Revelations (8 page)

The music changes from a rhythmic melody to a more driving one, something a bit more upbeat. I glance toward the stage. The Apostles—the tongue-in-cheek name the boys have taken for themselves—are having fun with it. Thaddeus has stepped forward with his violin, and is playing something I think the crowd recognizes, as they’re according him a round of delighted applause. And as I realize just what it is he’s playing, I can’t resist smiling at Lucifer.

The Devil Went Down To Georgia
—fitting, somehow.

I spy a familiar face amid a sea of strangers. Of course I’m not surprised; she’d said she would be here. Mary is important to us, of course. She espouses our cause in many ways; ways not immediately discernible to the naked eye. Mary is a very sweet girl, like a daughter to me. A sister to Jesus. I hate the infighting between her and Judas, but this family feud of theirs has been going on for centuries, and it doesn’t appear to be stopping any time soon. It’s a shame they cannot get along; they’re more similar than either is willing to admit. And they share a common love for my son.

I catch her eye. I see she’s brought her secretary—a nice girl, Ruth. I wave to Mary, and she waves back enthusiastically, beckoning me to her. Before I go, though, I smile back at Lucifer. “My son will not succumb,” I say proudly.

He appears unconcerned at my apparent confidence in Jesus’ ability to withstand his temptations. “Even I can learn new tricks,” he replies enigmatically.

“And even your son has a weak spot.”

I bid him shalom and simply walk away, the sound of his low-pitched laughter reaching my ears, as it’s meant to, even as I wonder what he’s planning to do.

Whatever it is, I hope that my son can stay strong.

The evening has become surprisingly still, especially in the wake of the music-filled tent we’ve just left. A rather disturbing stillness. Although I’m not quite sure what I’d expected either, to be honest. Just not this emptiness. Almost a void, but a fitting one, nonetheless. Somewhat symbolic of the silence that has lain between us lately, which is equally disturbing, if not more so. A silence so thick I find it hard to breathe.

“Judas,” I begin, “Jude…” And stop. Nothing sounds right. Nothing feels right.

I sigh, force myself to move away from him, my gaze caught by the night sky; the stars glitter like tiny beads above us, pressed tightly into the velvet backdrop of the heavens. Why is everything between us so difficult? I don’t remember it ever being like this before. Never.

There are so many things I’d like to say, things I need to say, before I can’t say them. Before my time is through again…before my part of the story is done. Our part, I remind myself. We’re both about to exit. And we never seem to do it in a less than painful way. That thought causes me to wince. Not on my behalf, but his.

Try though I might, my brain doesn’t seem capable of forming coherent sentences at the moment. Which isn’t good. Soon I’ll be going out on stage, and I’ll need every word I can muster then. And right this moment, I can barely remember my name.

Pull yourself together, I admonish myself. You are His son, you can do this, surely. You’ve done far more difficult things.

“Judas, please be careful,” I end up saying at last. “I don’t wish to see you hurt.” Wow, now I sound like his mother. Or an over-protective nanny. Smooth move there. Quick, change the subject.

“Did you have any trouble with the local officials? All the permits are in order, yes? No sense in being taken down for some minor technicality, after all. We’re too close to the end now.” Yes, talk business, nothing personal.

He brushes aside my questions even as he brushes back the fair hair that overhangs his temple, easily and casually. Why do his movements fill me with an inner fire such as I’ve never felt before? Concentrate, please, concentrate. On his words. Not his body. “You’re the one he wants, not me,” Judas is saying, “He’s just fucking with me because it amuses him. And he hates the idea I won’t fawn over him, or give in to his laughable attempts at seduction by fucking him.” I wince involuntarily. I don’t know if it’s from the words themselves, or the image they involuntarily conjure. I do know what Lucifer is capable of, after all—I should by now. Been doing this for two thousand years plus.

“Have faith, I won’t give in to his temptations,” I vow. Even to myself, my words sound lame.

It’s time I want, time that I need—and time I don’t have. Why does it seem to be kaleidoscoping about us so, blurring everything, giving it all a distorted sense of reality, making it hard to know what truly is, what has been, and what will be?

Why does everything seem to be assuming a breathtaking speed, just when I wish to slow it down? What is it I’m so afraid of?

“Watch out for Kaplan,” he’s saying. Why is he looking at me that way? What is he thinking? And what did I miss?

“Kaplan?” I try to place the name.

“Local dick. The kind that likes to remind you that being gay is still a crime in a lot of places.”

Why are my cheeks burning? Is there no safe topic of conversation? “It’s the Kaplans of the world that we fight,” I remind him, struggling to focus, “fight against, that is…against just such ridiculous prejudices my Father does not wish to continue to flourish. Any longer.”

He takes a step closer. Breathing seems to be becoming optional. “Jesus…” I raise my hand to his pale cheek, cup it softly. A soft shiver runs through his frame. What is he thinking? What am
I
thinking?
Am
I thinking? Father, please, tell me what is this I feel, what must I do…

“Master!”

The spell is broken. I can feel Judas’ disappointment in me, once again, as he swears under his breath and moves away from me, leaving my hand flopping in space. I pull myself together as best I can, turn to face the newcomer. “Simon,” I greet him with a smile. “Is all well?”

“Yes, but it’s almost time,” he says, grinning at me most ingenuously. Like the child he is sometimes. “Mary M sent me to find you. She said she thought you were here.”

This only produces a longer string of oaths from Judas.
Kyrie eleison
, I sigh to myself. Oh my little firecracker, how easily he’s set off—but mostly he is noise and smoke. He means no harm, and yet he manages to hide the best part of himself from everyone else. Don’t ask me why. I do not claim to understand that man. My life would be so much easier if he and Mary would get along. As well as he and the other apostles.

“Thank you, Simon, I’m coming.” He envelops me in a great bearlike hug, before returning to the building behind us. I can’t afford to linger now, and perhaps it’s wisest that I don’t.

I have to go in now. Yes, I truly do. Now. Go. In.

But before I do…I move toward my irritable Judas without pausing to think about what I’m doing, impelled by something I don’t truly understand. Something inside of me is urging me, and I find I cannot do other than obey…I put my hands on either side of his lovely face, pull him toward me and…

…and I lock our lips together in a kiss. Not just any kiss, but the kiss to end all kisses. Not that I’ve not kissed Judas before, I have, and others as well. But this is different and I very well know it. My lips are afire from this kiss, and I suspect his are as well. He’s trembling in my grasp.

And as quickly as I began it, I end it. And coward that I am, I draw back from him, noting the very confused expression in his beautiful eyes. “I have to go,” I whisper, and before he has a chance to react, I’m safe within the confines of the tent once more, trying to hide the fact I’m trembling from head to foot.

What did I just do, and why? And why do I want to still be out there, doing it again?

Father, please, talk to me?

What the fuck just happened?

There’s a good crowd tonight. A very good crowd. Friendly enough, the little I’ve seen of them. Not too sophisticated and yet not too backwoods, I think. Other than a few who gawp at the band, their mouths open in amazement, doing a bit of a dead fish impersonation. But you get those everywhere.

I look up in surprise as the boys begin a new song. Some sad melody, about someone who loves a person he can’t have. Oh, so that’s how it is, is it? I have to smile, in spite of myself. I can definitely guess who that’s aimed at. I hope he’s listening. And writhing. It serves him right. Am I too open in my hatred of that man?

Mary stands beside me. She lays her hand upon my sleeve, and I bend closer to hear her words through the music. “Appearances can be deceiving…” Nothing more. I can’t even be sure what she’s referring to, but I have some idea. From the corner of my eye, I notice Jesus re-enter the tent. Simon must’ve found him, just where I’d known he would be. Where I’d known
they
would be, actually.

He’s heading toward the back of the stage now, and even from here I can see his agitation, most apparent in his flushed cheeks. Seconds later, I see Iscariot.

He’s looking a bit wild-eyed himself—guilty, even, as if he’s just committed murder in the first. He seems to be even redder than Jesus. He looks as if he’s trying to beat the devil himself in his haste to be inside. At first I think he’s following the Master, but no, he’s heading away from him now, and I lose sight of him in the crowd. Not that I care, of course, but now my curiosity is piqued. I exchange glances with Mary, who seems to know more than I do. She seems to have her finger on the pulse of the situation, but she remains silent. No use in asking what she’s obviously unwilling to divulge. No matter, I can ask Matthew later what he knows of things—he’ll tell me anything I wish to know. As will Jesus himself for that matter. But for entirely different reasons. I just don’t want to upset Jesus any more than he already is by asking, though.

He’s upon the stage now, beckoning to Philip. I wonder what’s up. Normally he simply comes on and begins the next song. He’s looking very splendid in his pale blue robes. I know he’s most comfortable in such familiar garb. He tends to wear them upon the stage, or when he’s in our company. In this day and age, it wouldn’t do to go out into public dressed that way. It probably wouldn’t go over very well. But it seems rather appropriate for a group that styles themselves as The Apostles. Philip listens to him attentively, and then makes a sign to the rest of the band. I wonder what’s going on. It seems as though he’s made a change, he’s doing something unexpected. At least it appears that way from the reactions of the others.

As the boys begin to play, Jesus walks toward the front of the stage, carrying his wireless mic. The mic is a concession to the fact that he has a tendency to roam too much in the course of both his vocalizing and his speaking, and wires tangle too easily. He raises his beautiful voice in song, and I am caught by surprise. His voice reveals a depth I don’t remember hearing before, which is saying a lot, because he has a voice like no other. His choice of music is also quite revealing—

to me, anyway. It’s an old song—
Kyrie
by name. I haven’t even thought about it in years, but now the words flow about me as he fills the tent with his glorious dulcet tones.
Kyrie eleison, kyrie eleison, kyrie…
Lord, have mercy on me...

Something’s wrong. I can feel it. I’m too close to him not to feel it. Something huge must be troubling him so much that he should make this very public appeal to his father—for that is doubtless what it is. He has
never
sung this song before.

Never.
It doesn’t take a genius to realize what the problem is—or should I say who.

The juxtaposition of events is just too handy. I clench my fists in anger even as I search the crowd nearest to the stage, and sure enough there he is, on the far side, close but not too close. He always snags a point of view nearest the stage when Jesus sings or speaks; otherwise he roams wherever he likes. That little bastard. I excuse myself to Mary and Ruth, push my way politely through the crowd, until I’m standing beside the betrayer himself. He’s unaware of my presence. His eyes are riveted upon the stage. Upon Jesus. Always upon Jesus.

“What’ve you done to him?” I hiss, coiled as if prepared to strike at this, my ancient enemy. I barely restrain myself from slapping his fool face.

He turns toward me. I’m startled at what I see in his eyes—naked fear and confusion and something else, something I can’t quite put my finger on. Now I’m confused. Is it possible that Mr. Know-it-all Iscariot is frightened of something? Or someone? Once he recognizes me, the momentary illusion is dispelled. His eyes grow opaque as he seals himself off from me so I can’t see inside. Maybe he’s afraid he’s shown me too much.

“Leave me alone,” is all he deigns to snarl as he turns his attention back to the stage. I can’t be gotten rid of quite so easily. I grab his arm, undaunted by his usual sullenness, force him to face me again. “You…have done this…I know it,” I accuse him.

I can hear Jesus singing the chorus now. The way he sings the words, sings
kyrie eleison
, echoing in the haunting chorus…

My God, it’s so very plaintive, so very evocative. An unwilling sob is drawn from my throat as I listen. I’m caught up in the emotions that I can feel in Jesus’

voice, the ones that have impelled him to this, even as I face down the one who has undoubtedly brought this about, the architect of his sorrow. In the meantime, the song has ended, and Jesus has moved to the front of the stage and is speaking. I’m too distracted to attend to his words, though.

My attention is fastened on Judas. To my shock, I see a tear slip down his cheek, and then another. Any further words I might’ve used are momentarily arrested at the sight.

“Leave me alone!” he repeats hoarsely, in a voice choked with tears. He looks at me, and then at Jesus. But before I can say anything else, he pulls away from me. With one last anguished look toward the stage, he pushes his way through the crowd around us. Before I can react, he’s lost to my view.