Remember Why You Fear Me (55 page)

“If you’re so powerful,” said the thief, “then why don’t you save yourself? And save me whilst you’re at it. Go on,” he coughed, and there was blood in that cough, Jesus saw that he wouldn’t be bothered by his screaming for much longer, “just flap your wings, make a wish, do whatever it is you do.”

“Leave him alone,” said a man to Jesus’ right, and for a moment Jesus thought that he was taking the thief’s side, telling him to let the thief be. “He’s done nothing to deserve this. But we have. Well, I know I have, anyway.” Jesus turned his head painfully and saw that he was a murderer.

“Thank you,” croaked Jesus. “And I say this to you. Today you shall sit by my side in Paradise.” Even as he said the words they sounded so hollow, so
fake
, but he meant them. The murderer tried to smile, nodded. The thief raised his head, and Jesus thought he might be trying to spit at them both, but it was nothing but a final spasm before he died.

The murderer died soon afterwards. He didn’t speak to Jesus again, but Jesus liked to pretend that he was a friend, that he was still alive, they were both hanging there side by side in companionable silence. It was a pity that the murderer’s eyes were still open, rolled upwards into his skull—it made it harder to believe in it somehow.

“Oh God,” said Jesus, and even he didn’t know whether he was praying or cursing. “This isn’t what I had in mind at
all.
”

And the skies seemed to darken, and everything froze, and the air grew still. Right, this is it, said Jesus, death, here I come. And he braced himself. Or braced himself as best he could, seeing that he was pinned against a bloody cross.

But it wasn’t death. Not yet, anyway. “I’ve been thinking it over,” said a voice in his head, and it wasn’t just in his head, it was everywhere at once. “And I’m not sure this was such a great idea.”

“What do you mean?” asked Jesus.

“No one’s saying you’ve not done a good job,” said the voice. “Really. Splendid stuff. And well done, you know. On going through with it all. But, well.”

“But . . .  what?” said Jesus, and it was hard not to let a little irritation show.

“We can stop this right now. I think you’ve done enough. Really, I do. I can heal your wounds. I can set you free. You can go on living, and we can wipe away this whole crucifixion part of the proceedings. Frankly, it’s all very unpleasant, and I think we can just do without it.”

“Get thee behind me,” said Jesus.

“Oh, now, don’t go all formal on me.”

And Jesus could no longer be sure whether the voice tempting him was his father or Satan or his own delusions—he could no longer even be sure, in all this pain, all this
weakness
, whether there even was a God or a Satan.

“One last chance—will you accept my offer?” he heard, and even though the voice was everywhere, it seemed dimmer now, to be fading away.

“No,” he said.

And then he died.

And after death, life.

Jesus didn’t know why he was so surprised. It was what he’d been preaching all these years, after all. He supposed he’d expected it to be a lot less restricting. His hands couldn’t move properly, and for a terrifying moment he wondered if this were a consequence of his crucifixion—but no, surely not, what sort of paradise would it be in which you carried the marks of your own death? And besides, the hands
were
moving, they just couldn’t do very much, they were so puny. He looked around him, everything seemed so
big
, and there were people above him, far far above him, he couldn’t reach them with those puny hands. And he noted, with calm astonishment, he seemed to be attached to some strange woman by an umbilical cord.

Now, what’s this all about? Jesus asked himself, and realized that he could still think just the same as before—all the old memories, the sermons, the walking on water bit, that ending with the cross. He looked up at the face of his mother. “You’re not Mary,” he said. Who was this stranger, looking down at him so shyly but with such pride? “Who the hell are all you people?” he cried out.

But even though he could remember language, he could remember
everything—
it seemed his vocal cords weren’t yet developed enough to manage more than a wail. So no one understood his questions, they looked down at him indulgently. He was given a slap on the bottom, and even though it had hardly hurt, not compared to all he’d just been through, Jesus wept.

Jesus was impatient to learn all he could about this new life he’d been born into, find out just what was going on. But it took him the best part of a year until he was able to croak out words, and another few until his little legs carried him to the sort of people who would be able to satisfy his curiosity. In the meantime he learned that crying in the night was a Bad Thing and made his parents cross, that giggling and smiling was a Good Thing and made them giggle and smile in turn. And that his name wasn’t Jesus at all, but something else. Unless he were really concentrating hard Jesus was inclined to forget what this new name was—he had, after all, thirty-three years of thinking himself Jesus of Nazareth, and it was hard to make the adjustment.

One day he toddled to the temple. “What do you know of the teachings of Jesus Christ?” he asked the rabbi. The rabbi blinked at this funny little three year old, asking questions so imperiously. And told him he had no idea what he was talking about. Jesus tried to jog his memory, remind him of the incident with the loaves and fishes; he’d been quite sure that his exploits would have had
some
impact, that his life would have counted for something. But the rabbi grew impatient, and although he was really quite fond of little kids, had enough when Jesus began arguing interpretations of scripture with him.

His parents were furious when they found him. “You can’t go wandering off on your own.” “Didn’t you know,” said Jesus, “that I would be in my Father’s house?” “It isn’t your Dad’s house,” said the mother who wasn’t anything like Mary, not at all, “it’s a bloody temple. And that’s straight to bed for you, young man, with no dinner.”

For a while Jesus felt dismayed that all that he felt he’d achieved had been for nothing. But he soon realized that this explained why he was born again—there was still work to be done. And now he had a mission. Little makes children happier than when they have a mission to fix their sights on, and Jesus vowed that this second time he’d get it
right.
Being a child was a handicap, of course; he knew full well that he would get little respect until he’d grown facial hair and his voice had dropped an octave. He’d start rubbing bits of gravel into his chin to make it look more rugged—a boy at school told him that was the quickest way to grow a beard, and Jesus was desperate enough to believe him. And he’d practise talking in as low a growl as possible until it made his throat sore and his parents would smack him for making silly voices.

At last he felt old enough to start spreading the good news. There were tufts of blonde hair growing out of the rock-ravaged crater that was his chin. And he could sustain his ‘mature’ voice for a good few sentences before it’d betray him with a squeak. He stood on street corners, told the world what he knew about death and life eternal, about a kingdom of love and light far removed from Roman rule. He discovered, to his embarrassment, that he had something of a lisp—it was only obvious to him when passers-by used to mock the impediment back at him. And his ‘l’ was weak, so key words like ‘Lord’ and ‘love’ and ‘Leviticus’ went for nothing. And when this was pointed out to him it made him so self-conscious that Jesus began to stammer. Once the stammer took hold, that was it. He’d stand there, bub-bub-bub-bubbing away like an idiot. The politer people used to ignore him. Most didn’t.

“I really don’t think you’re suited to a career in the Church,” said the rabbi kindly. It was the same rabbi who had for years put up with Jesus’ questions about the Messiah and Jewish orthodoxy, and in spite of himself he’d grown rather fond of the eccentric little boy. “What you lack is
charisma.
You’re not a handsome boy, your nose is too big, you walk funny. And your voice—stammer aside, your voice is
painful.
Sorry, but it’s true. I’ll wait half an hour for you to get your words out, then when you do, your voice is so dull I’ve forgotten what it is you’re saying before you’ve even started.”

“But I know everything,” said Jesus at last, after he’d forced the words out. “Surely that counts for something? I know how to save the world. It can’t all just be in the packaging—the message must have
some
importance.”

The rabbi shrugged. He was fifty years old, and he still looked good, and shrugging showed off his biceps most winningly. His congregation wondered whether he worked out. And when he replied to Jesus it was in the same low voice that sent guilty goose-pimply thrills down the women parishioners as they heard him quote the Torah. “You must have other skills,” he said. “Maybe there’s something else you can put your mind to.”

Jesus hadn’t thought much about carpentry in years. He’d only worked at it at all to keep Joseph and Mary happy, whilst he was biding time for his great mission in life. Now he went back to the tools and the wood, tried to remember how the one affected the other. He tried to make a table, but he realized that it was a little ambitious to start on something so big; no matter how he measured them one leg would always end up longer than another, and he’d whittle them down and whittle them further until there were barely legs left at all and he’d produced instead not a table but a dinner tray. But he dedicated himself to the work, with the same unsmiling concentration he’d once applied to his preaching, and he soon discovered the joy in creating something out of raw materials, in creating purpose out of chaos.

His parents would watch over him as he slept, having tired himself out making a high-backed rocking chair. In his hands he still clasped his hammer, hugging on to it as a child would a teddy bear. “I think our son has found his calling at last,” the mother said.

“Thank God for that,” replied the father. “I thought he was going to turn out to be a weirdo.”

His father died first, then his mother. He mourned them the best way he could. He knew that they’d loved him; but, from his point of view, they’d seemed at best fairly temporary. He knew they weren’t his
important
parents. Jesus loved them, but loved them in the way, deep down, he still loved all mankind. He knew they’d felt his reserve, and that it had hurt them. But he couldn’t help that.

He had a shop of his own. Customers would find him skilled and reliable. They also found him surly—but then, they never came for the conversation. For his part, he emphasized the lisp, the stammer. If he were an ugly man, and he could see that he was, then let him be ugly. He would be a carpenter and nothing more. He poured his love into the wooden objects he beat and shaped and smoothed—and then, when they were done, he’d sell them without a second thought.

One day a woman came to see him. “I want you to make something for my husband’s birthday,” she said.

“What sort of something?” he asked.

“I don’t know. Something wooden.” She flicked her hair and Jesus saw that it was long and black and beautiful, and that there was a lot for her to flick. “I don’t really care,” she said, “I don’t like him very much.” And she frowned at him, as if daring him to criticize her for that.

Jesus didn’t know what to say. He was going to suggest he might make a box—a nice wooden box is usually appreciated, and has so many uses. But before he knew it she was against him, her lips were on his, she was running her hands all over his body. Her tongue was in his mouth, and she tasted rather sweet, and he wondered whether all kisses tasted like that or whether she’d simply had honey for breakfast. And then she stripped him, and he hadn’t been stripped, not as an adult, not since they’d crucified his last body. And without a word she pulled him down on to the ground, and there they made love. For a few moments Jesus worried that he wouldn’t know what to do, he had to put his penis into a hole, but what if he couldn’t find the hole?—and he was, indeed, left jamming it up against her stomach pointlessly until she grasped it in her hand and directed it. And the first thing Jesus thought as he came was that
this
is what sex was like, then—how wonderful, how wondrous, how full of, well, wonder—and then, the second thing, that actually it was such a simple and such a clumsy thing, really.

He assumed that she was a prostitute. And after it was all over—and that was only a few minutes later, like the flaying of the skin from his back, his virginity could be taken away really so very quickly—he asked her how much he owed her. Money. Or maybe a chair. And she’d been offended. But not so offended that the next day she hadn’t come back. And in the days afterward.

“I love you,” she told him.

“Why?” he asked her, genuinely perplexed. “Where does that come from?”

“It doesn’t matter,” she said.

“But I’m ugly. I’m charmless. I do nothing, not any more. I
am
nothing, now.”

“It doesn’t matter,” she said again, put him back inside her.

“I can’t tell you I love you,” he said afterwards, as they lay there amidst all the wood shavings. “You’re a married woman. I don’t understand what it is we’re doing. I wouldn’t do it if I didn’t care for you, I
couldn’t
, you know that. I hope you realize,” he said, as she kissed him anyway, kissed him in spite of all these crass words, “that even though I
might
love you, I could never say it.”

She was the only one he didn’t stammer at. But he knew that he never much said anything worth saying. And she didn’t seem to mind.

One afternoon, for fun, he taught her some carpentry. “It’s all I know,” he said. “It’s the only thing I can give you that’s me.” And she nodded, eager to learn.

“This here is a mortise and tenon joint. This bit here’s the tenon, see? And it slots into the mortise.”

“You speak as if it’s from a text,” she said. “We don’t need to know the
words
for everything, you know. It’s not holy scripture.” He wondered if this was why she never told him her name. “Such things just aren’t important,” she’d say and shrug.