The Pilgrim (26 page)

Brewster said, “Then do so! But leave our bloody banner where it is. Let it remind us of our sins.”

Governor Bradford said, “Let it be a warning to our enemies and a reminder to us of our victory in Wessagusset.” Then he said, “The word in Hebrew for ‘skull' is ‘
gulgolet
.' Hence, Golgotha, which means ‘the place of the skull' in Aramaic. I learned a little Aramaic from the old rabbi in Leyden who taught me Hebrew. He studied the Talmud in Aramaic. The Talmud is a holy book to the Jews. As I recall, it teaches that Jesus was a magician who brought a dead sparrow back to life when he was a child.”

Then he said to me, “Do not bury the accursed skull and its jawbone. Cast them away in the woods like the bones of an animal. Leave our bloody banner where it is as a warning to the savages that may visit us to trade.”

I climbed to the roof of the blockhouse with my knapsack and placed the jawbone and the rest of the skull within it. The bloodstained banner reminded me of the Indian whom I had slain, and I vomited. I carried my knapsack half a mile south on the Highway. There I vomited again.

I digged a deep hole beneath an oak tree with my dagger and buried my knapsack therein.

I said, “Wittuwamat, I will give your skull the burial worthy of a
sachem
.”

Next, I placed my dagger, in its green leathern scabbard, atop the knapsack and said, “Wittuwamat, this is the dagger you coveted. I give it to you now as the treasure due to a
sachem's
buried bones.”

I covered up the knapsack and the dagger in its green leathern scabbard with handfuls of earth and three flat stones. Then I said, “Now, as you did for your wife, I shall sing thee a death song.”

I sang the old song that Mary Puckering sang to me in my childhood:

O death, rock me asleep,

Bring me to quiet rest.

Toll on thou passing bell,

Let thy sound

My death tell,

For I must die,

There is no remedy,

For now I die.

Then I said, “Wittuwamat, I forgive you.”

I vomited bitter choler. My whole body was in a tremor. Then I said, “Hear me, O my God! Is it permissible to forgive myself in Thy name?”

Of a sudden, my heart beat very quick. There arose in me such a sense of God taking care of those who put their trust in Him that I wept for joy. I felt no guilt for what I had done to my father and Rigdale. My heart beat faster. I wept again and laughed.

I cried out, “What rapture! My rapture will kill me.”

I was not afraid. My rapture increased. I was utterly full of the love and grace of God. My heart seemed about to burst. Then I heard the Holy Spirit speak within me in a still, small voice, saying, “Forgive thyself in My name.”

I groaned like a man in pain, though I was in no pain at all. I said, “Lord, I forgive myself in Thy name.”

For a few moments, I felt the greatest joy that was ever my lot to know. I shouted and praised Him who loved me and had washed away my sins.

Then I walked quickly back to Plymouth. I could not stop praising the Lord. I raised one foot, and it seemed to say, “Glory!” Then I lifted the other, and it seemed to say “Amen!” They kept up like that all the time I hurried along.

I found Abigail washing dishes in her house. I sang,

Hey down-a down, down-derry,

Among the leaves so green, o!

In love we are, in love we'll stay,

Among the leaves so green, o!

Said she, “Sweetheart! Why so merry? Where hath your melancholy gone?”

I spake a little verse to her extempore:

Joy hath revived

In the tomb of my soul,

Which, like a womb,

Was quickened by

A word from God:

“Forgive!”

So I forgave my enemy

And myself,

And was reborn.

I then said to Abigail, “Praise God, who predestined the rebirth of my soul.”

Thus God preserved and kept me all the days of my youth. At times I lost His special presence, yet He returned to me in mercy again.

On the twentieth day of January, in the year of Christ 1625, the godly Saints of the Plymouth Colony elected me to their Fellowship of the Gospel after I made to them the entire aforesaid public confession of my sins and declared my public regeneration. Thereafter, on the following Monday, being the twenty-seventh day of the month, Abigail Winslow and I were wed.

Artie Rubin couldn't keep his mind on Odin. His thoughts buzzed around the corpses of the two Arab kids in Nablus. At eleven, he called Johanna at her office. He read her the headline on the front page of the
Times
that was eating at him: “Israeli Raid Kills 8 at Hamas Office; 2 Are Young Boys; Palestinians Call for Revenge; Violence on Both Sides Shows No Sign of Letup.”

Artie said, “The boys were brothers, five and six. One was found on top of the other.”

“I saw the article. Their poor parents. Leslie and Chris are having dinner with us tonight. I made a reservation at Shun Lee for 8:30.”

“Any bleeding this morning?”

“Yes. I spoke to Dr. Gunning. He's convinced it's just hemorrhoids. I hope he's right. But we'll soon know for sure. I've never had a colonoscopy, so he insisted I schedule one for next Monday at ten. ”

“Finally! You'll be woozy from the anesthetic. I'll pick you up.”

Leslie said to Johanna, “Send Daddy my love.”

Johanna said good-bye to Artie. Leslie clicked on their five bellwether stocks: Citigroup 50.34, Intel 30.30, Cisco 65.79, Microsoft 66.71, Johnson & Johnson 54.25. No significant change this week; no significant change since late spring.

Leslie said, “Chris and I are going shopping after lunch. He needs a summer jacket. I'm thinking dark brown. To go with his tan pants.”

Artie drank a Bass ale. It went right to his head. He squeezed out five sentences: “The god Odin appears among us as a warrior in his mid-fifties with one blue eye; his reddish-brown beard is turning gray. Instead of a helmet, he wears a blue broad-brimmed hat and carries a magic spear called Gungnir. Men hanged from trees are sacrificed to him.”

Don't start with Odin. Begin at the beginning.

Artie wrote, “In the beginning was fire and ice.”

He sketched Odin in pencil. The bearded, one-eyed god stood in the open doorway of a broken-down log hut with a spear in his right hand. He wore a Yankees cap. The cap and the beard made Odin look like a one-eyed Jew.

Artie tore up the sketch.

Aug. 1, 2001. Wed. Noon.
This morning began
Norse Myths Retold & Illustrated—
my 20th book on mythology in 41 yrs. My main source is 13th century
Prose Edda of Snorri Sturluson,
trans. by Jean Young, Univ. of Cal. Press 1996. Will illustrate in style of Viking carvings; source
, Viking Art
by Charles Sullivan, Harry Abrams, 1995.

I often wondered why I put off tackling the Norse gods. Now, at 67, I know. The Norse gods die. Much thoughts of death these days.

Though we don't mention it, the blood in Johanna's stool over the last three weeks reminds us of Johnny Havistraw, my former editor at
Harper's,
who died of colon cancer in July.

At a quarter to three, Artie walked Muggs, the Rubins' four-year-old English sheepdog, up West End. He kept on the shady west side of the street. A sparrow chirped among the leaves of the big plane tree planted near the curb at the far corner of 80th Street; it chirped louder than the traffic. Artie couldn't spot it among the leaves.

Muggs, who had never learned to heel, tried crossing 81st Street against the light. Artie yanked him to a halt.

Artie and Johanna were crazy about sheepdogs. Muggs was their fourth in thirty-one years. Johanna gave him to Artie for his sixty-third birthday. He said to the four-month-old pup, “We'll grow old together.”

Over spare ribs at Shun Lee, Leslie said, “I'm three months pregnant.”

Artie would cherish the moment made of his daughter's words, the big dish of ribs, and a Chinese waiter serving a crispy Peking duck to the couple at the table to his left.

He and Johanna said, “Congratulations!” and Leslie and Chris each answered, “Thank you.”

Artie said, “This calls for another drink. Waiter!” Johanna gave him a look. “Never mind, waiter.”

Johanna said, “Oh, darling, we're so happy. Your guest room is perfect for a nursery. Take a long maternity leave. Not to worry about the office. I'll manage things.”

My God, I'm going to be a grandfather. I want a grandson. Wait a sec! What's all the excitement? I'll be almost eighty when he's ten.

Leslie: “Chris and I went for an ultrasound this afternoon. Look at these pictures. The baby's about four inches long. Its heart is beating. This graph shows the movement. The baby's face is developing. Here it is in profile. See the nose? The smudge near the mouth is a hand. The mouth's open.”

Artie reached for more sweet sauce. “When will we know the sex?”

“I have an appointment for another ultrasound the second week in September. We might know then. It depends on what position the baby's in—whether we can see between the legs.”

“It's a girl,” said Johanna. “Mark my words.”

The waiter served steaming cloths on a plate. Artie wiped his greasy hands, lost in the loud conversation at the table on his left between a guy about thirty and a pretty redhead: “Don't you dare call me cheap.”

“I take it back.”

“You're sore we have to split the check.”

“Forget it. Let's eat.”

“I won't forget it.”

“You're upset about the market.”

Tonight was Johanna's turn to walk Muggs. Not a breath of air. Muggs panted. Johanna walked him around the block under the yellow street lamps. He crapped on the corner of Riverside and 81st Street. Johanna thought, I've got blood in my stool like Johnny Havistraw. She picked up Muggs's shit with a plastic bag from Zabar's and dumped the load in the steel mesh garbage can on the corner. She was reminded of tossing Leslie's smelly Pampers down the incinerator. My baby's carrying a baby. Let them live and be well. She said aloud, “That's a wish, not a prayer.”

She'd quit Hebrew school in New Rochelle when she was going on thirteen. All of a sudden, it hit her then that nobody was listening to her prayers and thoughts. There's no God. What a relief. He couldn't read her mind about blond Tommy Rand who sat next to her in math.

A motorcycle backfire spooked Muggs on West End; Johanna held him short. I haven't thought about Tommy Rand in fifty years. There's no God. Artie feels the same. He goes to shul only because it connects him to his dad. Dead and gone twenty-three years. That pious old Jew still has his hooks in Artie. More than ever since he turned sixty-five. He's feeling his age.

Artie had high blood pressure. Before going to bed, he took his daily dose of 5 mg. Norvasc, 4 mg. Cardura, and 10 mg. Altace that kept his pressure normal: 120/80. The drugs made him impotent.

Artie and Johanna lay under a sheet and a light cotton blanket in the chilled air.

Johanna said, “A grandchild! I'm so happy.”

“Me too. I hope it's a boy.”

“I couldn't care less—so long as it's healthy.”

The air conditioner whirred behind her voice.

Artie said, “If it is a boy, I'm gonna ask Leslie and Chris to have a bris.”

“I wonder if Chris is circumcised.”

Artie would have been happier if Leslie had married a Jew. At least Chris had money. He worked for his father, who owned and managed fifteen garden apartment complexes in southern Westchester.

Muggs sighed; he was asleep on the faded blue carpet at the foot of the bed.

Artie said, “Sweetheart, let's celebrate.”

“Let's.”

Artie went into the bathroom and popped 50 mg. of Viagra. It would take twenty minutes or so to work. He unbuttoned his pajama top and looked down at his big pot belly covered with grey hair and mottled by three big brown moles. He looked in the mirror at his sagging hairy tits. I'm part woman. He examined the reflection of his high, bald forehead, bulbous nose, and wrinkled, wattled neck. Two parallel wattles hid his Adam's apple. Long hairs grew out of his ears. I look more and more like Dad.

Artie slipped back into bed in his pajama tops. Johanna was wearing one of his T-shirts; it reached her thighs. She dozed off. Artie shut his eyes. Think sexy thoughts! He played with his limp cock while searching his memory for images of Johanna when she was young. He came up with her naked at twenty-two sitting on a camp bed in a sublet on East 92nd Street. She was putting up her long auburn hair. She spread open a hairpin with her top front teeth.

I could not have written
The Pilgrim
without the extraordinary assistance of Terry Hearing, Donald Hutslar, and John Kemp, who are both friends and scholars. I am deeply grateful for their expertise and their encouragement.

I am also indebted to the following for their help: Diana Beste, Jill Claster, Frank Peters, Rabbi Jules Harlow, Nava Harlow, Dr. Jeffrey Fisher, Richard Pendleton, Peter East, David and Clarissa Pryce-Jones, Jill Minchin, Sir Wilson of Dinton, Sarah Bendall, the late John Mosedale, Richard Marek, Mario Materassi, Alan Berger, Christopher Lehmann-Haupt, and Natalie Robins.

Thanks also to my agents, Richard Morris and Lynn Nesbit, my editor, Peter Lynch, and his colleagues at Sourcebooks: Anne Hartman, Heather Moore, Diane Dannenfeldt, and Pat Esposito.

Hugh Nissenson is the author of nine books. His previous novel,
The
Tree
of
Life
, was a finalist for the National Book Award and the Pen/Faulkner Award in 1985. He lives in New York City.