He heard the disquieting hiss of snakes, and of the burning wind which blew between the rocks, and of the invisible spirits of the desert.
Jesus bent over and spoke to his soul. “My soul, here you will show whether or not you are immortal.”
Hearing steps behind him, he cocked his ear. There was the crunching of sand. Someone was walking toward him, calmly, surely. I forgot her, he thought, shuddering, but she did not forget me. She is coming with me; my mother is coming with me. ... He knew very well that it was the Curse, but he had been calling her Mother to himself now for such a long time.
He marched on, forcing his thoughts elsewhere. He recalled the wild dove. A savage bird seemed to be imprisoned within him-or was it his soul rushing to escape? Perhaps it had escaped; perhaps the wild dove which chirped and flew circles over him the whole time he was being baptized was his soul, not a bird or a Seraph, but his own soul.
This was the answer. He started out again, calm. He heard the footsteps behind him crunching the sand, but his heart was steady now; he could at last endure everything with dignity. Man’s soul, he reflected, is all-powerful; it can take on whatever appearance it likes. At that instant it became a bird and flew over me. ... But as he marched tranquilly along, suddenly he cried out and stopped. The thought had come to him that perhaps the dove was an illusion, a buzzing in his ear, a whirling of the air—because he remembered how his body had gleamed, light and omnipotent, like a soul, how whatever he wanted to hear he had heard, whatever he wanted to see he had seen. ... He had built castles in the air. “O God, O God,” he murmured, “now that we shall be alone, tell me the truth, do not deceive me. I am weary of hearing voices in the air.
He advanced and the sun advanced with him. It had finally reached the top of the sky, directly above his head. His feet were burning in the fiery sand. He spied around him to find some shade, and as he did so, he heard wings flapping above him and saw a flock of crows rush into a pit where there was a stinking black object in the process of decay.
Holding his nose, he approached. The crows had fallen upon the carcass, planted their claws in it, and begun to eat. When they saw a man approach they flew away angrily, each with a mouthful of flesh in its talons. They circled in the air, calling to the intruder to go away. Jesus leaned over, saw the opened belly, the black, half-stripped hide, the short knotted horns, the strings of amulets around the putrid neck.
“The goat!” he murmured with a shudder. “The sacred goat that bore the people’s sins. He was chased from village to village, mountain to mountain, and finally to the desert, where he perished.”
He bent over, dug in the sand as deeply as he could with his hands, and covered the carcass.
“My brother,” he said, “you were innocent and pure, like every animal. But men, the cowards, made you bear their sins, and killed you. Rot in peace; feel no malice against them. Men, poor weak creatures, have not the courage to pay for their sins themselves: they place them upon one who is sinless. My brother, requite their sins. Farewell!”
He resumed his march but stopped after a few moments, troubled. Waving his hand, he called, “Until we meet again!”
The crows began to pursue him maniacally. He had deprived them of the tasty carcass and now they were following him, waiting for him to perish in his turn and for his belly to split open so that they could eat. What right did he have to do them this injustice? Had not God designed crows to eat carcasses? He must pay!
Night was coming at last. Tired, he squatted on a rock which was as large and round as a millstone. “I shall go no farther,” he murmured. “Here on this rock I shall set up my bulwark and do battle.” The darkness flowed abruptly down from the sky, rose up from the soil, covered the earth. And with the darkness came the frost. His teeth chattering, he wrapped himself in his white robe, curled up into a ball and closed his eyes. But as he closed them, he grew frightened. He recalled the crows, heard the famished jackals begin to howl on every side, felt the desert prowling around him like a wild beast. Afraid, he reopened his eyes. The sky had filled with stars, and he felt comforted. The Seraphim have come out to keep me company, he said to himself. They are the six-winged lights which sing psalms around God’s throne, but they are far away, so very far away that we cannot hear them. ... His mind illuminated by starlight, he forgot his hunger and cold. He too was a living thing, an ephemeral beacon in the darkness; he too sang hymns to God. His soul was a small pharos, the humble, poorly dressed sister of the angels. ... Thinking of his high extraction, he took heart, saw his soul standing together with the angels around God’s throne; and then, peacefully and without fear, he closed his eyes and slept.
When he awoke he lifted his face toward the east and saw the sun, a terrible blast furnace, rising above the sand. That is God’s face, he reflected, putting his palm over his eyes so that he would not be dazzled. “Lord,” he whispered, “I am a grain of sand; can you see me in this desert? I am a grain of sand which talks and breathes and loves you—loves you and calls you Father. I possess no weapon but love. With that I have come to do battle. Help me!”
He rose. With his reed he inscribed a circle around the rock where he had slept.
“I shall not leave this threshing floor,” he said loudly, so that the invisible forces which were lying in wait for him could hear, “I shall not leave this threshing floor unless I hear God’s voice. But I must hear it clearly; I won’t be satisfied with the usual unsteady hum or twittering or thunder. I want him to speak to me clearly, with human words, and to tell me what he desires from me and what I can, what I must, do. Only then will I get up and leave this threshing floor to return to men, if that is his command, or to die, if that is his will. I’ll do whatever he wishes, but I must know what it is. In God’s name!”
He knelt on the rock with his face toward the sun, toward the great desert. He closed his eyes, remassed those of his thoughts which had lingered at Nazareth, Magdala, Capernaum, Jacob’s well and the river Jordan, and began to put them in battle array. He was preparing for war.
With his neck tensed and his eyelids closed, he sank within himself. He heard the roar of water, the rustling of reeds, the lamentations of men. From the river Jordan came wave after wave of cries, terror and faraway visionary hopes. First to stand up in his mind were the three long nights he had spent on the rock with the wild ascetic. In full armor, they rushed to the desert to enter the war at his side.
The first night jumped down on top of him like a monstrous locust with cruel wheat-yellow eyes and wings, breath like the Dead Sea and strange green letters on its abdomen. It clung to him; its wings began furiously to rend the air. Jesus cried out and turned. The Baptist was standing next to him with his bony arm pointing in the heavy darkness toward Jerusalem.
“Look. What do you see?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing? In front of you is holy Jerusalem, the whore. Don’t you see her? She sits and giggles on the Roman’s fat knees. The Lord cries, ‘I do not want her. Is this my wife? I do not want her!’ I too, like a dog at the Lord’s feet, bark, ‘I do not want her!’ I walk around her towers and walls and bark at her, ‘Whore! Whore!’ She has four great fortress gates. At the first sits Hunger, at the next Fear, at the third Injustice, and at the fourth, the northern one, Infamy. I enter, go up and down her streets; I approach her inhabitants and examine them. Regard their faces: three are heavy, fat, over-satiated; three thousand emaciated from hunger. When does a world disappear? When three masters overeat and a people of three thousand starves to death. Look at their faces once more. Fear sits on all of them; their nostrils quiver; they scent the day of the Lord. Regard the women. Even the most honest glances secretly at her slave, licks her chops and nods to him: Come!
“I have unroofed their palaces. Look. The king holds his brother’s wife on his knee and caresses her nakedness. What do the Holy Scriptures say? ‘He who looks at the nakedness of his brother’s wife—death!’ It is not he, the incestuous king, who will be killed, but
I, the ascetic. Why—because the day of the Lord has come!”
The whole of that first night Jesus sat at the Baptist’s feet and watched Hunger, Fear, Injustice and Infamy go in and out of Jerusalem’s four opened gates. Over the holy prostitute the clouds were gathering, full of anger and hail.
The second night the Baptist once more stretched forth his reed-like hand and with a thrust pushed through time and space. “Listen. What do you hear?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing! Don’t you hear Iniquity, the bitch who has climbed shamelessly up to heaven and is barking at the Lord’s door? Haven’t you been through Jerusalem, haven’t you seen the yelping priests, high priests, Scribes and Pharisees who surround the Temple? But God endures the earth’s impudence no longer. He has risen; he is tramping down the mountainsides and coming. In front of him is Anger; behind him are heaven’s three bitches, Fire, Leprosy and Madness. Where is the Temple with the proud, gold-inlaid columns which supported it and proclaimed: Eternal! Eternal! Eternal! Ashes the Temple, ashes the priests, high priests, Scribes and Pharisees, ashes their holy amulets, their silken cassocks and golden rings! Ashes! Ashes! Ashes!
“Where is Jerusalem? I hold a lighted lantern, I search in the mountains, in the Lord’s darkness; I shout, ‘Jerusalem! Jerusalem!’ Deserted, completely forsaken: not even a crow answers—the crows have eaten, and left. I wade knee-deep in the skulls and bones; tears come to my eyes, but I push the bones away and banish them. I laugh, bend down and choose the longest one, make a flute and hymn the glory of the Lord.”
The whole of the second night the Baptist laughed, stood in God’s darkness and admired Fire, Leprosy and Madness. Jesus grasped the prophet’s knees. “Cannot salvation come to the world by means of love?” he asked. “By means of love, joy, mercy?”
The Baptist, without even turning to look at him, replied, “Haven’t you ever read the Scriptures? The Saviour crushes our loins, breaks our teeth, hurls fire and scorches the fields-all in order to sow. And he uproots the thorns, stinkweeds and nettles. How can you wipe out falsehood, infamy and injustice from the world if you do not eradicate the liars, the unjust, the wicked? The earth must be cleansed—don’t pity it—it must be cleansed, made ready for the planting of new seed.”
The second night passed. Jesus did not speak. He was awaiting the third night: perhaps the prophet’s voice would sweeten.
The third night the Baptist twisted and turned upon the rock, uneasy. Without laughing, without talking, he examined Jesus with anguish, searched his arms, hands, shoulders and knees, then shook his head and remained quiet, sniffing the air. Illuminated by the starlight, his eyes stood out, glistening sometimes green, sometimes yellow; and sweat mingled with blood ran from his sun-baked forehead. Finally at daybreak, when the white dawn fell upon them, he took Jesus’ hand, looked into his eyes, and frowned. “When I first saw you emerge from the reeds by the Jordan and come directly toward me,” he said, “my heart bounded like a young calf. Can you think how Samuel’s heart leaped up when he first saw the red-haired beardless shepherd, David? That is how my heart leaped. But the heart is flesh and loves the flesh, and I have no faith in it. Last night I examined you, smelled you as though seeing you for the first time, but I could not find peace. I looked at your hands. They were not the hands of a wood-chopper, of a saviour. Too soft, too merciful. How could they swing the ax? I looked at your eyes. They were not a saviour’s eyes—too full of sympathy. I got up and sighed. Lord, I murmured, your ways are dark and oblique; you are capable of sending a white dove to burn up the world and turn it into ashes. We watch the heavens, expecting a thunderbolt, an eagle or a crow—and you give us a white dove. What use is there of questioning, of resisting? Do what you like.” He spread out his arms and hugged Jesus, kissed him on his right shoulder, then on his left. “If you are the One I’ve been waiting for,” he said, “you have not come in the form I imagined you would. Was it all for nothing then that I carried the ax and placed it at the root of the tree? Or can love also wield an ax?” He reflected for a moment. “I cannot judge,” he murmured finally. “I shall die without seeing the result. It does not matter, that’s my lot: a hard one—and I like it!” He squeezed Jesus’ hand. “Go, and good luck. Go talk with God in the desert. But come back quickly, so that the world will not remain all alone.”
Jesus opened his eyes. The river Jordan, the Baptist and the baptized, the camels and the lamentations of the people—all flared up in the air and were snuffed out. The desert now stretched before him. The sun had risen high and was burning: the stones steamed like loaves of bread. He felt his insides being mowed down by hunger. “I’m hungry,” he murmured, looking at the stones, “I’m hungry!” He remembered the bread which the old Samaritan woman had presented them. How delicious it had been, sweet like honey! He remembered the honey, split olives and dates he was treated to whenever he passed through a village; and the holy supper they had when, kneeling on the shore of Lake Gennesaret, they removed the grill, with its row of sweet-smelling fish, from the andirons. And afterward, the figs, grapes and pomegranates came to his mind, agitating him still further.
His throat was dry and parched from thirst. How many rivers flowed in the world! All these waters which bounded from rock to rock, rolled from one end of the land of Israel to the other, ran into the Dead Sea and disappeared—and he had not even a drop to drink! He thought of these waters and his thirst increased. He felt dizzy; his eyes fluttered. Two cunning devils in the shape of young rabbits emerged from the burning sand, stood up on their hind legs and danced. They turned, saw the eremite, screamed happily and began to hop toward him. They climbed onto his knees and jumped to his shoulders. One was cool, like water, the other warm and fragrant, like bread; but as he longingly put out his hands to grasp them, with a single bound they vanished into the air.
He closed his eyes and recollected the thoughts which hunger and thirst had dispersed. God came to his mind: he was neither hungry nor thirsty any more. He reflected on the salvation of the world. Ah, if the day of the Lord could only come with love! Was not God omnipotent? Why couldn’t he perform a miracle and by touching men’s hearts make them blossom? Look how each year at the Passover bare stems, meadows and thorns opened up at his touch. If only one day men could awake to find their deepest selves in bloom!
He smiled. In his thoughts the world had flowered. The incestuous king was baptized, his soul cleansed. He had sent away his sister-in-law Herodias and she had returned to her husband. The high priests and noblemen had opened their larders and coffers, distributed their goods to the poor; and the poor in their turn breathed freely once more and banished hate, jealousy and fear from their hearts. ... Jesus looked at his hands. The ax which the Forerunner had surrendered to him had blossomed: a flowering almond branch was now in his palm.
The day concluded with this feeling of relief. He lay down on the rock and fell asleep. All night long in his sleep he heard water running, small rabbits dancing, a strange rustling, and two damp nostrils examining him. It seemed to him that toward midnight a hungry jackal came up and smelled him. Was this a carcass, or wasn’t it? The beast stood for a moment unable to make up its mind. And Jesus, in his sleep, pitied it. He wanted to open his breast and give it food, but restrained himself. He was keeping his flesh for men.
He woke up before dawn. A network of large stars covered the sky; the air was fluffy and blue. At this hour, he reflected, the cocks awake, the villages are roused, men open their eyes and look through the skylight at the radiance which has come once more. The infants awake in their turn, the bawling begins and the mothers approach, holding forth their full breasts. ... For an instant the world undulated over the desert with its men and houses and cocks and infants and mothers—all made from the morning frost and breeze. But the sun would now rise to swallow them up! The eremite’s heart skipped a beat. If only I could make this frost everlasting! he thought. But God’s mind is an abyss, his love a terrifying precipice. He plants a world, destroys
it just as it is about to give fruit, and then plants another. He recalled the Baptist’s words: “Who knows, perhaps love carries an ax ...” and shuddered. He looked at the desert. Ferociously red, it swayed under the sun, which had risen angrily, zoned by a storm. The wind blew; the smell of pitch and sulphur came to his nostrils. He thought of Sodom and Gomorrah—palaces, theaters, taverns, prostitutes—plunged in the tar. Abraham had shouted, “Have mercy, Lord; do not burn them. Are you not good? Take pity, therefore, on your creatures.” And God had answered him, “I am just, I shall burn them all!”
Was this, then, God’s way? If so, it was a great impudence for the heart—that clod of soft mud—to stand up and shout, Stop! ... What is our duty? he asked himself. It is to look down, to find God’s tracks in the soil and follow them. I look down; I clearly see God’s imprint on Sodom and Gomorrah. The entire Dead Sea is God’s imprint. He trod, and palaces, theaters, taverns, brothels—the whole of Sodom and Gomorrah—were engulfed! He will tread once more, and once more the earth—kings, high priests, Pharisees, Sadducees—all will sink to the bottom.
Without realizing it, he had begun to shout. His mind was wild with fury. Forgetting that his knees were unable to support him, he tried to rise, to set out on God’s trail, but he collapsed supine onto the ground, out of breath. “I am unable; don’t you see me?” he cried, lifting his eyes toward the burning heavens. “I am unable; why do you choose me? I cannot endure!” And as he cried out, he saw a black mass on the sand before him: the goat, disemboweled, its legs in the air. He remembered how he had leaned over and seen his own face in the leaden eyes. “I am the goat,” he murmured. “God placed him along my path to show me who I am and where I am heading. ...” Suddenly he began to weep. “I don’t want ... I don’t want ...” he murmured, “I don’t want to be alone. Help me!”