'Young Papias,' Matthias says, 'what troubles you?'
'I did not see you there.'
'You were occupied intently.'
Papias turns back to look at the sea, as though a plausible reason may be written there.
'How cold your hands are,' Matthias says, stepping closer and for an instant taking the reddened fingers in his own. 'Are you suffering some ailment?' Matthias's voice is soft and comes about like a velvet cloak. His eyes are darkly inviting. 'Papias, tell me,' he says, and lets go the hands.
'No. No, I am well. It was something from the cave, something on my hands,' Papias tells him, tells the others behind him, folding his arms so the evidence is tucked beneath them. He feels the lies multiply like flies around a rotted fish. 'I was foolish. I thought it might be . . . I thought there might be disease.'
'You are upset by the death of our dear Prochorus.'
'Yes.'
'Indeed are we all. He is a grievous loss.' Matthias looks to the others and nods towards them. 'But he is now in everlasting life, therefore why should we mourn? Don't you believe so, Papias?'
'I do.'
'What does the Ancient say? What does he say about the death of our scribe?' Matthias is close enough to kiss Papias on the cheek, the cloak tightly enwrapped.
'The Master has not spoken of it.'
'Truly?'
'Truly, he has not.'
'Not of Prochorus. Nor of me?'
'No.'
'You find no comfort in that, I am sure. I find no comfort in it. Indeed it is troubling that he has not offered us wisdom.' Matthias looks out into the sea. 'He is himself perhaps unwell. Have you remarked it?'
'The Master?'
'Yes.'
'No, I have not.'
'You may have other concerns. Let me ask you, Papias, do you think the Lord God wishes us to remain here?'
'The Master says so.'
'Indeed.' Matthias considers the sea a moment longer then turns to face the youth. He smiles and says, 'Does the Lord speak only to him? Curious if one blind old man was to be the only ear for the heavens.' Slowly he shakes his head. He places one hand on the other's shoulder. 'Did not the Lord speak unto Moses and say, "Speak unto all the children of Israel and say unto them: You shall be holy"? So it is written in scripture, Papias. Yes, dear brother, surely there is more discourse between heaven and earth than to one Ancient. The Lord does not speak to only one. But we will talk again of this, you and I. I can see you are anxious to be elsewhere. Perhaps Linus will attend to the Master and allow you . . .' Matthias throws open his hands. 'Go wherever it is that presses on your mind so.'
'No, Matthias.'
'O, yes, I insist. It is small charity to attend to yourself, Papias, that you may better serve. You are free, I relieve you.' He turns to those behind him. 'Linus, go and serve the Ancient, our beloved apostle.'
'He does not like to be called that,' Papias says quickly.
Matthias spins about as if stung. 'Truly?'
'Yes.'
'And why not? Is he not the Beloved? Was he not the one our Lord Jesus loved the best? Who sat at the right hand? Who laid his head upon his breast? Surely he was the Beloved? Or am I mistaken? Does my memory go? Or is it his? Who does he say he was now?'
'No. No, his memory does not.' Papias's cheeks burn. Matthias's eyes are dark. He is close. His gaze seeks entry to secrets. Behind him at two paces the short, squat figure of Auster watches, and on the near stones Linus, fair-haired, slim, tall but stooped, shoulders curved forward as if to hide himself from the slight wind.
'Linus, go,' Matthias says over his shoulder. 'Attend him. But do not call him the Beloved.' He does not take his eyes from Papias. Stones click the other's departure toward the cave.
'Young Papias, you are weary,' Matthias says. 'Weary from troubles and grief. I read it on your face. Your cold hands burn red.' He shakes his head slightly, as though there is an unfair balance he would set right. 'Go, go and be at peace.'
Released, Papias begins to turn. But the cloak is still about him. 'But Papias, know that if you have concerns, if the Ancient appears' - Mathias pauses to consider the word - 'diminished in his faculties, exhausted, if you consider him too greatly taxed by his duties, come and let me know at once. Do this. I will assist you in all things. Do you understand me?'
Papias nods to be free.
'Go then, and may God bless you.'
At last he hurries away along the sea-washed stones. The day is calm but dull. Weak light is smeared. Grey waters stir restlessly. He descends to the eastern shore and across the large rocks. Seabirds scatter and return to stand behind him. Places he clambers on hand and foot. The rocks rise toward a short cliff as if the sea has broken them from the land and abandoned them. Papias makes his way upwards. In crevices are feathers or twigs or small bones decaying in sunlight and sea air. Sometimes in the rock gaps are clear falls to still pools below. His reddened hands cling to pull his weight upward across a flat-faced slab. He kicks into a smallest ledge, goes cheek-printed against the rock and hauls himself head and chest over, then climbs atop. He stands a moment, looks up at the fringe of green and the ragged thorn bush that leans aslant from the cliff edge. A powdery ground is at the top. The sea now well below him, he considers at once the route onwards and does not look down.
He does not see Auster following.
At full stretch Papias can reach the cliff top. Briefly cruciform, he clings either side of him to the rough face of the island. His fingers scrabble. Ground falls away. There is no hold. He should go back down and around the long way. But then he will be seen. Instead he scratches at the dry dirt and pebbles above him. There is nothing solid. An error now and the fall would break his back on the rocks below. Papias feels the rashness of the plan, how guilt skews the mind. His toes are pressed in the tight mouth of a thin ledge, his heels in the air. But he won't go back. He is not sure he could. He hangs there some moments, a cross of conviction. With breathy whisper the sea below collapses upon itself. Sounds of soft breakage and gull cry and the beating of his own heart: these things Papias hears. He hands away loose dirt, its click and clatter marking the distance down. He tries a claw of cliff top, but there is no support in it. It gives easily. Ache knots in his calves. For a moment there crosses his mind the thought of letting go, of stepping out of his toeholds and falling headfirst, the brief bliss of flight, his robe aflutter and the perfect calm of a mind cleaned of all concern. It is a moment only. Then he is returned to the faith that there is something for him, that there is a destiny yet unknown that is his and that it has been scripted by the Lord himself. Emboldened so, he grasps the thorn bush. He takes it in both hands, the coarse knotty twist of it, then pulls.
It gives but only a little. Its roots, not deep, are gone wide for water. Papias releases his footholds and scales the cliff face, hangs briefly asway, kicks blood toes off rock, heaves, then rises face-first into the thorn bush till he can get his chest above ground and fall forwards, panting on the upper edge.
He rolls over for breath. The sky is grey and unforgiving.
Papias rises quickly. His face is scratched with thorns. He hurries across the bleak terrain toward the house of Marina.
10
I fail you.
Lord, I am weak. I am old. I forget much.
I fail you.
If a servant fail his master, ought not that master to find a better servant? What I have I hold not. Prochorus is dead. They speak against you even amongst those here. I hear it, though I hear it not. I see it, though I see it not.
I fail you.
It was long ago. I am ancient as dust. I will not see Galilee again.
Give me to drink. The woman of Samaria by Jacob's well. The others gone into the city of Sychar. I stayed with you. You asked her for water, and she was surprised that a Jew ask a Samaritan. You said, 'If thou knewest the gift of God, and who it is saith to thee, give me to drink, thou wouldst have asked of him, and he would have given thee living water.
'Whosoever shall drink of the water I shall give him shall never thirst; but the water that I shall give him shall be in him a well of water springing up into everlasting life.'
Sir, give me this water that I thirst not.
Lord, give me to drink.
I am your poor servant aged as dust.
Weary as ground too often sown. I confess it. What can I yield now?
We are few and weak, and pray that you may come.
Come, Lord, give me to drink.
By the entrance of the cave, Linus sits. He hears a murmuring from the Apostle, endeavours to make out the words. Then there is the silence peculiar to that cave that is not silent but filled always with the sound of water running from invisible source inside the hill above. In the early part of the afternoon, Ioseph comes along the beaten pathway to the cave. He, too, is thin and wiry and sharp-boned; his beard is coarse and white.
'Master?' he says, blinking into the darkness.
'Ioseph, come.'
John extends his hand and the disciple takes it in both of his.
'Master, I come to confess despair,' Ioseph says.
And at once John grasps his arm and rises. 'Come,' he whispers, 'bring me outside.'
Linus stands. 'I will attend you, Master.'
'No. Ioseph will see to me.'
'Matthias has instructed me, Master.'
'To disobey me? Stay. I will return, fear not. Ioseph, come.'
'I will follow in case . . .'
'You will stay!'John's voice is louder, greater than himself. Linus is startled back a step and looks to Ioseph then says: 'You may fall, Master, Ioseph is old and infirm. I can follow at ten paces and . . .'
'A third time: you will stay, Linus. You will not follow. I command it.'
In Linus's chin a pulse of muscle trembles. His pale eyes are a thin metal of disdain. His face is hotly reddened. How dare the old man talk to him so.
The two elders walk past him and go outside. It is after the midday and the sun has not broken the cloud. Disappointed grey light falls. In the sombre sea down the pathway below them short combed waves are whipped and swallowed. There is a salt tang on the wind. The two men proceed along a route of broad stone to a place where there is natural seating of sun-and-rain-flattened rock.
'He is not behind us?'
'No, Master. He has stayed.'
'Good. Here, then, let us sit.'
John feels with his hand the smooth rock. Always in his touching a tapping, slight, quick, light, as though he affirms the real by his fingertips and knows only then that he is in it. They face the western shore, the Apostle's face tilted to receive what light may be.
'This death has touched me closely,' Ioseph says. 'I sin of despair.'
'You are not alone, Ioseph. It has touched us all.'
'I fear . . .' The elder disciple pauses, presses his palms together.
'Tell me.'
'I fear myself. I fear my weakness. Today I have thought I will die here on Patmos, like Prochorus, waiting for the Lord, when before I had supposed I would live until the day. I know this is vanity. What am I that is different from others? Why should I endure when others perish? For what reason? Because I have believed? Others have believed and been crucified. Because I have lived this long with you, old Master, because we have walked together in lands as far as Phenice and Antioch before banishment here, and because I believe the Lord watches over you and all of us? That you will live until he comes again, I am certain. And so have hoped that I, too, might see the glory. This is my first sin, I confess it: this vanity. Then the death of Prochorus has made me chastise myself. He was my friend. Why should he die? And in the darkness of my thinking a serpent has come: we all will die here, it says. We are forgotten and a plague comes now amongst us. I confess it. I have listened to the serpent, and my flesh has grown cold with the thought. I have clung to myself and wept, touched my face to find plague I dreamt would be coming. My prayers ascend not. They lie about my feet like stone birds. I despair.'
The two men sit. Little wind blows. John's face is tilted, his eyelids closed, his grey-white eyebrows lowered. He says nothing. He is a man for whom time itself seems inconsequent. It is as though, some time past, the turning of one hour into the next became to him of no matter and the numbering of one day to another a thing no longer counted. In his darkness, time is without measure of light. When he speaks of the hour that is at hand, it may be yet an age hence. He will wait. So it is, he sits and says nothing in reply for a long time. The two old men look not unlike statues high on the smooth rock. But the Apostle is troubled. He has known Ioseph more than two score years and never felt in him the despair he hears now. What is he to say? Is he to confess his own fears? To tell his old friend that he prayed for Prochorus to be spared? That he mounted high stacks of petition on the shelf of his mind, and yielded to the death only with a weak acceptance of the mystery of the Lord's way? There would be no consolation in this. He cannot tell his own thoughts. Instead, he holds silence, searches in himself for a voice.
Then, loudly the Apostle says: ' "My sheep hear my voice and I know them and they follow me. And I give unto them eternal life, and they shall never perish, neither shall any man pluck them out of my hand." I heard our Lord Jesus say this with my own ears, Ioseph, in Jerusalem, in the winter, in the time of the feast of the dedication. "And I give unto them eternal life." ' He reaches and finds the other's hands, holds them in his own. 'Old friend, do not despair. Grieve not for Prochorus. He was a loyal servant of our Lord and this day is in the kingdom of heaven. Neither grieve for yourself, Ioseph. For each of us the Lord has his plan. Ours is only to recognise this truth and attend him as servants a master. We wait.'
There are curious seabirds overhead. They watch for fragments of bread, foodstuffs, fish, and cry raucous as though in torment. The sea tumbles. Sky burdened with cloud releases no light. The island seems evermore a prison.
Then John speaks from a psalm. He speaks softly, as if testing that the words like stepping-stones will take him across water.
'When the Lord turned again the captivity of Zion,
We were like them that dream.
Then was our mouth filled with laughter
And our tongue with singing.'
He has found the psalm without looking. The words of it are inside him. It may be that in the lifetime of his preaching he is become a living book. The scriptures entire are scratched on his spirit, written with reed pen, dipped and dug into the soft red pulsing of his inner being. Inside him is a scribed record of testament. The voices of Moses, of Joshua, Ruth, Samuel, the Books of Ezra, Nehemiah, Esther, and Job, the Psalms and Proverbs, all of these are within him, and so, too, all from the twelve chapters of Ecclesiastes to the Book of Isaiah, from the voice of Daniel to Malachi. He is living book and carries their voices and their telling like a wind ever whispering inside him.
'Turn again our captivity, O Lord
As the streams in the south.
They who sow in tears shall reap in joy.
He who goes forth and weeps bearing precious seed
Shall doubtless come again with rejoicing
Bringing his sheaves with him.'
His voice grows stronger as he recites. Ioseph looks at him and is moved. 'We have missed your preaching,' he says simply.
The seabirds circle, as though chained.
'We would benefit greatly, all of us, if you preached to us again.' Ioseph leans forwards, speaks to the blind face in near whisper. 'I fear among us are heresies.'
A gap of sea sigh and gull cry. Light darkens under cloud.
John says, 'I know there are.'
Across the stony ground of the cliff top and through the scrub of thorn bush and weed where tethered is a thin goat, Papias hurries. He comes down the slope to the place where he buried the children and is relieved to find the rocks unmoved. He prays a short prayer, then continues to the dwelling. He is not sure why he has come. He is afraid of his reasons and leaves them in a corner of
his mind. He knocks on the wooden frame. There is no reply. He calls out, but nothing happens. He looks around, behind him, at the desolate waste ground, three crooked sticks where cloths had been hung, a hank of briny rope, a holed bucket. He calls again, then enters.
At first there are only shadows. Papias can make out nothing. There is a stench of rotting, a salt tang of seaweed stewed long ago. He hands the edge of the rough wooden table, holds there briefly, blinks, says, 'It is I, Papias.'
His breath is loud and short. Fear of many kinds is within him. He thinks of the raw red print on Prochorus's face, the rage of the fever, the skin that buckled and bubbled and curled back from the bone blackly as though peeled. Silently he tries to say 'The Lord is my Saviour' over and over even as he breathes the thick grey soup of the air and fears he takes within him the disease. The Lord is my Saviour. He will protect me. I am a fool. I am weak to fear anything. The Lord is my Saviour. He will not let me die. Across the earthen floor a rat scuttles toward him, is apprised by smell or sense, and suddenly turns, darts into the dark. Papias looks down and in the dimness makes out the legs of the woman Marina.
She is not dead. Her mouth lets a slight warm bloom against his cheek as he cradles her head. Her eyes are far away.
'It is I, Papias,' he says. She does not move. He has not held a woman so, and the living weight of her is shocking to him - not the burden in his arms, for she is light, but the living substance of her. Her hair falls on his forearm. Her face is tilted back, and he touches it to bring her eyes towards him, but they are unseeing. Is that a blemish of contagion on her cheek?
The Lord is my Saviour.
Kneeling, Papias brings her head upright on the support of his arm. She is weak, she is collapsed from exhaustion and grieving, he decides. But within him he cannot escape the memory of her telling that she was with demons. He presses the thought away, shoving it deep. But it merely coils and snakes back and slithers now across his chest.
In an instant he sees it rise, actual, large, and loathsome into the dim air of the small room. It flicks back its head, makes hiss, and stretches with deep luxuriance, released from the tight confines of denial. The demon snake is a hundred times a snake. It twists about, rises to the rough mud of the roof, towers above the man and woman, and lets jab at nothing its forked tongue. Papias stares at it and holds Marina, as though aboard a rudderless boat that enters the mouth of a storm.