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The confirmation is not as bad as I anticipated: All I do is bow my head and say "yes" at the appropriate times, and father smiles in relief.
The dancing and singing and eating are wonderful as well, for I am safe beside my mother and father. But when that ends and I must go play with the other children of the village, and that's when the trouble begins.
I can see the reluctance in the children's faces, in the way they hold their bodies so stiff and resistant; their arms folded across their chests as mothers and fathers admonish them in whispers and push them towards me. I can almost hear the parents telling their children: "Better to make a friend of him than an enemy:" and "You never know when we might need one of his miracles, so go on now."
I wait, as unsure as they are, but eventually they all come over and invite me to join in a game of tag. Rachel is there too, as pretty as ever and almost as tall as I am now, so it isn't too long before we are just as we were 3 years ago, laughing and talking together while the others chase each other around the village square.
Then some of the older boys notice I'm not really playing, just talking, and they stop their game and come over.
"Hey Yeshua, tell us the truth: can you really do miracles?" One challenges.
"I bet it's just some kind of trick," another says.
"You're wrong," Rachel comes to my defense, bristling. "I've seen him myself, and so have some of you."
"That's right," another agrees, one of the boys who was at the house when Zeno fell from the roof. "I saw Zeno die, and then he was alive again."
"Maybe so, maybe not," says the challenger, a brutish twelve-year old whose name is Zebe. "Maybe you only thought he was dead, maybe he was just unconscious. Besides, you ran off, so you never actually saw Yeshua here do anything, did you?"
"Well, no, not exactly," the boy Josiah replies. "But I heard it from my ma, who heard it from Zeno's mother herself!"
"Well I say seeing is believing, and I haven't seen a thing," counters Zebe.
"Me either," says the second boy. "I say prove it, Yeshua: Prove you aren't a fake."
"Yeah," chimes in a third boy; "prove it! Make one of your miracles right now."
"Okay," I shrug; "if you say so."
And immediately my three taunters turn into a trio of ragged Billy goats.
They try to cry out in protest, but all that comes forth from their mouths are loud plaintive animal noises, and the more they make these ridiculous sounds, the louder and more frantic their baas get. They begin running around in circles in their fright and frustration, butting into each other and going: Baa, Baa, Baa!
I laugh out loud at this hilarious sight, but then notice the other children are not laughing, but are instead backing away from me in fear, eyes wide. They look ready to run.
"Wait, come back, please. I won't hurt you!" I cry after them. "It was just a joke, just for fun! Watch!"
So saying, the three Billy goats are instantly turned back into boys again, looking about in confusion.
"See, they're fine! Come on, don't run away!"
The three boys brush themselves off, scowling, and everyone else is eyeing me warily. I can see they don't want to stay but are afraid to leave. What can I do to fix this? Then I have an inspiration.
"Watch this," I say, and transform my own self into a Billy goat now. I jump and buck, spinning in circles and baaing until they are all laughing despite themselves, some even rolling on the ground and holding their stomachs in glee. After a minute or two I turn back into human form.
"All in fun, right? So, can we be friends?"
They give a cheer, and pat me on the back. I can tell it is a turning point, that I am accepted as one of their own, just another eight year old boy from the village out to have a good time...if one with an odd talent or two.
Joseph
Mary is not happy with me, but I have little choice in the matter.
During the confirmation at the synagogue, I promised the priest I would find a teacher for my boy straightaway, and so I must.
After the earlier failed attempt by Zacchaeus to teach Yeshua the Hebrew alphabet, I am reluctant to employ anyone else for this task; yet at the same time I know that, in keeping with tradition, as Yeshua's age has come to the full he should not be ignorant of letters.
So today I am walking to town to hire another teacher, a rabbi by the name of Akiva.
When we meet he tells me he has heard of my child's reputation and is somewhat afraid of him, but after some negotiations - (for his services I promise to build him a table for dining as well as eight chairs) - he promises he will teach him first the Greek letters and after that the Hebrew. They will start tomorrow.
At dinner I let Yeshua know of this arrangement, and when he will begin.
"Yes father," he nods.
I ask him to be patient and respectful of the rabbi, no matter what. "Do you agree?" I ask.
"Yes father," he says.
Mary just looks at me. "We shall see," her expression says. "We shall see."
My New Teacher
I try to keep my promise to my father, I really do. But this rabbi is unworthy to be a teacher, thick headed with the superficial meanings of the letters, and having no understanding of their true spiritual significance, their role in the cycle of creation. I see them so clearly in my mind, how each one separately and all of them together represent the whole of the universe, the entire mystery of Creation. They are God's holy Name personified and transcribed, and yet he sees them simply as scribbles on paper, sounds for the mouth.
Dolt! His stupidity offends me. Yet he places himself higher than I, and repeatedly badgers me for rote answers, memorized definitions: Well, I refuse to play his silly game.
I tighten my mouth into a firm line and say nothing.
Finally the man loses all patience with me.
"You will answer me when I speak to you, boy!" he yells. "Tell me the meaning of each of the letters I have written here on this tablet!"
So I say to him what I said to that previous simpleton: " Rabbi, know you not that these letters represent the sounds of God's voice as he created the universe and everything in it? Are you so ignorant as to think them mere letters, nothing but a tool of man invented to tell other men his wants and needs? If you are supposedly a teacher, and well learned in the letters, then tell me the power of the Alef. When you can show me you are able to do that correctly, then I will tell you the power of the Bet, and not before!"
At this, Rabbi Akiva loses his temper completely and slaps me across the face with his open palm, bringing tears to my eyes from the stinging blow.
"Don't presume to tell me what is what, you blasphemous little demon!" he yells in my face. "I am the authority here, not you!"
"You wicked fraud, you will never strike another child!" I scream at him, and he instantly falls to the ground dead.
I look at him, but have no desire to undo what I have done, so I leave him there and run home, tears streaming down my face.
When I enter the house my mother knows immediately something terrible has happened.
"What have you done, Yeshua, that causes you such grief?"
"I have killed my teacher," I sob. "and I don't wish to bring him back. He is wicked and evil, and he smote me on my cheek for no reason."
"Oh Yeshua, I am so sorry, but you must not leave him thus. If the villagers find out, they will trouble us without end. "
Father has come in during this, and hearing what I've done tells me I have no right to kill someone just because they strike me.
I can't believe my ears.
"If I have no right, then who does, father? Who do you think I am?"
"Please Yeshua, restore the rabbi's life. Do it for us, if for no other reason," mother pleads.
"No." I say, "Dead he is, and dead he will stay. But don't worry so much about it, mother: Death is just another illusion. He'll be back in another body before you know it, hopefully a little wiser."
At this father turns to my mother and angrily commands her not to let me leave the house again.
"We cannot allow him out in public, for he is a danger to our friends and neighbors. Everyone who provokes his wrath ends up dead!"
"That's not true, that's not true!" I shout at him, then turn and run into my room, bawling loudly at the unjustness of his words. "What of those I've saved?" I cry out through the door as I slam it behind me.
Then through the thin wall, I hear my mother admonish my father, and my tears stop in surprise and admiration at her boldness, for wives under Mosaic law are taught to obey their husbands without question.
Mary
I glare at my husband, folding my arms across my chest. I am puffed up in anger that he would say what he has to our son, knowing who the boy really is.
He glares back at me, shaking his head as if to warn me not to speak my mind, but that just pushes me over the edge.
"I do not believe you are right in what you say, Joseph," I tell him, raising my voice to ensure my son can hear. "Yeshua is no danger to anyone worthwhile, I am certain. He who sent him to us would surely guard him from all mischief and mistakes, would he not? I think you are forgetting who Yeshua truly is, my husband."
"That may be," he grunts; "but try to explain that to our simple towns folk, many of whom are just as sure he is from the devil as from God. All I know is now I have another mess of his to clean up, and I don't need the trouble!"
He turns abruptly from me and walks away, slamming the front door behind him.