite good night, as we turn to go on our way, go about our business. The situation is diffused for now…or so I think. A premature conclusion, as I quickly discover.

“
You shall not lie with a man as with a woman; it is abomination.”
The words appear to come from the committee of sanctimonious rubes, but I know better. I’d know that voice anywhere. Regular fucking Edgar Bergen he is. And they are all just life-size Charlie McCarthys, waiting to be manipulated. Pull the string, Edgar, pull the fucking string.

And yet am I any better, as I whirl around, pull away from Jesus, my fists clenched and ready to strike? Lucifer has simply yanked on the chain, and Judas is responding all too predictably. The herd scatter before my anger, undoubtedly led to believe there would be no violence involved. “Leave us alone!” I scream.

“Judas, please don’t,” Jesus pleads with me in our native tongue, incomprehensible of course to these swine. But the damage is done; any good he might have attempted to do is lost. Who am I kidding? We never stood a chance.

And even if he wishes to speak with them, they are leaving. Seen enough, I suppose, to sustain their narrow-minded bigotry, although they have actually seen nothing. Don’t let the door hit you in the ass. If there were a door. Whatever.

Sometimes I am too impetuous for my own good. But then again, it’s ordained, isn’t it? Here we fucking go again.

I’m sorry, Jesus, I feel I have failed you, this is my fault, this is… I note with surprise that Lucifer remains, and he has the most hellish grin upon his otherwise pretty face. He narrows the gap between us, leans down, and whispers in my ear in that oh so superior tone he affects, “You should’ve simply let me fuck you, Judas.

We could’ve avoided all this, you know. And then, who knows, you could’ve had him, too, and impaled yourself in his holy spirit.” And then he too is gone, as I kick in frustration and futility at the ground, cursing once more the day I was born.

Fuck you Lucifer!