“Come, let us go.” Yeshu said as he pushed himself up from the table with his left arm. For a moment he worked the kinks out of his shoulder as he looked around the room. The others were hesitant to follow suit, as there was still at least an hour left before the customary end of the seder. “We have a bit of a walk before we find our lodgings for the night.”

Miri turned to make sure Yeshu got all the crumbs from the meal brushed from his tunic, but was amazed to find his clothing completely unaffected by the long meal. She waited for him to rise and then turn to assist her. Usually he pulled her right up without effort, but she noticed this time he was slower to pull her up. When she creased her face in concern, she saw him flash a smile, but noticed that it did not light up his eyes; only his lips.

“You must have eaten a good deal tonight, nassa,” he said absentmindedly. “A long walk will be good for us.”

As the rest of the group began to rise and stretch, they began to queue for the stairs down to ground level. But Miri sought out Yousef and Sarah, taking their hands in hers and offering a sincere thanks for having hosted this lovely seder. She was shadowed by her husband, who followed her lead and thanked them.

“You have shouldered a great burden on our behalf,” Yeshu bowed his head to them. “I wish I could say it is the last time, but something tells me I shall be a burden to you again before long.”

“It was hardly a burden,” Sarah protested. “It was an honor.”

Yeshu and Yousef shared a look, silently acknowledging the real expense that had been incurred to feed almost three dozen mouths. “I will do whatever I can to ease your burden,” Yousef affirmed. “It is the least I can do.”

Yeshu and Miri approached the steps where Shimon, Shel, Yoannes, and Yakov waited, allowing them to go first. As Yeshu led Miri, who was followed closely by Shel, Shimon asked “So, back to Beit-Anya?”

“Yes,” Yeshu answered. “But let us regroup outside the Valley Gate.”

After they had all exited into the street, Yoannes sprinted ahead of the group, passing on the meeting place in a whisper.

Yeshu looked down the lane, brightly bathed in the cold light of the full moon, now almost directly overhead. Stubby shadows stalked on the building walls as his friends passed almost noiselessly along the way, descending and curving toward the city wall. Although his belly was full and his bowels were warmed, both by the wine and the rich memory of the evening’s words, and the thought of climbing into a warm bed after a brisk walk glowed in eager anticipation, he did not feel comfortable. It was as if someone had pulled a plug somewhere within him, and the food, wine, memory, and hope were somehow draining away. He looked down beside him where Miri was humming one of the tunes of the  hallel with a serene look of satisfaction on her face. But even seeing her face, the most beautiful sight in the world to him, did not stop the feeling of emptiness that was beginning to chill his heart. By the time the group had passed through the southern gate, although the night was only mildly chilly, Yeshu felt as if a deep frost had encased his heart.

He looked at the assembled group. Most of the women were snuggled against the warmth of their husband’s body, but Saphira stood apart with Aviva and Marah, Yoannes’ wife, who whispered between themselves. His brothers Kobi, Yudi, and Shimi gathered around Miryam in the shadows of the city gate. Little Ram stood by Netan’el, who knelt down on one knee, pointing out bright stars in the dome of the heavens, quizzing him on their names. Yoannes and Shel stood slightly behind Yeshu, awaiting further direction.

“Up the road?” Shel prompted. “Is late.”

Yeshu put his hand to his aching heart. He slowly turned his gaze upon each of the women, who returned his gaze with question or concern. They could see something was going on inside him.

In answer to Shel’s question, Yeshu took Miri by the hand and led her just past the group and then turned to face them. He called out each of the women’s names, beckoning for them to come to him. Each of them came, receiving a kiss on their cheeks, and then joined Miri. As the women formed a group apart, the men started to come together with questioning expressions. Finally Yeshu invited Ram and Shel to come to him. 

“It seems I have yet more business tonight,” Yeshu said to everyone. “I will need my friends tonight, but would feel better if your wives were safe at home.” Bending down a little to Ram, he said “Will you make sure your mother and these women find their way safely back to Beit-Anya?”

“But I am your friend, aren’t I?” Ram protested. “I’m too old to go with the women.”

Yeshu smiled sincerely at the boy’s bravado. “And Shel, is he a boy too?

“Well, no, but” Ram puffed, resigning himself to his lot.

Yeshu grasped Shel’s hand as they both looked deep into each other’s eyes. Shel inclined his face, looking at Yeshu through his eyebrows, one of which was cocked inquisitively. In silent understanding, Yeshu closed his eyes and shook his head ever so slightly. In response, Shel’s eyes suddenly watered as his lower lip trembled. Yeshu pulled Shel’s hand into him and encircled his shoulders with his left arm. Shel buried his face in Yeshu’s breast while Yeshu leaned his head and placed a long and silent kiss on Shel’s forehead. After several moments, they both thumped each other vigorously on the back and pulled away, furtively flicking tears from their cheeks.

Miri quickly stepped in front of Yeshu, her fists planted on her hips with a stern look on her upturned face. “And just where are you going this time of night? What important business do you have to conduct? Everyone is either finishing their seder or already in bed.”

Yeshu’s mouth opened in an effort to explain, but since he didn’t know himself, he closed it again and blankly shook his head.

“You know what Qayafa and them are up to, do you not?” she pleaded with him. “This is their city. You cannot stay here in the night, no matter how brave your brothers and friends think they are.”

“We are not going back into the city,” Yeshu assured her. “I can promise you that, at least.”

“And you can promise me that you’ll come back to me?” Miri asked, her voice beginning to tremble. “You will come back to me. I will see you again, right?”

Yeshu bent his knees to look her straight in the eyes. He reached out and cupped her chin in his hand. “I promise you, we will see each other again. I will move heaven and earth to fulfill that promise, ba’ali.” He wrapped her in a firm embrace, placing another long kiss on her mouth.

“If you don’t,” she pulled away and sputtered through tears that had started suddenly, “you’d better watch out. I swear, I’ll hunt you down in whatever heaven there might be, and I don’t care who your father is, I’ll...” she broke down in sobbing and could not finish her threat.

Aviva and Sara appeared behind Miri and gently lifted her from Yeshu’s embrace. The other women beckoned for her to join them, forming a protective barrier about her as she was pulled among them.

Finally his mother left her three other sons and stood behindYeshu, placing her right hand on his left shoulder. Gently she pulled him around to face her as her left arm raised to point the way along the road that followed the Qidron.

“I feel you will have great difficulty keeping your promise to Miri,” she said in a low voice. “Your path lies along a dark, dark road.”

“One even you, my beloved prophetess, cannot see?” Yeshu grimaced.

“Oh no, I have seen it,” she insisted. “I have seen it from the beginning. Remember when we stood in the temple court watching the sacrificial animals be slaughtered. You wondered whether we should have to do something harder to pay for the things we do wrong.”

“And you answered that nothing we can ever do will make good what we have done bad,” he remembered verbatim. “That is what Mashiach will do.” Yeshu paused for a few beats. “And have you foreseen exactly what Mashiach will do?”

“Every woman who has travailed in childbirth has seen a small portion of it,” Miryam responded gently. “An intense pressure to push, even though excruciating pain awaits every effort. The unborn child is a torture that must be expelled at all costs, even to the ripping of your most sensitive flesh. Fear of the pain makes us hesitate, even death seems like a pleasant alternative to some. But at the end,” she sighed. “At the end is that red mass of blood and mucus with his rasping cry, jerking fists, and eyes screwed tightly shut against the light of day, that most beautiful of all creations: a child.”

Yeshu looked back over his shoulder to the knot of women, and then to the loose group of his friends. “They are beautiful,” he admitted. “But it is not just them.”

“No,” Miryam murmured. “It is all of them.” She lifted her eyes to the heavens, littered with uncountable points of light. “I had but you four and your sisters,” she sighed. “I cannot imagine what stands before you. This is a place where even a woman cannot look. But I give you a promise. At the end of every travail you will witness a child of Elaha. He may be bloody and tight fisted; she may be yelling loudly and covered with shame, but when they open their eyes and see you and understand who you are, even I cannot explain the joy that will fill your heart.”

She pulled his face down to hers and kissed him. “I cannot be with you tonight, but like you promised Miri, I will see you again. I will stand at your side. You are my son, and even if your father will have to turn his face away, yet I will gaze upon you to the bitter end.”

She ruffled his hair, wiped the tears from her cheek, and looked away to the women. “Let us go and find a bed for the night,” she called. 

Yeshu saw as little Ram headed up the assembly as the women blew kisses  as they turned away. Shel stood until the last woman had started on her way. He tried to turn to give Yeshu one last look, but his eyes could only glance at the ground near Yeshu, and then closed as he turned to follow across the Qidron and up the shoulder of Har HaZeitim toward Beit-Anya.

As Yeshu watched and waved, Shimon and Yoannan sidled up to him. “Which way, rav?” Shimon asked. “Back into the city?”

“No,” Yeshu signed. “Let us follow the wisdom of my mother and follow the road up the Qidron. There is a grove of olive trees surrounding a gat shmane. We can stay secluded for the night there before the business of tomorrow.”

“What business will there be tomorrow?” Yoannan asked.

“Blood and death,” Yeshu replied.

“But the paschal lamb has already been killed,” Yoannan protested.

“Yes, he has,” Yeshu replied as he set off up the road. “And he has yet to be.”

Their path led them along the base of the massive limestone walls Herodos HaGadol had begun fifty years previous, and that were still being completed. Yeshu glanced at the stones that were still in the process of being dressed before they were lifted and set into the fortress-like wall lowering over the valley of the Qidron. He tried to take his mind back to the days when he would have eagerly sized these stones up for work, but found that he could hardly even remember his work as a stonemason. That was so very long ago.

They passed like ghosts among the elaborate sepulchres and rock-cut tombs that clung to the edge of the city wall.  The ghastly light of the full moon picked out every nook and crevice of the bleached and whitened sepulchers, casting black shadows across the path. The smell of decay, although faint and mostly contained by stones that stopped the mouths of the tombs, tinged the edge of every breath. None of the talmideh dared reveal that he was secretly afraid of passing through a necropolis in the dead of night, so their passage was quiet and breathless.

At one point Yeshu stopped and looked up at the high tower upon which he had once stood with Qayafa threatening to throw him down if he didn’t leap himself. “Al-kapayim yisa'unech: pan-tigof be'even raglech,” he spoke aloud to no one in particular, remembering how Qayafa had tempted him from the very words of the Psalm. “I will much more than dash my foot against a stone tonight,” he murmured. “Will they be there to bear me up?”

“You have stubbed your toe?” Lavi piped up. “Here, I will give you an arm.”

“No,” Te’oma calmed him. “He’s just quoting another passage from Torah. Wait a moment and he’ll explain it.”

“Technically not Torah,” Netan’el interjected. “It is one of the psalms from khetuvim.”

They all waited a moment for an explanation, but Yeshu did not feel in the mood for storytelling, so he turned and continued along the path. 

“Or maybe not,” Andreas concluded, following Yeshu.

The grade between the city and the wadi was becoming quite steep, so the road descended from the base of the city wall to the skirt the edge of the brook in the wadi. They had now come to a point directly under the Shushan gate. It soared over their heads, seeming as remote to them as clouds in the sky. 

Shimi sniffed aloud. “What’s that awful smell,” he complained. “It’s even worse than the smell of the tombs.”

“That’s probably the pipe that discharges all the blood from the altar into the Qidron,” Te’oma conjectured. “It comes down somewhere around here.”

A sudden splash and moan of dismay revealed that Yeshu had found the exact location of the pipe’s exit with his feet. Yoannan rushed up to help him away from the fetid pool. “No worries,” Yeshu told him. It will wash off in the waters of Qidron.”

“Except for what has splashed up on your gulta,” Yonannan countered, examining the fringes of Yeshu’s outer garment. “Miri will not be happy to see that.”

The talmidim then removed their sandals, pulled their own gultin and took turns wading across the gurgling springtime waters of the Qidron. At the other side, while they tried to wipe their feet on their clothing in order to pull on their sandals, Philippos noticed two pairs of sturdy wooden posts, each at least two hands wide,  that had been driven into the ground on either side of the stream just below them. “What are these?” he asked. “They look like they’ve been here forever.”

Once more it was Te’oma, being the font of all knowledge concerning Yerushalayim, who had the answer. “This is what currently remains of the kivshat ha-Parah, or causeway of the heifer. There’s a tradition in Torah that priests have to have a special set of ashes to purify people from contact with the dead. And those ashes have to come from a special heifer: unblemished, never yoked, and never milked. Apparently they kill and burn the animal up on the summit of Har HaZeitim where you can see directly into the temple precinct through the open doors of the Shushan gate. And of course, since the kohen haGadol can’t have any contact with the dead, they have to build a bridge from somewhere up on Har HaZeitim directly to the Shushan gate.” Looking back over the stream up to the top of the city walls, he pointed to a stub of a rock platform that stuck out from the gates that no one ever used. “You can see up there where the end of the bridge was. And so whenever they run out of heifer ashes, they have to build a new bridge for the kohen haGadol to walk on to bring the ashes back from the summit. Since the time of Ezrah, it has only been performed a half-dozen times. The last time was fifty or sixty years ago. I suspect these posts held up the center of the bridge.”

Yakov stroked his beard and thought aloud, “passing through the precinct of the dead, splashing in the blood of the sacrificial lambs, following under the way of the red heifer, kind of ominous, don’t you think?”

“Personally, it gives me the shivers,” Shimon agreed. “At least the moon is out tonight. I can’t imagine what this would all be like in pitch black night.”

When they all had their sandals back on their feet, the group moved on uphill, just a couple hundred paces or so until they came to an impassable thick hedgerow of thorny brush. Following Yeshu’s lead, the group turned to the left, going another sixty paces until they came to a passageway through the hedgerow. It had a waist-high gate that opened in the middle and which was not locked or barred. Beyond the gate lay an ancient orchard of olive trees surrounding an olive press and storerooms where massive amounts of olive oil was pressed and stored. Most of the talmidim had been here on one or two occasions before, but they had always come to it from the Beit Chesda gates or directly from Beit-Anya. Yehouda had an understanding with the establishment’s proprietor that allowed them to enter at any time and stay for as long as they liked, as long as Yehouda occasionally purchased some oil in bulk. With relief to be past the necropolis and here under the peaceful and sturdy trees, they all headed for the buildings surrounding the press. Here they would find a place to rest until Yeshu told them what the business of tomorrow would be.

But Yeshu was strangely silent. Since he had stepped in the puddle of blood, he had not said anything. Now he simply said “Stay here while I go to pray up there.” He started to move on, but then turned back and motioned for Shimon, Yakov, and Yoannan to follow him.

The draining of the hope in his heart had been wearing on him since they had departed from the women, but like the dull ache of a dead tooth, he had been able to push the feeling to the back of his mind, concentrating on just getting to this place. But now that he had reached it, it was as if he was suddenly and completely emptied of hope and will. He stumbled as he started up the rise to the stump of a dead tree.

Shimon and Yakov quickly stepped forward to catch him. “Are you alright?” Yakov asked with grave concern. “Do you need something to drink? There is a firkin of wine in the press house. Let me get you some.”

As Yoannan began to rush back down the hill, Yeshu stopped him. “No, I am not thirsty. But all my limbs feel as if they’re made of stone. I am so heavy.” He could not think of another word to describe how his entire body weighed down on his soul. 

Shimon, always wanting to be as helpful as he possibly could, pulled Yeshu’s arm over his shoulder. “Here, I will help you walk,” he said, looking hopefully up toward the stump.

“I don't know how that will help,” Yeshu said quietly. “All this death around me, the tombs, the smell, the blood on my feet, it weighs so heavily on me. I feel like I’m being pulled into it, pulled into death.”

“Rav!” Yoannan exclaimed. “Stay with us, please.” Shimon and Yakov agreed enthusiastically. 

“No, death is not yet an option,” Yeshu assured them. Then, as if to bolster their confidence, he took a deep breath, raised himself up to his full height, and said “I can make it, but please, my friends, please stay here and watch with me, in case I need you again.”

Yakov and Shimon dutifully backed off a step, but Yoannan clung desperately to Yeshu’s hand. “Sit Yoannan, please sit down,” Yeshu begged. “Pray for me. I need you to pray.”

Yoannan suddenly and forcefully sat down and began to chant a psalm. O give thanks unto Adonai, for He is good, for His mercy endureth for ever.

Yeshu turned from his friends and focused his gaze on the stump ahead of him. It loomed like the blackest depth of water he had seen on Genneseret, or like the edge of a precipice in the mountains above Gablān. He felt compelled to approach it, to fall into its depths, or fall from its heights. But at the same time, it was like the heat of a roaring bonfire or the blast of a desert sandstorm, trying to wither and blow him away. A slow, deep, and throbbing vibration seemed to warn him away and at the same time attract him like a moth to the flame. He wanted to turn around, to collapse in the arms of his friends, to race like an escaping goat up the hill to Beth-Anya, or simply to dissipate into a vapor of nothingness and begone from this great and dreadful place ahead of him. 

Although he had never before experienced this overwhelming opposition of forces, he knew exactly what it was. This was the doom of Mashiach. It was not to lead victorious armies in the glorious field of battle; it was not to sit on a throne attended by servants and preside over masses of adoring subjects; it was not to sit in the Kodesh HaKodashim and hear the thankful prayers of the entire world. It was to approach this awful altar, this rotten stump of a dead olive tree, and cast himself upon it to do whatever was demanded of him by his Father.

Up to now he had done absolutely everything the Father had demanded of him. He had given up his comfortable life as a stonemason to become an itinerant miracle man. He had wasted every last penny of his savings and investment to support himself and his friends as they went from town to town trying to wake a stubborn and stiffnecked people to see the wonders of Elaha's truth. He had chosen men the Father designated, most of whom he didn’t even know and some of whom he didn’t even like, to join his innermost circle and share his meals, his thoughts, and his dreams. He had mixed among the poorest and dirtiest of people to tend to their pettiest concerns and their greatest and most devastating tragedies. He had rubbed shoulders with the richest and most polished of people, desperately trying to get them to see beyond their luxurious tables and sumptuous clothing. There had been many of the former and a few of the latter with whom his message had resonated, and his joy in them was a treasure to him. But there had been so many more who never listened, or who listened but did not actually hear, and were never counted as his. There had been so many sleepless nights where he pleaded with his Father to direct him what to do next, how to teach, what to say, how to heal a sickness of the body or cast out a sickness of the mind. But with every step he took forward, there might be a moment of joy, but soon the Father was demanding more of him, never letting him find rest. That night he, the man who couldn’t keep his stomach on the calmest of seas, had fallen asleep in the boat during a frightful storm because he was so utterly and absolutely exhausted from the strain of dealing with quarreling talmidim, demanding supplicants, and unrelenting authorities. And when he finally awoke, it was to the pitiful cries of his friends who depended upon him for every last thing. It had taken every reserve of the body he had inherited from his mother and the nature of his divine Father to reach into the depths of the sea and the vaults of heaven to compel the raging particles of wind and water to cease their strife. And the next day it went on, and more was expected of him. Ever more. Never less. Never enough rest. Always an uphill climb.

And now this, whatever it would prove to be. This unknown maelstrom now just steps away from his unsure feet and trembling body. What would be demanded of him here? But he had faced every insurmountable task he had confronted during the last three years, but this one was just too big. This was too much. He felt that the very smallest particles that made him and his body would explode and fly apart into the most distant reaches of the heavens and earth if he were to take one step further.

“Abia, Father,” he groaned aloud. “There has got to be another way. This is too much! You can do anything and everything, certainly there has to be another way. Please, please, don’t make me do this. Please make another way.”

Suddenly the horror of the stump just ahead of him vanished, as did all the grass, trees, dirt, and rocks surrounding it. Yeshu found himself standing upon the summit of a great hill, higher than any mountain he had ever seen, yet with gentle slopes that extended to infinity in every direction. Beside him stood his Father, a glorious personage radiating ultimate love, wisdom, and power. But as much as Yeshu wanted to gaze upon his Father and commune with him, all he could do was to see a myriad myriads of expectant souls covering the slopes of the hill. He saw them all at once, as if he could see out of all sides of his head. But why were they looking at him? Why were their eyes so brilliantly focused upon him? Then he heard a voice of power that gushed out like the sound of many rushing waters, both deeply booming and hissing to the highest register. The voice spoke in a tongue he could not identify, but the meaning was clear in his mind: “Behold the Lamb of God, slain from before the foundations of the world.” He looked down at what he took to be his hands. He saw them twisted and mangled, as were his feet below them; he saw blood and gore dripping from his fingers. Then his gaze was obscured as more blood trickled into his eyes. How could this be? When had this been? Was it a vision of things to come? No, he remembered this. He remembered standing on this hill under the compelling gaze of every soul that ever was to be with his Father presenting him to them. What had he said? “If you will covenant to obey my law and remember the sacrifice on your behalf, the sacrifice of my firstborn son, we will prepare a way for you to return and dwell once again with us.” Then he saw each of the unnumbered souls raise their hands and cry “Amin, Amin, Amin.” But it was not as if he just saw the multitude all at once. It was as if, somehow time and space vanished, and he looked into each and every face as they made this covenant, a covenant which rested entirely for each of them upon him, upon Yeshueh, or whatever his name had been when he stood on that hill. And with the sight of each face, he remembered exactly who each of these brilliant and beautiful souls had been: their name, the memory of their personality, the songs they had sung, the talks they had had, and the problems they had solved. And as the memory of each of these uncounted souls filled his memory, a determination to move forward filled his heart.

But even as this memory built in him a renewed confidence, the hill began to disappear, and was slowly replaced by the rocks, dirt, trees, grass and the stump ahead of him. All the horror, depth, height, heat, and terror of the stump immediately shrieked back into his being. But it met with a steely resolve that had not been there before. This was why he had come. The previous three years? Had they been hard? Had they been fruitful? So what? They had been necessary and would be important in the Father’s work going forward, but they were not pivotal. What was vitally important was fulfilling the covenant he had made with all the inhabitants of the earth before it was even founded. They had jumped into the fray of this bitter and ferocious world because they expected him to be there to save them in the end. He could not fail them. Not a single one of them.

He had finally reached the stump. Though it were the very gates of hell, he could not withstand its pull. He fell to his knees by its side and let his shoulders and face fall upon its ragged and pitted surface. “Nevermind, Abia. Not what I said before. Your plan. Your will. Let it begin.”

But the stump did not burn him, nor was he sucked into a portal of nothingness. He all of a sudden felt bitterly cold and began to shiver uncontrollably. He raised his head for a moment and looked back to where Shimon, Yakov, and Yoannan were seated. He could hear Yoannan’s voice chanting Out of my straits I called upon the LORD; He answered me with great enlargement. This was only the fifth line of that psalm. Yeshu felt that he had been at least hours and hours since he left them, had it been but five breaths? Another passage from the psalmist came into his mind: For a thousand years in Thy sight are but as yesterday when it is past, and as a watch in the night. Apparently time had no meaning anymore, at least not for him.

But no sooner had Yoannan finished the line and drawn breath for the next one, Yeshu slipped away from them again. The moon’s gleam at its highest began to illuminate a different landscape about him, one that began to reveal horror and death everywhere about him. The earth’s bones were exposed before him, devoid of grass, tree, wall, house, road, or city. He looked beneath where he had fallen by the stump and saw a pair of eyes glowing there. They were not the bright eyes from the green hillside of moments before. They were dim, tired, mottled, and weighed down with desperation. Yeshu could tell they had been there a long time. Hundreds of years, maybe thousands. These eyes came from the grave of a being who had lived long before bnei Yisrael had come into this land, perhaps even before Avraham and walked this way. For ages it had languished beneath a heavy burden, not of soil and rock, but of misdeeds and forgotten covenants, of selfishness and bigotry and dishonesty. And yet they looked to him with the memory of the green hill. Save me they called to him. Save me!

Yeshu turned his face in horror. He remembered this being from the green hill. A precise soul who delighted in always finding just the right words to say, whose actions might have been a little grudging, but who had always come around to do the right thing. And she could dance. Yes, it had been a she. He remembered her flowing across the landscape with artistry and grace. She-of-reticent-deep-words-and-dancing had been her name. Now she called herself Ummadria, a name whose meaning he did not understand. How had she lost her grace and goodwill? How had she fallen to this dark and pitiful state? He felt the wind knocked out of him comparing her previous state with those dim eyes glinting in the depths of the earth. His bowels quivered with sickness and regret for her sorry state. He felt his breath catch in throat as a sob clutched his chest.

But before he could look back to her, he found his attention being turned to other eyes that reflected the harsh moonlight. They were in stacks and bundles and scattered upon the ground below him and surrounding him. Yeshu remembered the rock cut tombs and sepulchres of the necropolis surrounding Yerushalayim he and his friends had just traversed. These new eyes must be the hundreds of thousands of souls who had been laid to rest here for a thousand years. Time and space vanished as he looked into each set of eyes, remembering their names and their beauty from the green hill: He-of-amazing-strength-and-soft-gentility-logic-lover, She-who-remembers-everything-yet-can-forget-every-wrong, He-who-is-easily-surprised-and-laughs-beautifully. Now they were simply Asher, Talma, and Japhet. Their eyes appeared to be moldy, crumbling, rusty, frayed, or sooty, if such a thing were possible. How could such eyes, so brilliant before, so beautiful as to leave the rest of the face in dim forgetfulness, how could they have become so malignant, so degenerate, so putrid? How could there be any life in them at all?

He could not bring himself to look at each individual set of eyes, not yet. For quickly appearing behind them, below them, above them, and indeed in a galaxy of little dual points of light, an infinity of eyes gazed intently upon him. He knew eyes could not breath, but he felt them holding their breath in the hope of expectation and terror of disappointment. Each called save me in whatever tongue they had learned in their mortal life. It started as a call from here and there, but grew gradually until it became an overwhelming cacophony of calls, bouncing off each other and echoing off the hills and heavens: Paṣanî, šdi w, mu-tar-nu-ut, Sōson me, Bjarga mér, Mām rakṣa, Tasukete, Faaola mai ia te au, Baga-bi, Jiù jiù wǒ, Rette mich, Saor mé, Gu-hae-jwo, Cứu tôi với, Red mij, Niokoe, Iligtas mo ako, Chuay duay, Spasi menya, Ngisindise, Sauve-moi, Whakaorangia ahau, and Hatzel oti. 

Yeshu was overcome. He wanted to jam his fingers into his ears, but what he was hearing was not transmitted through the air. It came directly into his mind. He knew he could help. How was this different from the howling wind and raging waters of the storm on Genesseret? He just needed time to concentrate, a tiny respite from the voices clamoring in his head. In his mind, he reached out his hands until they seemed to span the heavens and earth. He called out in a clear and booming voice, Peace! Be still!

As he had commanded, the voices stopped. All eternity held its breath as Yeshu gathered his thoughts. What words could he say? What were the words that were said over the goats at yom kippur? Were these the words that would cause the corruption of these trillions of eyes to fall away like scales and to cause their pupils to burn bright once more? His memory failed him. He could not recall the words. He raced through the books of the Torah, but could find no incantation he could use. As he stood there, speechless, he could hear crying, moaning, and wailing beginning to arise again. The many versions of save me began again to pound in his ears. His brain throbbed in withering pain as the agony of his supplicants poured their misery into the very depths of his soul.

He could not find a way to do this. They all expected him to do something magical, some trick that would remove their sin and guilt and filthiness, but he found himself powerless to do so. Then thought he heard the words of Miri.

I think you had a vision of yourself standing on a stage, being able to bring the world to heel just because of your talent and charisma, he remembered her saying. His reply had been But instead, you find me coming down off the stage and walking with you among the crowds, helping them individually.

Then he listened closely to each of the calls for help that were ringing in his ears. They did not call to save us. Save me they each called. The particles of air and water could somehow hear his command and in one unified moment adhere to his will, but this was because they had no will of their own. But mankind had something the particles did not, something instilled in them by their heavenly parents who had brought them forth to a knowledge of light and dark, good and evil: he had given them a will. And so, each individual had to be approached individually.

And so Yeshueh of Natzrat, the Only Begotten Son of God, his Beloved Son as the Father himself had said, came down off the stage where he had sought in vain to bring the universe to heel, and looked down again at She-of-reticent-deep-words-and-dancing, or Ummadria as she now called herself. He smiled as he remembered her again. Come unto me, Ummadria he said as he locked her gaze in his. Come.

Ummadria came to him. But as she did, he found himself repulsed by her approach. She stank. No, that’s not right, he thought. It was not a repulsive odor like he had encountered among people: unwashed armpits, stale urine, or rotten breath; it did not assail his nostrils. It assaulted his spirit, his ruach, his breath of life. It had a stench every bit as repugnant as vomit or excrement. He felt his bowels begin to heave, a natural reaction to expel what is foreign and toxic. What was it? And how could Ummadria live with it? Did she not know this repellant cloud of revolting reek hung about her like a soggy, black mist? He tried to look at her, tried to see her eyes again, to see the beauty within. But the noisome smell could not be avoided. He had to discover what it was. He had to inhale it to try to discern its source. He tried taking a whiff. There were hints of many different odors, but even though it inflamed his nostrils and made his eyes water, he knew it was not enough. He had to breathe the noxious filth deeply into his lungs. 

Tentatively and unwillingly, he took a deep breath, but immediately expelled it in a violent spasm of coughing and retching. It felt to him like had inhaled not just the fumes from a smoking bed of coals, but the burning coals themselves. They seared his throat and burned his lungs from just the briefest contact. He gasped for breath, but with each gulp of air, he was assaulted again by the caustic heat. Wracked with scorching pain no matter what he did, he inhaled deeply once more and then forced his lips and throat to clamp shut, holding the billowing, sulphuric flames within his chest. He began to examine the different smells as he strained not to expel the burning flames within him.

A stray thought crossed his mind. You cannot smell with your lungs. But he could. Understanding was almost instantaneous. He was not bodily smelling and inhaling these odors. Lips, nostrils, throat, and lungs were not actually involved. He was experiencing all this stench and burning not in his body, but in his spirit; in that little piece that he identified as himself. Sometimes it lived behind his eyes. Mostly now it had come to live in the base of his chest. It was this that was reacting violently against the aura that surrounded the presence of Ummadria. And if it were not the smells of her body that were so repellant, it must be the stink of her spirit. But how could a spirit stink?

His mind bent back to when he had known She-of-reticent-deep-words-and-dancing on that eternally wide green hill. Then she had “smelled” as crisp and fragrant as a ripe piece of fruit. How could her soul, so fresh and alive in the presence of her Father and her siblings, have degraded to such utter putridity? What was here that was not there?

As if blinded by a sudden glare of the sun coming from behind a cloud, he realized what was here but not there was so simple to identify. The source of all this reek and pain and burning was transgression; sin; turning away from what one knows is right and willfully doing the opposite. Each selfish or deceptive act wounded, bruised, and cut the essence of the person’s being, their spirit or ruach. And since there was no salve or bandage to bind up the unseen hurt, it festered and grew rank. It was from the pain of these wounds that Ummadria and her uncounted brothers and sisters were crying for salvation. 

And in the same instant, he knew what he had to do. Like the goats of yom kippur, he must not only breathe in and experience the results of her misdeeds in life, but he must somehow transfer the wounds of her spirit onto his own. In life his half-divine body had been able to quickly heal the gashes and bashes he had received as a stonemason. In this sphere of existence, whatever it was, his as yet unwounded spirit could absorb Ummadria’s wounds, heal them, and graft replenished essence back to her. She could be free from the devastating effects of her mortality. Then perhaps the corruption of her gaze could become clear and bright once more.

But how to transfer her spiritual wounds? Could he reach out with his spiritual fingers and pry them from her soul? Before he even tried, he knew this would be impossible. In pulling the stinking scabs of sin from her tender skin, he would only rend and tear again. He felt his own eyes brimming with tears, not from the pain of the burning breath in his lungs or the acidic scent in his nostrils, but because he was powerless to heal her without some further action, an action he could not initiate. 

But as he gazed on Ummadria through a glaze of tears, he saw a sudden glow illuminate her briefly. Where did it come from? As he shifted his focus, he saw what appeared to be tendrils of light like some fantastically intricate web. The web extended as far as he could see, throbbing and pulsating. Ummadria’s eyes, however, were surrounded by a nebula of darkness through which the web had not yet penetrated. But even as he watched, he saw a tendril of the glowing light reach like a faint finger to touch the darkness beneath her eyes. As the light made contact, a sudden memory of light pulsed throughout Ummadria, and for half a moment, he thought he could see all of her, and remembered the flowing, dancing form on the green hill. In that moment, her eyes focused, and she called out O Ba’al, save me! I have done such great evil.

Yeshu blinked and hesitated. Ba’al? Why did she call out to this malignant idol? Why was the sound of it coming to his ears? The answer immediately broke upon his mind. Ummadria had lived long, long before the knowledge of the one true Elaha had come to her people. They acknowledged a being higher than themselves, a power that watched over them and either punished or saved, but gave him the name of an idol. Was it Ummadria’s fault that she didn’t know the proper name of her God, or that she didn’t recognize that God as her Father? 

Like every other soul that had walked this earth, including himself, her memory of her Father had been hidden from view as her ruach had been drawn into his heavy, meaty, mortal frame. But the power and influence of his Spirit filled the entire universe. And like the tenuous finger that reached from the pervading glow to the dark heart of the individual, a sudden memory of this relationship pulsed through them, making them call out whatever name they had been taught to call it. And so Ummadria’s lips formed the name of Ba’al, but her heart formed the memory of Father. And in that moment, Yeshu knew that there was an opening, and opening for him to follow the opening in her center and speak to her.

Ummadria, what have you done? he asked her.

Her eyes brightened and focused in response to hearing him. But he could tell she was unwilling to share with him the deepest and darkest and most embarrassing secrets of her life.

My daughter, no matter what you have done, you can tell me, he reassured her. I will not punish or smite.

Slowly Ummadria began to reveal herself to him. I have acted spitefully to my daughter, she admitted. She was just playing, but she broke the pot and spilled dinner into the fire. I punished her too hard.

As he heard her admission, he felt as if a tiny portion of the flame he held inside his lungs suddenly flared and punctured a hole in him. As it exploded out of him, it scorched a smoking lesion in his spirit, causing him to wince in pain.

I promised to give my neighbor half of the goat’s cheese in return for the bread she gave me, came another admission from Ummadria, but I held more than half back. I cheated her.

Another flame, an additional lesion, and more pain. How could she live with this pain? he wondered. He had felt guilt when he had done something he hadn’t previously known had been wrong, but that guilt had immediately worked upon him, causing him to right the wrong. The guilt had evaporated almost immediately, in large part because he had immediately obtained the forgiveness of his mother or brother or co-worker. But these secretly held wrongs, their guilt had never been relieved. In his case it had been like a spark that flew from the fire, briefly flared on a patch of dry grass, and was immediately quenched. But for Ummadria, that spark had not been quenched, but turned into a glowing coal that burned slowly and intensely, hidden beneath the dust of the earth.

Now that she had begun, Ummadria’s recitation of her wrongs began to flow out of her: deceit, gossip, divulging secrets, wanting what other people had, actually taking something belonging to someone else. As they became more weighty, the portions of flame that burst through his spirit became larger, and the lesions became deeper and more intense. They would continue coming, and continue to make rents, tears, and lesions on his own being. He must both hear and experience her pain, but at the same time focus on healing himself, lest he be overcome.

But even as he considered how to do this, he began to sense another assault, this time upon his ears. Where Ummadria’s voice had been mostly whispers of confessed wrongdoing, this new sound was a clangor of shouted complaints, accusations, and insinuations: she snubbed me at my wedding feast; she walked away from an argument without letting me explain; I brought her flowers, but she didn’t even see them. As they multiplied and became more insidious, he thought his head would explode from the vibrations in his ears. But Yeshu had thought he was alone with Ummadria. Where did these shouts come from?

Again he looked in the space surrounding Ummadria’s gaze. Then he noted that the darkness that surrounded her had a ragged edge. He examined the edge more closely, and found it to be constantly moving. It was made up of dark indistinct forms that reminded him of flitting bats at dusk or insects fluttering about a fire, or perhaps the blotches that occasionally floated in one’s eyes. He noted that they also flew through the void between the sets of eyes, as if they came from afar. Before he could even ask the question, understanding dawned on him that these were the complaints that others had against Ummadria. They landed upon him like the stings of wasps or the bites of adders. He did not yet know how to heal the internal wounds from Ummadria’s confessed misdeeds, much less how to deal with these new assaults. He must concentrate and discover a way to mend himself.

But even as this thought crossed his mind, he found himself coming under attack from a third front. Even while she continued to enumerate her own misdeeds, he sensed what seemed like echoes of her voice from farther back in time. These came as a wave of daggers that pierced him deeply, for they came from the depths of her soul where they had long pierced and wounded her. He perceived them as echoes, because the original experience they came from could not be clothed in words. Instead of hearing the description, he witnessed dim and despairing scenes: a husband who used her for his physical satisfaction and little else, making her despair of her own humanity and worth; the dashed hopes of finding joy in her children, only to lose three of them before they were even born and two more to early graves; her own feelings of inadequacy that made her feel shunned in public gatherings; her failing faith in the face of heavens that had no answer to her piteous problems; the bittersweet loss of her unwanted husband in battle and consequent loss of her only means of support resulting in a life of penury and begging; the unrelenting pain of aging and ill health in a woman who should have had many years ahead of her. Each stab not only caused him to shriek with sudden pain, but brought a sob of sorrow from the deepest well of his soul. 

For what seemed to him an entire hour the murmur of her confession racked his lungs, the stings of landing accusations ravaged his skin, and the memory of undeserved misery plunged into sinew and bone. Any hope of survival he had felt at the beginning, any hope of finding a way to heal his own wounds and transfer wholeness upon Ummadria, had long ago vanished. His only hope at this point was to retain his being long enough for the assault to cease. His lungs strained for a breath of lifegiving air. His ears ached for the sound of silence. His eyes burned from ducts that could no longer produce enough tears to salve them. His mouth was foul from the taste of bile that heaved from his bowels and blood from bitten tongue, lips, and cheeks. His limbs burned from piercings and wrenchings. He could not stay here in this existence, this dream, this impossible evil vision any longer. He reached out to sense his own real body, the head, arms, and hands that rested upon the olive stump he barely remembered from what seemed a past life. But he could not so much as open his own eyes or mouth, much less move his limbs. He felt pulled down like into a vortex of swirling mud and water. Even the light of the glowing eyes and pulsating web of light began to disappear from view. 

And now a final assault. A grating reverberation that started low, but soon rose to an overpowering and all-encompassing compression upon all parts of him. It was like being inside the shofar as it was blown to summon the masses, only the sound was not at all melodious. It was indeed a hideous, malevolent, howling laugh. 

Can’t do it, can you? it shrieked in deviant delight. Oh big, beloved boy, even you are powerless against me. And this? This is but one measly tatter of the useless multitude you called your friends and followers. You can’t even save her. You worthless pile of filth! Look at how it rots, tortures, burns, and defiles you, and try as you might, you can’t rub it off. You can only spread it. You should have listened to me. You should have turned that stone to bread. You should have leaped down from the pinnacle. You should have listened to that dotardly old man. Instead of having all of life’s juices slowly pressed out of you by this rotten old stump, you could be leading the whole world in victorious battle. But no, you chose the “noble” path. Look what it got you, Yeshueh ben Yousef. When the end comes, you will bow before me and ask my forgiveness, you pitiful waste of ... but the voice trailed off into incessant and triumphant laughter. 

Yeshu knew this voice. He saw the hidden jab at his parentage, but also witnessed the accuser’s inability to even mention anything of the divine. Just as vividly as he could remember She-of-reticent-deep-words-and-dancing’s former loveliness and fragrancy, he could remember the face of the being who had just uttered these indictments. Before it had lost its name and its face and eyes, it had been one of the most brilliant beings on that eternal green hill. But while in the beginning that brilliance had come from within, after many eons it had transposed itself to only the dimmer reflected light of all those he caught within its own orbit. It seemingly had hoped to attract more to attend to it that attended to Father, and thus displace Him from his rightful place. And it had come so close. When it thought it had enough advantage, a titanic battle of wills ensued. Yeshu suddenly remembered She-of-reticent-deep-words-and-dancing participation in this struggle. Her deep words had swayed many to remain in the Father’s orbit. In the end, her efforts and the efforts of many others had caused the majority to be true to their Father, while those who had given the light of their eyes to increase the glow of the adversary’s power found themselves without the ability to sustain their own independent being, and were swept out from all light into a vast void of darkness, eternally bound to attend to the being to whom they had given their allegiance. But ever they fought the confines of that void, attracted to the light of the living, but seeking only to suck the light away from them and digest it into black pits of slime and filth. And now the adversary, the being who had lost even its name, had come back to taunt him.

But as Yeshu recalled these scenes to mind, he remembered what had set the adversary apart. Although it had captured myriads of followers, their attraction to each other had been strange and convoluted. Where She-of-reticent-deep-words-and-dancing had spoken her feelings with a deep sense of devotion, those whose names had been forgotten had fought back with braying words that sought only to attract attention. They turned their light on the adversary not to shine upon it, but so that it would notice them. They sought ever to be closest in orbit around it, not to feel its devotion to them, but to have their nearness noted by those further afield in their own orbits. The adversary gave them no reason to be attracted to itself, but relied on creating a conundrum into which its followers would catapult themselves to be the first and most vociferous to defend.

As the raucous laughter of this adversary continued to shake his soul to pieces, now joined with the insipid and congratulatory laughter of its myriad attendants, Yeshu realized what it was that gave these miserable beings their cohesiveness. Each and every one of them was filled to overflowing with an egotistical and narcissistic love of only itself. It was this inward-looking concern that drove them to darkness. This is what was dragging him down into the maelstrom of muddy water. 

It would be the opposite of egotism that would buoy him up out of the pit. It would be the counterpart of narcissism that would rescue his sinking soul. It would be concern for others, recognition of their goodness, acceptance of their weaknesses, and genuine admiration of who they were that would bring both him and Ummadria to equity and healing. It was love that would save them both.

Yeshu reached back into his memory to see She-of-reticent-deep-words-and-dancing in all her former glory. He saw her hesitancy to speak, resulting not from any defiance, but from a respect for the opinions of others and her not wanting to overwhelm them with her own deep words. He saw how she found an outlet for her deep passions by allowing them to bend her limbs and propel her into the artful leaps and bounds giving an inarticulate but graceful voice to how she felt, allowing others to interpret it to the best of their own ability. He remembered how she had enfolded others who wished to be able to be as expressive as her, patiently teaching them how to recognize their own inner voice and how to translate that into bodily movements. 

And then his gaze was propelled forward to things he did not remember, the words and deeds of Ummadria. He saw her as a child trying to remember her former dancing, but being confined to a body with proportions that did not lend to grace and beauty, tried to express her artistry in the weaving taught to her by her mother. Her mother, however, was not interested in beauty and innovation, but only quantity for the market. Like every girl she had hoped for a fortuitous match, and had great joy in finding that her husband was handsome and better off than her own family. But in finding only lust and dominion in her new home, she had nonetheless retained the hope that she might find a way to express some sort of artistry that would tame and soften her husband. She had expressed this in submissiveness and unending good cheer, even though she felt empty and worthless inside. When her efforts failed with her husband, she had tried her best to instill delicacy and kindness in the few children that survived her womb.

As Yeshu remembered all these endearing qualities, he felt a power begin to suffuse through his being, a power that could begin to quell the fire in his chest, bind up his burns and lacerations, ward off the manifold accusations descending upon him, and quiet the shrill echoes of inequities in his ears. But even as he did, the voice of the adversary arose once more. Go ahead, weigh her in the balance. Try if you can to find enough goodness in her to outweigh the stinking pile of refuse she has become. You’ll never find it. It doesn’t exist.

But Yeshu did not heed that grating and insidious voice. This was not about balancing the scale. This was about a dear friend. But even this was not enough. She was dear, and she had been a friend. She was his sister. He loved her deeply, but more was needed. Where was he to find enough love to counter the stink and stench of Ummadria, this crippled shadow of the former glorious being who had been She-of-reticent-deep-words-and-dancing.

And then he felt it. It descended upon him like a warm mantle in wintertime. It enveloped him like a soft rabbit fur. It filled him like precious wine. It refreshed him like cold water on his face. He was now not just concerned about Ummadria, he became frantic to find her again. He became unrelenting in finding a way to save her. Where did this feeling come from? In answer to his question, he saw again the web of light filaments that pervaded time and space all around him. Two brilliant tendrils reached out toward him. One latched upon his forehead while the other felt for his chest. As they connected with him, he felt a voice in his head and felt a power in his middle: O my son, you are my son in both body and spirit. And even though Ummadria’s parents are mortal, she is no less my beloved daughter. I love her so much. So much. I want her back. I don’t care how much she stinks. I don’t care how little she thinks of herself. Oh how I want to embrace her. I want to see her dance. I want to hear her talk. Bring her back to me.

Yeshu’s entire being exploded in a brilliant pulse of warm light. The stinking, sulphurous fumes burst from his lungs and was replaced with sweet air, fragrant as the balsam of Gilead. Sweet music filled his ears and his mouth tasted of the sweetest mead. He felt his skin grow upon him again in lustrous and supple surges. The pain in his limbs was replaced by strength, and his sinews pulled like race horses spoiling to run. And as he looked toward where the dim eyes of Ummadria wept from the grave, he saw an immense pulse of light radiate from himself into her. Suddenly she was not more just a set of miserable and cankered eyes, but the radiant face, graceful limbs and lithe body of She-of-reticent-deep-words-and-dancing. A gasp of surprise filled her dusty lungs and tears exploded from the wells of her brown and clear eyes. Her resurgent knees bent of their own accord, and she fell down at his feet.

Who are you and how have you done this? she cried. And why have you done this to me? I am nothing. You are...you are... her voice trailed off with the inability to express herself.

He took her by the hand and raised her up. I am Yeshueh, Maschiach, he responded, whom the prophets testified should come into the world. 

I know only of Ba’al and his struggle against Mot, she pleaded in response. And I am a victim of Mot. I am dead, am I not? Is Mot not my master now?

No, he is not, Yeshu responded emphatically. You can choose a new master now.

Have you overcome Mot? she asked expectantly. 

Yeshu was stunned by her question. What had he overcome here? He looked closely at Ummadria. Her body was still only that of her ruach. He was speaking to her only in the form of his own internal spirit. He had only brought her back to her the wholeness she had possessed when she had roamed the eternal green hill. All that she had become in life as Ummadria had yet to be restored to her. She was only half reclaimed.

No, he answered meekly. I have not yet overcome death.

But will you? she hopefully encouraged him, but then suddenly turned aside in embarrassment. I know I am nothing. I am not even worthy to be speaking with you. Please forget that I asked. I am so sorry.

But he instead reached out and encircled her in his arms, pulling her close to him. I have yet to complete that awful task, he murmured in his ear. But I promise you, I will do it. Please, wait for me here. I will come for you when it is done.

I will wait for you here, she assured him. I will wait for you for forever. But then she broke down and fell on her knees once more. Please come back to me. I don’t know you, but I love you.

An immense joy enveloped him that Yeshu had never known, even greater than when he had learned that Miri truly loved him, even greater than when he learned his Father loved him and was proud of him. She-of-reticent-deep-words-and-dancing had been restored, and Ummadria would wait for him, because she loved him.

It was with this joy that Yeshu awoke to find himself facedown upon the stump, grasping at its roots with clenched fists and his toes plowing furrows in the unyielding ground. He was covered in sweat and blood dripped from the corner of his mouth. How long had he been caught up in this vision? He looked back over his shoulder to where he had left Shimon, Yakov, and Yoannan. He caught the sound of Yoannan’s high voice still chanting Adonai is for me; I will not fear; what can man do unto me?

How could this be? That was the very next line of the psalm Yoannan had been chanting before Yeshu had been caught away. He had been there for what had seemed a year and a day, could it have been only a single heartbeat? Yeshu opened his mouth to cry out to his friends for their help in understanding what was going on. But before he could utter a sound, his senses were overcome with the cacophony of pleas from that other realm, the flights of accusations descending to sting him, the stench of the sins of humanity, and the desperate gleaming of uncounted eyes. Yeshu practically shrieked as he was pulled back to another pitiful, stinking soul. Abia, save ME.