He speaks slowly, the words are placed like the timbers of a bridge. He finds each with clear deliberation and tells of the Last Supper. It is plain as he speaks that he speaks toward suffering, that in the telling itself he revisits the very place of which he tells, and is in truth there. He is there as Christ moves amongst them to wash their feet, there as Peter objects and Jesus says, 'If I wash thee not, thou hast no part with me,' and Peter answers, 'Lord, not my feet only, but also my hands and my head.' He is there as his own hands are washed, and he looks down at them, his hands in the hands of Jesus, the water flowing over them and no word spoken. In the telling John is again by Christ's side at the table. And so, too, then, are those who listen.
The voice of the Apostle is quiet, barely more than a whisper. The room is small, and in it the disciples and the two women do not move. Night is fallen outside as it is in the telling when Judas leaves the table and goes out, and John says Jesus told, 'Now is the Son of Man glorified, and God is glorified in him.'John says this so quietly, it seems he might say no more. In the pause is love and loss absolute. In the movement of his throat is swallowed grief. His blind eyes pulse. It is clear to all the spirit pain he encounters, how near the telling brings him, and yet, at the end of some phrases, a pause in the account, and his body reminds him how far.
He regains minor strength, tells until he falters again to say, on the edge of the audible, 'Jesus told, "In my Father's house are many mansions; if it were not so, I would have told you. I go to prepare a place for you. And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again, and receive you unto myself." '
Again he pauses. His chin trembles. Immensely he struggles to speak. His tongue wets his lower lip.
They should tell him to rest himself, that they will leave him to rest now, but they are afraid of what feeling seems to course through him now. They are afraid this may be the last time. Every utterance is at the point of revelation.
' "And if I go",'John says again, very faintly. ' "And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again and receive you unto myself. There where I am, there may you be also." '
He stops. He lets his head rest back.
Silence falls.
The day following, Papias comes to the Apostle before he is to go about in the city. He comes to seek blessing only, but John seems to him stronger than the night before, and he cannot keep himself from asking.
'Master, what you teach . . .'
'Yes, Papias?'
'I would record it in scripture. I have not the hand of Prochorus but would endeavour well. I would make faithful copy.'
'What I teach you teach,'John says. 'You are the scripture living. There is no need.'
'But I am imperfect, Master, and forget and would have it written that . . .'
'There is no need, Papias,'John says with surprising force, then is quieted to say, 'We are in the last time. There are many Antichrists, are there not?'
'There are.'
'So it was written. So we know it is the last time. So we know he comes. We will be living scriptures to the end. It will suffice.'
Papias presses no more. He goes into the city as before. In the aftertime of the earthquake have come into Ephesus the soothsayers, fortune-tellers, dealers in tokens to dispel disaster and bring back the dead. Out of desert, mountain, and plain have come bearded nomads bearing potions, scrolls, effigies, bones, the skulls of creatures slain by lightning, such things. They trade on the fear of survivors. They broadcast fevered interpretations of the gods' displeasure and how favour is to be regained. Crowds flock to them. The city streets fill with flushed faces. Homewards hurry those who have bargained new immunity, while others rush out afraid they are too late. It is a city aswarm with prophets. Some speak in tongues urgent and profound and untranslatable; others quote scriptures of sages unknown, figures from distant lands who scribed the secret mysteries of the world. Fair copies can be purchased at good price, bargains all. Protect yourself with the holy words.
Papias hastens on. He is travelling down a shaded street to call on the mother whose daughter he rescued when a figure steps into his way. He does not recognise Auster at first.
'Papias!' The voice is a hoarse whisper, with shaven head, the face a moon. 'It is I, Auster.' He waits a moment as if to allow the other to consider the glory of himself. 'The One would speak to you.'
'The One?'
'He would speak with you. He sent me to bring you.'
The One? There is a chill in hearing it. 'Go from me,' Papias says. 'Tell him I would not go. Tell him I would not speak with him ever.'
'You will want to speak with him. You will want to come.'
'Go from me. I have urgent business.'
'The woman will wait.'
'What woman? What do you speak?'
'I know. I know all you know and do. I say again, come, follow me, friend.'
'I have nothing to say to Matthias.'
'But he has much to say to you. Come.'
'I will not. Go, be gone from me. You are an Antichrist.'
Auster smiles. 'O how you sting. You are in the dark, friend. I know. I have come from that dark. You live a lie.'
'I do not. I am in the light of Jesus Christ, who comes again. The hour is at hand. Be gone from me.'
Auster is unchanged. He stares from within a studied calm. He says, 'He would speak with you, you must come. You will come. For he will show you proof your life is a lie. He will show you proof because yet you may be saved, and he has decreed it so that you be offered this chance. You he elects. You will come. It will be revealed to you. Friend, he will show you proof that you follow a fool, proof that your John is not John.'
32
They go an unfamiliar route, Auster to the fore, Papias some short distance behind as if he follows not. The journey is not long, but the heat oppressive. At an august building with round doors carved in a single large O, Auster awaits his charge. He smiles to see him come.
'Blessings to you, friend. You will see.' His eyes glitter like nothing in nature. 'Come.'
He opens the door on to air thickly fragranced. In an antechamber Papias waits. He should not have come, he thinks. He should have driven him off as an evil spirit. Should have been deaf to any words the other used. Papias paces this thought until it finds a contrary: he was among us. He was one of us, and for so long believed as us. So, too, may not he believe again? And Matthias, too. May it not be this chance is come for Papias to return them all to the fold? Is this not the mystery of the Lord, how all things fit and find place?
'Now. Come, come and cleanse here,' Auster says.
He leads the way to a font and folded cloths.
'Friend, shall I wash your feet?' he asks, smiles at the refusal.
After, Papias is brought along a hallway where a figure stands with silver bell. He is none the disciple knows, a newer follower.
'I leave you, friend. You will thank me, you will see,' Auster tells softly and retreats.
The bell peals, a bright tingling. The door is opened from within. Papias goes into a broad room unfurnished but for a great standing silver O similar to that he saw in the house of Diotrophes. There is a like couch on a raised platform, a pair of tall urns, long-stemmed white blossoms. There is the scent of frankincense. For some instants Papias is in the room alone. Who opened the door left by it as he entered. It is theatre of high order, the space prepared and allowed its play before the protagonist. Reverence, awe, respect: such are the prizes sought. The great circle of silver is ornately crafted, a masterwork without seam. From where Papias stands, he looks through it to the staged couch, the altar where now Matthias arrives. He wears a robe of palest blue and comes with hands flatly before him, palm-to-palm, as if he bears in miniature a church of one. He steps up, turns, looks down at the disciple through the O. Again an instant, then he looks above him and opens his hands to cup shape, to catch what invisibly falls. This he gathers until filled, and then opens both hands in a gentle gesture of throwing outwards and shari
ng the bounty he has just received. Matthias bows in after-thanks, opens wide his arms.
'Papias, welcome. May Divine God be with you.'
The disciple has lost his words.
Matthias comes down the side of the altar, his bare feet soundless. He stands before the visitor, surveys him. 'My heart is warmed. I am glad you have come,' he says.
'I did not want to come.'
'Nonetheless I am glad. Come and sit.' Matthias gestures a hand to his right. All in his manner is practised, the movement of hand in air a soft curve, as though it flows or mimes the supposed ease of angels.
Papias does not move. 'I will not sit.'
'Just so. You are afraid.' Matthias nods. 'You need not be afraid of me, Papias. I am a holy man. I will bring you no harm, only blessing. I am a man of God. As are you. Should we not sit and discuss?'
'I will not sit.'
'Ah. Do you wish to drink? Are you thirsty? You appear hot.'
'I want nothing. Tell me what you want to tell me,' Papias says shortly. He is hot and thirsty, his ear stump pulses painfully.
'So many things, my friend, so many things.' Matthias takes a step closer. His eye has never recovered, the lid only closes partly over it. There is an out-turned weal of pinkish white. His breath is near enough to smell, a sweet wine.
'We have lived the same life, you and I, Papias. Have we not?' he asks. 'Both of us seeking to find the truth. To find the Divine. Both of us servants of this quest. And is this not the best of a man? Is this not the highest ambition of a soul? To know that this life is but a shell of another eternal one, and that it is to be spent in the service of the Creator; is this not what you and I have understood?' He pauses. Papias does not answer him. 'We have both known this, and have both been seekers. We have both sought to serve, to have our earthly lives mean something to the Divine, to the One, to God, whatever name we have called him. It matters not. He is the same. And you and I, Papias, in our seeking both came to the same place. Both of us heard the preaching of a great preacher, an old man who might have been our father, who might have been the fathers we had each lost, and who spoke to us of a heavenly father and his son. A father who loved his son.'
Matthias's mouth is at Papias ear, his black beard touching; his voice he drops to a whisper. 'It's true. You know it. You know it for I know it. We are alike. We came to him for this reason and surrendered all else. We lived on Patmos, you and I both, and forgot the world. What did it matter to us? We did not care for this world, we cared for the love of the Father. We thought to have found what we sought. What hardships were on the island mattered not. We could live so for ever — until called to the next life.'
Matthias steps back, as if to consider where he has climbed, how far to above, how far to below.
'Dear Papias, good Papias, we have been alike, you and I, seekers of the truth, servants of the Creator. "O God, my soul thirsteth for thee, my flesh longeth for thee in a dry and thirsty land, where no water is." Have we both not prayed so? And has the Almighty not heard us? He has, Papias. The Almighty, the Divine, the One has heard. And answered me.' Matthias is close enough to kiss. 'And you also,' he whispers. 'You have been heard — and answered, Papias. Answered. I know. You have been chosen. You, of all, chosen, to be my right hand. Neither of us can deny it. You were dead. You were cold as dust. I asked for the Divine to intervene that you might be saved, that you might live to bear witness. And you were saved. Think on this. Think. Why do you live now when you were dead? Why do you live, Papias?'
'I live to praise God.'
'Indeed.'
'I live to follow the apostle John, the disciple of Jesus Christ, the Son of God.'
Matthias opens his hands as if to catch and crush the creed that comes at him. He might give a short response but thinks better of it and slowly brings his palms together before him. He looks at Papias with pity. His lips are tightly pressed.
'Good Papias,' he says at last. 'Good Papias, loyal and true Papias, my heart is full of love for you. You know this. I bear you the love of the Creator who has chosen you. And what I must tell I know will hurt, and I would not hurt the one I love. But,' Matthias sighs, opens his hands in a gesture of helplessness, 'from blindness to seeing is not easy passage. Many prefer the dark. But not a seeker such as you. You, good Papias, wish the light, wish the truth.' Matthias indicates a couch by the wall. 'Sit to hear.'
'I will stand. Tell what you tell and I will be gone for ever.'
'You see? You stay when already you could be gone. You seek the truth; this consoles me in the pain I must deliver. Papias, you have been blind. I, too, have been blind, I confess it. We mistook a messenger for the Messiah. It is not our fault, we had the conviction of an old man who said he was himself a witness, who said he himself had touched the hand of this Messiah and walked with him, who himself had seen miracles. O vanity and iniquity! Wickedness and conceit! I must tell you, Papias: this John you follow is not the same that followed Jesus of Nazareth. He pretends it only. Perhaps in his dotage he believes it having pretended so long.'
'It is not true! I will not listen!' Papias says, and turns towards the door.
'It is outrage, yes. It is painful, yes. But it is true, yes. I can show you the proof.'
Papias stops. His back is turned. Should he leave now? Should he deny Matthias another moment to spread his lies? His face is crimson. His hands shake.
'What proof?'
'I grieve to see you wounded, dear Papias. But wait, I will show.' Matthias leaves the room.
Papias is aware of his heart racing. Beneath his robe his flesh is awake, the creature of contagion crawling. He presses his hand hard against his chest, but it is not contained. With his nails he scratches deep.
'Here! Here, come, sit, Papias, and see.' Matthias is returned and holds in his hand a scrolled papyrus.
'What is it?'
'Come, sit, read for yourself.'
'What is it?' Papias asks again, as he takes the scroll.
Matthias wears a pained look as he delivers the blow.
'Dear Papias,' he says, 'good Papias, it is the true gospel of the apostle John.'
Papias sits without knowing he sits. His spirit is fallen. He holds the scroll opened before him. Matthias is beside him on the couch. He reaches to steady the young hand that shakes.
The scroll is ancient and wrinkled and frail. A delicate thing that has survived by miracle peril of sea and land, storm and fire. It is some part torn, some part stained by blood or wine or oil. Papias's heart is pierced to read it.
Here, in the Greek language, is written an account of the life and death of Jesus of Nazareth by one who was by his side. It tells of his meeting John the Baptist and of I, John, who followed him then. It tells of the wedding at Cana where Jesus taught the lesson that water should be considered wine, and by this meant our life on earth is water to the wine that is the world hereafter. It tells of his travels in Samaria with John and other disciples that grew so many until they could not be fed and turned angrily from him. Here is told that Jesus was a teacher and prophet, who spoke of God as the Father of all. 'But his message was mistaken by those who feared he was too favoured by the crowd. They told he called himself the Son of God that they might bring the law against him. This Jesus never said,' it is written. 'He was of us, a Gallilean. A man.'
Here, Papias lifts his head from the scroll. He finds his throat has closed and he cannot swallow. He finds his chest is constricted and will not allow air. He should put the scroll aside. He should read no more. But there is in the scripture a fierce hold. He is compelled by a sense of its authenticity. This is the truth, it seems to say, is the fact of what was. It is history and science only. There is nothing else.
The hand of Matthias lies over his own, the face is near enough for the sweet breath to feather against the disciple's cheek.
'Read more. Read all,' Matthias says.
Papias should not, but does. It is not true. This is not true.
But what if it is?
> The larger portion of the gospel is an account of the capture, the scourging, the trial and crucifixion of Jesus. The writer spares no detail. Jesus is taken by Roman soldiers, who knock him to the ground and beat him though he does not resist. John stands back in fear. He follows when they drag the body off from the Place of Skulls. In a single phrase he tells of the trial, then moves to his main subject, the torturing of the body. Here is told each cut, each wound that opens in the face and body of Jesus. The writer glories in it. Jesus falls and is beaten. The dust clings to his wounds. Others on the route take turns to throw stones, pots, what comes to hand. The writer John tries to intervene but is driven back. Jesus is lashed. Jesus is stabbed between his shoulder blades with a knife and cries out.
Papias pushes the scroll back from him.
'It is sad, I know,' Matthias says softly. 'My heart was moved, too. The brute facts of it.' He pats Papias's hand. 'Who would not feel sympathy for such a man?' Matthias turns his face fully to the disciple; his eye wound jumps minutely and he raises a hand to still it. 'But read, read on, good Papias. It is important. You will see.'
The attacks continue all the way to the hill of Calvary. The writer is skilled in horror. The flesh that is torn away, the fluids that leak to the dust, the thousand scourges, all depicted. Then the crucifixion. Nails being driven, a darkening sky. The body mounted on to the cross.
Then, as the gospel nears its end, toward the bottom of the scroll, this: 'The body of Jesus hung on the cross until dead. When the soldiers had gone, the body was taken down and borne from that place and buried in a tomb. But fearing the wrath of the people and that they might come to desecrate the body in the morning I, John, and others of his disciples, took Jesus from the tomb and buried him elsewhere that we alone might know the last place of the teacher, Jesus of Nazareth.'