Revelations (2 page)

“You know what she is, and you know she makes you look the fool. She destroys what credibility you have, so why do you put up with it?” My indignation is growing exponentially. I want to force him to look at me. I want to grab his arm and shake him out of this apparent torpor which is increasingly becoming a part of his current psyche, this lethargy of spirit which prevents him from seeing what must be done and acting upon it for the sake of all of us. But I also know if I touch him in that way, I’ll only harm myself in the doing, and I cannot profane that which I hold most sacred. His body is the chalice of my love and of my lust—my devotion, and my need—and I dare not sully it with my anger, nor allow it to cloud my perception. I’m the coolheaded one here, he’s the dreamer.

“Do not worry about her so, Judas.” At last he turns his gaze upon me, the corners of his mouth turning up just slightly in a sad smile that goes to my heart faster than his words. Those pass right over me, as usual. “She’s merely expressing herself, and for that I cannot blame her. How long has she been made to suffer the repression of her true spirit? Now she can be what she was always meant to be—”

“A whore?” I sneer. “An object to be used by any passing male?” Cruelly I mimic her voice in a tremulous falsetto. “‘Come in’ she says, ‘I’ll give you…

shelter from the storm.’”

“Judas.” His eyes are so incredibly large and dark and they’re looking right through me. Sorrowfully. Reproachfully. “Must you do that?”

“I must,” I say stubbornly, although it pains me to see that particular expression upon his face, even more knowing I am the cause of it. “She only makes things more difficult for us—for you—and I cannot bear it!”

“We have bigger issues than Mary,” he reminds me, cupping my cheek in one slender hand, locking his eyes upon mine. Ka-thump, ka-thump! Has a big bass drum begun beating nearby, or is that the very audible sound of my heart which is about to explode?

“But, Jesus…” I begin to protest, even as he places one finger upon my lips.

“You’re angry with her because she offered herself to me,” he says matter-of-factly. It doesn’t help to know he’s right, of course. Not that it’s the only reason I’ve no respect for Mary Magdalene—that is but one reason among many. But it’s the hardest to overcome, especially right this minute when I am coming within an ace of profaning him myself with my unworthy body. O Jesus, do you know what effect you have upon me? Of course you do. You know everything. “Sssh, sssh, don’t be angry for that, you know nothing happened, surely you realize that? It’s all right, my little one, everything shall be all right, try not to get worried…”
Try not to get worried.
How often have I heard her use those same words, as she attempts to touch him, to soothe his brow, to muscle her way into our midst?

The wench is much bolder now than she was when we began, I’ll grant her that.

She wastes our money on baubles and trinkets and other such foolishness. And when I protest I’m told not to worry, not to speak to her like that. Jesus says he’ll handle her, but what does that actually mean? She invariably ends up going her own way, doing what seems to come most naturally to her, regardless of what anyone says. I’d much rather be done with her this time. She plays no useful part in this story, so why not let her go? Yet for some reason he clings to her, despite my best advice, and that’s what’s tearing me apart. And which shall be our ruination.

Again.

My hand snakes out toward him, toward his spectacular tanned body, his toned ass. I want to touch him in the worst possible way, or is that the best? His eyes never blink, he never flinches—is it my imagination or has he forgotten to breathe as well? For a heart stopping moment the world recedes, and there is only he and I.

There is only us and we. And we are good, good to go, we are good, good together, we are…

Damn. Momentus interruptus. One of
them
. One of his other disciples. Who dares disturb us now? Of course—it’s Simon. Peter. Whatever he calls himself these days. Woman hater extraordinaire. And that’s the only point on which he and I will ever agree. He’s standing there staring at us, and I can see his eyes travel up and down the Master’s body. My own eyes narrow, and a low growl escapes my throat, as I can’t help but say snarkily, “Seen enough? Perhaps you should take a picture—it’ll last longer….”

Simon is a hulk of a man, always has been, always will be—large and bulky, but not in a particularly muscular way; I think most of his muscles are in his head

—and he is incredibly hirsute. Naked he resembles a walking bearskin rug—not a pleasant sight. And I think he has impure thoughts about Jesus. I’d slap them out of him if I could, but I know that would only earn me a reprimand from my young prince and he would turn upon me those sorrowful eyes he can affect at the very best of times. But I watch Master Simon, very carefully, for one of these days he and I shall have a showdown regarding this matter, and I don’t intend to come out of it the loser in any way.

“Take a picture?” He frowns at me, mulling over my words, even as I sigh.

He’s generally the last to catch on in any given situation, to acclimatize to the place, to the time, and as usual he’s off a few beats. It isn’t worth the discussion, I decide. Besides, we’ve had this conversation before, and I’m tired of it.

“Never mind,” I snap. “State your business. And quit staring.”

“Judas…” Jesus’ hand falls upon my arm, light as a feather but yet somehow impossibly heavy with meaning. He manages to shush me, before addressing the burly apostle. “What is it, Simon, that you wish to tell me?” His dark eyes are incredibly filled with the love and peace he exudes toward everyone, and how can that simpleton help but be drawn into their depths? Jesus is the magnet toward which we’re all attuned, and it never fails to amaze me—over and over again—that anyone can bring themselves to harm him in any way, much less kill him. But obviously it happens, and will continue to happen, until mankind can get it right.

And in case you are wondering why we are all sans clothing, where we are and what we’ve been doing—get your minds out of the gutter, no apostolic orgy here, I assure you—we’ve spent the night beside this timid body of water that dares refer to itself as a pond, drinking wine and skinny-dipping, and that’s an activity best performed unclothed. End of story. Not risqué at all, is it? Disappointed? Too bad.

The big brute breaks into a simpleminded smile. “Come back into the water,” he urges, “we’re all getting in again, the lot of us. Join us, Master…” Does anyone not notice that his invitation does
not
extend to me?

I’m highly indignant at this proposed end of our tête-à-tête. There are more things I wish to say, things far more important than the immersion of that glorious body into yon pond, and my face must reflect my feelings, for Jesus kisses me softly, almost apologetically, whispers, “Later, my Judas,” and catches my fingers in his, as he draws me along with him. Can I refuse his siren call? Of course not. I follow him willingly, for I belong to him heart and soul, and I can do no less.

When we reach the water’s edge once more, he’s inundated by the others, who cluster about him demandingly, and I lose that precious contact with him, his fingers slipping from mine as they draw him and him alone into what undoubtedly is damn cold water until the sun will have a chance to warm it—or until Jesus does that thing he knows how to do to hasten the process along. The same sort of trick he employs when walking on water, or making wine from water, or feeding the multitude. Do I consider those miracles? Not really. Jesus
is
the miracle—those are merely manifestations of his divine being. But they never fail to draw the requisite response from any given audience, no matter the time or place.

I watch as Jesus stands for a moment at the edge of the pond, the others having given him some space at last, breathing room as it were, in order to bear witness to his marvelous performance. Which also means they’re no doubt feasting their vulture eyes upon his superb body as well, but I fight back the inevitable jealousy as I watch him raise his arms above his dark head and execute a perfect jackknife into the waiting water, to the applause of the jackanapes upon the shore, who wait all of ten seconds before cannonballing in after him. Oh what a ruckus they make.

It’s enough to give a deaf man a headache.

Children…simpletons…complete and utter fools…I cluck my tongue in remonstrative disapproval as I take up a cross-legged position beneath a nearby shade tree—close enough to see what’s happening, but far enough away to feel myself removed from this cacophony of stupidity—theirs, not his, of course. My eyes are for him and him alone, watching his every move, as he gambols and cavorts with a great childlike glee, in all of the innocence which is his. They don’t appreciate him, they never have. I’m the only one that sees him for who he is; that sees the man, not the myth, not the heavenly presence implicit in his very bearing and mien, the glow which surrounds him at all times. The aura of his faith. I’ve long ago ceased to care about the mumbo jumbo lip service that is paid to him, the requests with which he’s bombarded at all hours of the day and night. “Heal me, Jesus!” “Jesus, perform a miracle or two for me!” “Jesus, bring back my mother from the dead (or father, brother, sister, lover)!” “Jesus, show us your divinity and walk on water for us!” “Jesus, save me!” Jesus effing Christ, it’s enough to drive a man mad. If he were any other man, I’ve no doubt he’d weaken underneath the strain—but he’s not, he is who he is, and damned if I can’t help loving him the way that I do, and for all the good it does me. If only…

I’m startled from my solitary reverie, which has begun its usual loop about its well-worn course—the how much I do love him and can’t have him refrain that wears a rut into my very brain with its constant repetition—by a soft hand upon my shoulder, and a brown plastic squeeze bottle being pushed gently at me. I glance at it in some surprise. It’s sunscreen, with more SPF than the law allows. My eyes travel upward to divine the identity of the bearer. I should have known. It’s his mother—Mary herself. The only one who sees and understands how I feel about him, and does not condemn me for it.

I start to rise, albeit awkwardly, as I become cognizant of my state of au natural; she shakes her head, and sinks gracefully onto the grass beside me, giving no indication she is uncomfortable in any way. Not surprising—she’s used to the lot of us, after all. She’s like our den mother, watching after us, caring for us diligently. She’s there to pick us up when we stumble home drunk, hold back our hair when we worship at the porcelain altar, and bathe our foreheads when the world spins about us far too quickly. And yes, I’m amongst that number. I’m no saint, after all, merely a disciple. The bad one, remember?

“I know, we should’ve called,” I say softly, perhaps a bit guiltily, for I’m aware her time with him is growing just as short as our own, and perhaps she begrudges us this. I shouldn’t worry so much about such things, I know. Jesus likes to tell me I’m rather anal in that way and I cannot deny it. As well as other ways I won’t go into here and now.

“I wasn’t worried, I know he’s safe with you.” Her smile—there is no other word to describe it other than beatific, trite and overused as that word may be, especially with regard to Mary. But she really does exude serenity from every fiber of her being. She makes you feel as if nothing in the world can be truly bad because someone like her exists. I find myself behaving for her in a way that I do for no one else—except Jesus, of course. There’s nothing I’d not do for that man, and he knows it very well.

I nod my head, acknowledging the truth of her words.

“Hand me that,” she commands in her gentle voice—still a command nonetheless—indicating the sunscreen; I hand the bottle to her without question, although I manage to raise my eyebrows at her.

“Aren’t you afraid they’ll get the wrong idea?” I tease her.

“I think they know you too well,” she replies with a knowing look, as she squeezes the viscous white cream into her hand, motioning me into position between her legs, applying the lotion to my bare back in gentle soothing circular motions. Her touch is very nice, and I resist the urge to close my eyes and simply relax, for then I’d be unable to watch him, which wouldn’t do at all.

“You’re wasting your time, you know.” I decide to try a different tack.

“Shortly it will be all over, and whether I depart this particular place and time with a case of sunburn or not will be totally immaterial—”

“Judas, don’t,” she cautions me, “it
does
matter. To me. To him. To the others, whether you acknowledge their friendship or not.”

That produces a snort from yours truly. “That lot? None of them cares. They’re always glad to see me out of the picture. They look forward to it, in fact. And they celebrate afterward. I’ve seen them…”

That’s something she can’t deny, and she doesn’t even try, for it’s too true. I’ve seen them before, I’ve watched them at their revels, time and again. Okay, maybe strictly speaking they weren’t held to actually celebrate my demise, at least not openly, but my death is a general topic of conversation, and it’s discussed with a definite lack of sorrow, and usually accompanied by such epitaphs as “rotten bastard” and “good riddance to that pain in the ass.” Also a great deal of wine. I find it ironic, considering they’re always the authors of that demise. Whatever. It’s immaterial to me, now and forever.

“There is a reason for everything that happens, Judas,” she continues, as if she hasn’t heard my somewhat bitter words, “whether you know what it is or not.”

“How can I not know the reason for this?” I shake my head in disagreement. I mean no disrespect, but we’ve done this for far too many years, played out the scenario over the decades, the centuries even, exactly as written, at His direction, under His leadership—for God is the orchestrator of all of this, of course, and we are powerless to change it in any way. If mankind would simply take the time to truly look around him, take the time to see what it is that he’s looking at, he’d realize that not only has there been a Second Coming but a Third Coming as well as a Fourth, and many more besides—simply because men cannot seem to get it right, they continue to make the same mistakes, over and over and over again, ad infinitum. Ad nauseum. As a result, His only son must be sacrificed each and every time. The scenario changes, the specific conditions under which we operate vary, but the song remains very much the same. As does my part in what happens. It is written, and it happens, much as I might wish it to be otherwise. End of story. At least until the next time.