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A couple of months have passed since my failed attempt at schooling, and I am bored and lonely.
People are afraid of me more than ever, at least that's how it seems. Not only don't I have any friends to play with, but no one is coming to my father's workshop behind our cottage anymore either, and mother wears a worried look that makes her face appear older than her 22 years. She is also getting big in front, and when I ask why she tells me I will soon have a little brother or sister to play with.
That's fine I guess, for the future, but it's not much comfort now. I've seen babies in the village, and they can't really do anything much for months except lay there and kick. I need to do something about this situation sooner than that.
I decide to walk into town, and just make other kids want to play with me. Just send the thought out: Play with Yeshua! Surely if I can make them fall down dead, I can make them like me a little.
As I walk through the dusty street kicking a stone ahead with each step - Play with me! Play with me! -, a boy named Zeno calls down from the second story of his house. His father is the local tax collector for the province, so they are a wealthy family and -although I've heard they are hated by their neighbors - the home is large and spacious, attracting many friends for Zeno to play with. There are several boys standing on the balcony next to Zeno, and they wave as well.
"Yeshua, come up and play with us," Zeno calls.
"Yes, Yeshua, come play," the other boys echo.
It's working, I tell myself with a little smile.
I go in through the gate and up the outer stairwell to the balcony. The boys have made little whirligigs out of twigs and leaves, and are dropping them off the balcony in some sort of reverse race: whichever lands last is the winner. They give me some leaves and twigs and show me how to twine them together to make the device, and then let me race them. I make sure I never win, so no one thinks I am using my "special powers" to cheat.
After the fourth air drop, one boy's whirligig gets stuck in the branches of the grapevine that crawls up the trellis beneath the balcony.
He heels his body over the railing, reaching, but his arms are too short to quite grasp it, so Zeno, who is a little taller, tells him not to worry, he'll get it for him. Saying this, he leans far out over the rail, trying to get his fingertips on the toy. It is so close, just a little farther, a little farther he reaches.
Suddenly he tumbles over the railing with a shriek, hitting the ground far below with a sick thud and crunching noise. He lies motionless where he landed, his neck bent at a strange angle, as the clouds of red dust punched into the air by his body slowly settle back down on his face, arms and legs.
The other boys run down the stairs to their fallen friend, stare at him a moment, then run off towards the center of town, crying and yelling, but I remain where I am on the balcony, stunned into a stupor.
Now the parents of Zeno come out of the house and rush to their fallen son. As the mother wails in grief, holding her dead boy to her bosom, the father looks up and, seeing me, flies into a rage.
"You demon, you child of hell, you have killed my boy, my precious precious boy!"
I am shocked by the accusation, and instantly defensive.
"I did no such thing! He fell! It was an accident!"
Now the mother looks up, tears pouring from her eyes, and reviles me as well.
"You evil, wicked boy; what cursed womb spawned thee that you would cast down your only friend to his death?"
"I did not cast him down," I yell; "and I will prove it to you!"
With that, I jump from the balcony, landing as softly as a cat or bird might, not even raising a puff of dust. Ignoring the parents' looks of amazement, I stand beside the body of their son, looking down on his prostrate form, and cry out in a loud voice: "Zeno, arise and tell me, did I cast you down?"
Straightaway Zeno rises up from where he lays, cricks his neck back into place, brushes the dust from his pants and shirt, and answers: "No, Lord Yeshua, you did not cast me down, but you did raise me up, and I thank you for that."
I look over at the parents, to see their mouths are open in shock.
The mother grabs my hand and begins covering it with her kisses and tears.
"Thank you, oh thank you Yeshua. And Glory be to the God who sent you to us!"
"Is it true, then?" The father asks in a hushed voice. "Are you sent from God?"
I don't know how to answer, so I just grunt something non-committal and hurry away.
This isn't exactly the outcome I'd had in mind for the day. Maybe it isn't as bad as being called Satan, but I doubt I will get many true friends to play with as God either. None-the-less, I do feel good to know Zeno is still alive, and that somehow I helped bring that about.
Joseph
I am in my shop, sanding the bars of the cradle I'd just made for our soon-to-be-born child, when I hear a commotion on the road outside. I look through the open door, and see a large crowd of villagers heading towards our little cottage.
Yeshua had come home a short while earlier and gone straight to his room, so my first thought is "Oh no, what has he done this time?"
I step out into the yard, wiping my hands on my shirt.
"Joseph, a word with you," calls out the tall bearded patriarch at the front of the pack, Zebediah by name.
"Aye," I say with a nod.
"It's about your son, Yeshua," another cries.
"Of course it is," I think, but remain still, waiting to hear.
Mary has by now come out onto the porch. She is big with child, and I wave her back inside, not wanting any stress on her at this delicate time. She obeys, but I see her looking from the window none-the-less.
"He has great power," says Zebediah; "of that we were all aware. But today he saved the life of another child..."
"Nay, brought him back from the dead!" cries a woman with tears streaming from her eyes, and I recognize her as the wife of the tax collector. "My son Zeno. He fell off the roof; dead as a doorknob, neck all askew, and your Yeshua healed him, praise be to God!"
"Is this so?" I say. "Mary, call out the boy!"
A moment later Yeshua comes shyly to the door, his mother right behind him. He looks just like any seven year old boy who's been awakened from his nap, all scruffy hair and sleepy eyes.
A cheer goes up from the crowd at his appearance, and he rubs his face and looks over at me, bewildered at what is going on.
"They say you brought a boy back from the dead today," I tell him. "Is this so?"
"I just wanted to prove I didn't make him fall, that I'm trying to be good so they will like me, and so they will trust you again, father," he replies.
"We do, we do!" The patriarch assures him, coming up to give the boy a hearty hug, and then coming over to bestow the same assurance on me.
"Sent from God, that's what he is," a woman at the back of the crowd calls out: "Sent from God to help us with our woes."
"Of which we have a multitude," her husband adds.
I can see where this is heading.
"That may be," I tell her and the others. "But right now he is just a little boy: Give him some time to grow, if you will."
The crowd soon disperses, but not until several - perhaps hoping to curry favor in case favor is later needed - linger to admire my cradle, give good wishes to my wife for a safe delivery, and give me some new orders for carpentry work.
Once they have all left, I put away my sanding tools and go into the house to talk with Mary and our son.
Mary
The conversation is over almost before it begins.
Joseph bides me sit beside him, but the discomfort in my belly and back make standing actually more comfortable, so I tell him to please just let me stand here at the sink while he says what he has to.
He tells me of his concerns that the villagers will soon start asking our son to do services for them, little miracles at first: calling on him to relieve their aches and pains, make their old co
ws produce milk, their trees bear more fruit...then gradually more and more, bigger and bigger things.
"I think God has a higher purpose, in sending His only Son to live among us as a man, than to have him act as the village magician," Joseph tells me. "But at the same time I have to admit I do want their business: We need their business to make a living, and it's been hard since they shunned us."
"But Joseph," I protest; "we cannot sell the boy's God-given gifts for the sake of putting bread on our table. Surely the Lord will provide, as long as we do what is right."
He contemplates this a long moment, then nods. "You are right, of course, my Mary. I will have a talk with our boy, ask him to do no more miracles, neither good nor bad if he can help it; at least not until his heavenly Father tells him it is time for that."
He gets up, gives me a kiss on the cheek and a pat on the belly, but as he starts to walk away I double over in pain with a shriek I cannot contain. At that same moment I feel the water coursing down my inner thighs.
"The baby is coming," I whisper.
So the conversation with Yeshua never gets spoken, at least not in the same way it would have, and not for some time.
Another Axident?
I don't see much of my mother since the baby came. I hear her in the night, when he makes those funny little cries and she gets up to comfort and feed him, so I know she isn't getting her usual rest. I guess that's why she takes naps during the day whenever he's sleeping, because she never used to nap before. And she doesn't have much time for me, which makes me feel a little sad. But she does ruff my hair when she passes, and reminds me how much she loves me still.
They show me the little guy a day or two after he is born, and I think he smiles at me, but I can't be sure because he's so strange looking, kind of like a purplish worm with hair and eyes. I suppose that's how babies are supposed to look, as father and mother don't seem disappointed in him at all.
Anyway, it's almost three weeks now since I've left the house: Father has had me doing chores for mother while he catches up on all the work in the shop, even washing clothes and preparing meals under her direction while she cradles baby James in her arms.
But this morning he tells me I can go into the village to pick up some supplies, so I am on my way, happy to be free of the confines of the cottage. The air is crisp with the hint of fall, the sky a blue crystal without a single cloud to blemish its purity, and all around me is the bustle of birds and vermin hurrying to get ready for the winter.
As I pass the woods that lie on the east side of the village, I see a young man cleaving logs that he has cut from a felled tree, separating them into stove-size pieces. I wave at him, and he pauses in his work a moment to wave back before continuing.
A little thought crosses my mind, like the shadow of a cloud flying over a field: What if he were to cut himself with the ax? Maybe I could heal him, and thereby make more friends.
No sooner do I think this than I hear a roar of pain pour out from the throat of the woodcutter. I look over to see him lying on the ground, writhing in pain and grappling at his leg. Blood spurts like a red fountain from his severed foot, which lies on the ground beside him like a lost shoe.
I stop dead in my tracks, filled with a mixture of awe and guilt at what I have done, as villagers come pouring out of nearby houses and yards, hurrying to his aid. Then I break out of my trance and run towards him as well, pushing through the crowd of onlookers.
By the time I get to his side he is already faint from loss of blood, and all but lost. I kneel down by his side, pick up the foot and put it back onto his leg at the place it was severed from, and instantly it bonds as if never cut. There is not even the line of a scar. The fellow, his name is Jacob I think, opens his eyes and looks at me in wonder.
"You're okay now," I tell him. "You can get up and go back to work. Just be more careful after this."
The villagers look at me, mouths agape, then one at a time they begin to drop to their knees, mumbling words of praise. Some even fall to the ground before me, planting their faces in the dirt. Many are sobbing. It is a little embarrassing, but at the same time I kind of like it.
I didn't mean to hurt Jacob the woodcutter, I really didn't. It was just a random thought, not supposed to happen. I guess I should learn to control such things a little better, but at least it's nice to know I can fix what I break.
A short while later, after I have finished my errands, I approach the humble cottage that is my home to I see a small crowd of villagers already gathered there, speaking to my father in hushed tones. They back away from the doorway to let me pass, their attitude a combination of fear and reverence, like they are not quite sure what they've got here, and whether or not it might turn on them at any second.
For my part, I don't know whether to smile at that or be irritated, so I just walk on by with the blank expression I'm learning to perfect, and hand the bags of flour, eggs and butter to my mother. I then go into my room to await another scolding.
But this time the only thing my father Joseph says at supper is: "Be careful son."
I nod at that: It really is all there is to say or do now.