Read A Few Pages

I

Maya sprung off the step like an arrow. Raising the wasteland dust and singing her mother’s favourite song, she skipped towards the campfires at the well gate, squeezing into the market through the keyhole arch in the old wall. Some stallholders waved or nodded but most ignored her, staring dead-eyed into space, hands wafting flies, working on debts or dreams. Abaci clicked and chinked, scales glittered and a woman with cataracts wrinkled her knuckles. Hey, little one! Tell your Nanna I expect to see her tomorrow, bright and early!

Maya danced through narrow alleyways reeking of turmeric and paprika to a bottleneck where a butcher was beheading chickens, their bodies thudding about in a barrel, their heads wide-eyed, open-beaked, in a basket. Here she was accosted by a hooded, toothless man. Who was that at your house? His hands grabbed dead air: Maya was gone. You! Come back here! I saw them! I know who they were and I know where you’re going!

It was good to be away from mamma and the peeling and the guests. She burst out of the beige shade by the leper camp and ran downhill towards the river, rope whipping air and dust. There was blossom in the dusk and the tang of the sea, too, which took her inwards, away. Face turned up like a flower, eyes closed, knotty hair blowing up over her shoulder blades, Maya sang to the sun. Even when your eyes were closed you could see the light!

She wound the rope around her hands when the streets became too narrow and clicked her tongue in her mouth, riding a horse, prancing, neighing. From a doorway a laughing, naked boy giggled and pointed at her. Maya neared him on her mount, bucking and reigning in the beast, and the boy screamed with delight, covering his tooth with dirty hands. Oh! I have to go! He wants to go! And off Maya went, galloping down to the sandstone construction at the end of the road where lizard-eyed goats on the rocks bleated her approach.

Emre was shuffling across the sand in his usual downtrodden way. Back at the corner, the naked boy was standing in the middle of the road with his finger in his mouth, still laughing. Maya made sure to tie up her horse despite Emre’s confusion. Give him some water and oats, she commanded, skipping inside. Emre shook his head. The apple doesn’t like to fall far from the tree.

Maya’s grandfather was lying with his hand over his brow under the slatted stage snoring magnificently, the late afternoon sunlight slicing him to pieces. Maya waggled his big toe. Wake up! The old man was dead to the world. Hair coiled in his ears and nose and sprang off his eyebrows like lightning. Grandad, come on! There are people at home! Nanna’s going to kill you if you don’t come right now.

People? Kill me? Markos wiped his beard free of drool. Where were his things - had someone taken them or had he given them to the boy? He’d been dreaming about a play. He’d heard the wind singing through the gaps in the wood and had thought to write it down. Imagine a play narrated by the elements? Had that been done? Emre? Emre! Where are you? Grandad, please! Nanna says this is important! They’ve come from Jerusalem. Jerusalem? Yes, they know you. They’ve seen my work? No! Nanna said it’s something much more important than that. More, what? Why, you cheeky little...

Markos rolled out from under the low wood and slapped the dust off his hands. What time was it? A glowing ball on the sandstone wall. Visible. Hazy. Low. I’m hungry. I feel hungry. Is it late? What time is it? Markos found his sandals. Where’s Emre? Where’s the boy? He has my things, my box. Did you see him? Ants had made busy streets across the sand. They didn’t know he was there. He could watch them and crush them at will.

Emre has everything, grandad, I promise. He’s gone home. Now, come on, come on, nanna will kill us! Maya bounced ahead, Markos behind, walking like he was on a different surface. Go on, go on, don’t wait for me, don’t patronise me, young lady. I’m coming. I’m coming. People. People?

Fires and pink clouds lit the dusk without while inside the suq farriers beat spitting gold orbs and jewellers haggled hunched over candles and wine. Dead eyes stared down from rug summits. Soles poked up from behind mounts of olives and floating, distorted eyes woozed through vats of oil-suspended cheese.

Word had got around about the visitors. Markos swatted all enquiries away, grabbing his granddaughter’s arm, pulling her back: How many are there, Maya? Come here, girl. Stop for a second...

Three first. Two are left. One’s dizzy from the journey but I think he’ll be fine. He’s old. Are they our people? Foreigners? Romans? How do they look? How do they speak? The sick one speaks just like you. He’s from Galilee - he said you’d remember him. Markos made a fish mouth. Is there a name? Who did he say he was? Your grandmother must have asked them before she let them in? Maya, stop a moment. Stop a moment and speak to me. Stop skipping, girl! You’re making me dizzy!

The one from Galilee is called Shimon. Maya waited for him to catch up and began moving again. He looks a bit like you.

Handsome?

Old.

Strong as nails?

If they were rusty, maybe, and bent out of shape.

You cheeky...I don’t remember any Shimon. I mean, I remember many Shimons but none from Galilee. Well, I remember a lot from Galilee, but did he say whereabouts? No. North or South? They didn’t say? You said there were two? What about the other? The other’s more serious. He speaks like a priest. He’s like, Maya pulled a face with a puckered mouth and tilted her head to think. She could see the tall dark one clearly. He’d left an imprint. I don’t know - serious, yes, that’s it. Holy? Like a rabbi. His name? Saul. He speaks Greek and knows Antioch. He’s been here before. He’s from Eppus, I think. Ephesus, Ephesus…Maybe? I don’t know! Come on!

It has to be for the writing. We left no problems behind. We’ve made no trouble here. They have to have heard about me. One of my plays. My work. It’s finally happening! Must not show too much emotion. Be humble. But I deserve this! I deserve this! I always knew it would happen!

The odd couple crossed the wide waste ground scattered with mucky mounds of litter and crap towards camps clustered by dry bushes in front of their own cock-crowing neighbourhood. Maya skipped, wheeling above the filth. Dogs ran over yapping, snarling, cowering to Marcus’ raised stick. Out on the edges of the stony fields a shepherd stood upright on one leg, the other flat-soled against his crook. Maya stopped to pat a woolly, mangy donkey whose spinning ears scattered flies. So cute! In the mule's dead eyes was infinite loss.

Oh, leave that horrible thing alone, Maya, you’ll catch something!

Home, an anxious Ruth helped Markos in and to wash before Ani led her husband to where their guests were lying on reeds around a tray of food. Maya, head covered, sat outside the open doorway. She heard rather formal, stiff greetings - grandad was nervous! – and, peeping in, saw the balding Saul kneel and rise.

Tall, thin, his cloak dark, he unfurled above the food like a pillar of smoke. You know Shimon don’t you? Saul spoke in Greek, pointing at his companion lying flat on the floor. He gave Shimon’s family name and village. Markos looked down at the bearded, ashy-grey face swaddled in grey. I’m not sure. I’m sorry, I’m not sure. The old man had the airless throat of the nearly dead. It’s been a long time, Markos. He had feet pocked with blisters, voice hoarse. Markos recognised the amber eyes and time fell away. You don’t remember the rocks, Markos?

Markos was becoming self-conscious. I do. This man had known him as a child and it embarrassed him. Yes, yes, I remember now. You were good to me. Markos touched the sick man’s sore, ugly feet with both hands. Welcome to my house. Welcome, welcome. You are our honoured guests, both of you.

We’re a long way from Galilee, eh? Shimon used Markos’ family name. Markos hadn’t been that person for many years. Yes, that’s right, that’s right. We are. We are indeed. How right you are. Their words were Aramaic. Saul interrupted. We will speak in Greek. A hand indicated Markos should sit. Saul waited. Markos complied.

Many thanks for receiving us, to you and your family, Markos. God willing, we are at the end of our latest arduous journey and as soon as Shimon recovers, we can begin our work here in Antioch. I should tell you now that it was Caleb the tentmaker who gave us your name, though in finding our way here it goes without saying that God has been our guide. We were hoping we might stay here with you while we are here in the city? Yes, yes, of course. As you wish, as you wish. And as long as you wish, too, of course. It is an honour and a blessing to have you in our humble house.

Maya had dared to sneak a look inside once again. Saul saw her: raised an eyebrow. Perhaps the girl could bring us something to drink?

Yes. Go. That’s my granddaughter. Her mother is the cripple? Yes. Ruth is her name. And the father? Dead. Drowned at sea. The girl lives here with you? She does, she does. She’s very able. A great help to my wife and I in our old age. She’s taking her time with the drinks. She will bring them soon enough. I hope so.

The sick man cleared his throat. You’ve made a home for yourself here, Markos? Shimon, uncle, I’m sorry I didn’t recognise you. Markos knelt to offer olives to the sick man from a tray which had been put down. It’s been a long time. Such a long time. It’s very strange to see you here. I almost feel...I almost feel as though the world is playing a trick on me. It’s overwhelming, you’ll have to forgive me.

Good to see you, old friend.

Saul rocked back and forth on the soles of his feet. Though middle-aged, he was lithe and fit, hands calloused. The bare cracked walls were inspected as he inhaled impatiently. How long have you lived here? Again he used Markos’ full name. His old name. Oh, almost, Markos had to think about it. He had to close his eyes. A good long time. My daughter was born here, in this room. Isn’t that something? Markos found this information more heart-warming than his guest did. In that corner where Shimon is lying. Yes. The strangest thing.

You’re a notary? No, I work at the theatre. That’s really what I do these days. We were told otherwise. Caleb said you were a notary. A good one. Well, yes, I am. I was. I have my own business. I have many clients. Markos slipped into his old patter, another version of himself. I have access to - oh, two or three libraries in the city - my own archives too. Good contacts for letters. I work in many languages, many dialects. I have contacts in many cities, local and foreign. I can help with all aspects of rhetoric, Greek and Roman schools, though I have my own methods, developed over a lifetime. A smile, a wring of the old, liver-spotted, ink-stained hands, a practised furrow of the brow. Of course, I prepare speeches for family occasions, orations, funerals. Even, if I may say so, for religious occasions. Why had he said this? Some foresight? Was it because Maya had said Saul spoke like a rabbi?

You don’t build anymore, Markos? Shimon, flat on his back, addressed the ceiling. No, no. Not with stone, old friend. With words now. Only words. Shimon tells me you knew Yeshua ben Josef back in the old country? Markos turned to Saul. Yes, I did. Yes, I did. When I was very young we worked together for a short time in Sepphoris. We knew his family. What more could he say? He was wary of saying too much: people always read too much into it. And how much did Saul know? Of the truth?

You weren’t a follower of his, then or now? No. I didn’t know him during that part of his life. In fact, I… But you know what happened to him at the end? I don’t, no. Only that he died. There are people here in Antioch who celebrate Yeshua’s life. I have heard what they say but they say different things and it’s hard to know what to believe. I do know he is dead. That I can say. I believe he was executed. That’s what they say. Yes, we know. And what about you? Me? Am I dead? Are you a religious man, Markos? I would say I am a spiritual man, yes, as we all are here. Law abiding? Your grandchild is being brought up according to the law? Yes, yes. Of course, of course. The cripple repents? Markos made a docile noise but wouldn’t catch Saul’s eye.

Maya was studying Saul. He had a curiously stubborn way about him, a kind of entitled authority. He carried an arrogant threat. He might change at any moment, wield something withheld. Maya had never seen anyone like him. He was a quiet, burning, rolling, intimidating force made flesh. He lit the room with dark fire; scaring and attracting her.

Markos. Yeshua was very important.

That’s what I’ve heard people say. Though it does not - I don’t...I remember him as just a - as a friend. As my friend. Markos looked at Shimon for support. This sick man coughed phlegm. That is true. But it is not the whole truth.

Markos shooed Maya and her grinning mother away. Turning, he opened his arms in supplication. Look, I know what they’re saying about him. When they meet. I know what they say, what they call him. Saul’s fingertips were together. What do they say? That he... Markos sighed. Well, come on...all of the things. All of the things.

All of ‘the things’ are true, man. All of those things and more are true.

Saul’s dark eyes fixed on Markos’ own and Markos was trapped in a universe with only another’s complete conviction for company. A fixed, immovable idea was not the way Markos’ mind usually worked and he found it both soothing and incredibly constricting.

What you’ve heard is true. That and more. These people, Saul gestured at the window to the street, don’t know the half of it. But they must. They must. And they will.

Markos broke the spell, glancing down at his old, gnarled, yellowing toenails. What do you want from me, sir, if I may be so bold as to ask?

We want you to tell people about him, Markos, Shimon said. To give the good news about what we saw, what we know. To spread the good news about Yeshua’s life. Again, Markos had eyes boring into his. The same conviction as Saul: hypnotic, unwavering, radiating conviction. Just that. It’s that easy. Write what you remember. What we all remember. So that everyone might know the good news. No more, no less.

Markos looked away, peeling the skin at the edge of his fingernails, examining fresh raw flesh. There were too many things to think about. He hadn’t been sure of anything in his life. He was weak-minded. Put him with someone who had strong opinions for the length of time it took to drink a cup of wine and he’d come out convinced of their arguments, a convert. But this always wore off. This was just the way he was. Markos’ natural state was a kind of resigned doubt. Why did it matter about choosing something? Choosing between things, especially ideas? He had chosen his wife, and love, and that was enough. Leave me alone. Leave certainty to the politicians and lawyers who made a career out of it.

This attitude worked for him with his writing and his work. He knew that words could tease belief, that words in the right order could give people faith in great untruths. He had written beautiful lies in his time and many false truths: they balanced each other out despite what you thought or believed because people were a mixture of truth and lies, rights and wrongs. Markos wasn’t sure there were any certainties in the world but he could convince anyone of anything with words. Once you knew how to do that, once you saw how easily people were convinced of things, once you knew the way it was done, the art of it, the method, how could you believe anything? Truth was all in the telling. All was ideas and rhetoric. Hot air.

Recently, coming near the end of his life, seeing so much being repeated, seeing the same mistakes, the same small victories, more deaths, more babies, injustices and fickle luck, he’d begun to think nothing mattered anyway. Markos felt he was a soul who had passed through many different incarnations even while he’d been alive. He had been, and was, many different people. The only constant was change; decay, wheels within wheels. If anything he envied people like Saul and Shimon and their complete belief, their complete faith in anything. Markos had no faith in anything or anyone. Perhaps, as his wife was fond of telling him, this was because he had no faith in himself.

He would be honoured to write it for you, came a voice from the doorway.

It was Maya. And that was that.

II

The low moon’s tail swirled over the dark sea to where boy shadows leapt from rocks. The seawater swallowed the falling figures in white splashes, muffling their screams. Bodies slid up the wet headland like crabs. Out on the horizon the lights of a boat blinked. It was the middle of the night a long time ago.

On a cliff-top, toes over the vertiginous edge, faced with the frothy wash, one boy found he was higher up than he’d imagined. The veiny sea came in confusedly, waves criss-crossing, opening up on hidden rocks, hissing and sighing. The water was shallow in places: you had to know these pools. The boy on the edge didn’t know them, or the currents. It was the first time he’d come. The jumper in front of him had surfaced and was stroking for the climb holds, rising on the spidery swell. What could he do? It was his turn. He jumped.

In the air he knew something was wrong.

Sometimes we know things before they happen.

The tide sucked the dark water back out to sea, a weed-strewn rockhead rising below him, water foaming off its coral hair. White spume smiles stared back at him from the edges of the pool where the choppy water swilled. Under the overhangs the sea churned and echoed. He felt cold horror, a painful judder and nothing. The candle was blown out.

He was too young to have thought yet about his own death.

Markos blinked awake, mouth was bone dry. Ani, beside him, whinnying, spoke in tongues, to dreams. Behind his closed eyes Markos saw the rippling underwater moon and heard the world from the muffled seabed. Had he really seen the moon like that? How could he know? The real memory was long gone. This was a green dream. When he’d been young, he’d looked up at the sky - the real sky - and thought it looked like the surface of the sea must from the bottom of the ocean.

How strange it was to dream and see memories recreated as though seen from a distance, to remember and review things that had once happened in the third person, not as he’d lived and experienced them through his own eyes. When he thought about it, this seemed to happen all the time. All of his memories were reconstructions. He remembered nothing as he’d seen it. They were therefore not real memories. Ani?

Eyelids down, looking inwards with his always-self for company, a face came from the colourful darkness and Markos remembered Shimon. It had been Shimon who had pulled him out of the water that night while the others had left him like driftwood. Ani?

The entire memory came back to him. It had really happened. He hadn’t thought about it in years. It had happened to someone else. The recovery. The shame. The punishment.

Markos was wide awake, eyes open, holding his breath. Vividly he re-experienced lying on the pebble shore, his burning lungs, saltwater in his nose. Shimon’s hands had pumped his chest, the blanket of stars very bright behind, glowing and fading, glowing and fading. He should be dead. He should have died. I did die. I did, I did.

Ani? Markos nudged his wife, licking his lips to wet them. Ani, wake up. I’m sorry, I need to talk to you. Ani opened her eyes at once. She too had been dreaming. She saw shadows. Blinked. Markos? It’s me, it’s me. I need to speak to you. Sorry for waking you. I need to speak to you. Ani rolled on her side and looked at him. They were both young in the darkness. Ani touched Markos’ face. What’s wrong? She’d heard everything in his voice. Tell me? Did you hear something? This was her worst fear, even with guests in the house. Invasion or fire. Was it someone?

No, no, no. I remember Shimon now - the sick man. He saved my life when I was young. I was jumping from rocks at night when we first moved. I hit a rock, you know the scar I have? On my back? Markos waited for his wife to blink and nod. I should have died. This thought made Markos trail off. He lay flat on his back, hands crossed on his chest. All of it sounded melodramatic when spoken. There was none of the true drama of his thoughts. The emotion of what happened was not to be lettered and labelled, and if it was, it would be categorized incorrectly. Fresh like this, raw like this, he could see its potency, its depth.

Ani blinked - grey eyes. Maybe that’s why he said you should have remembered him? It must be. I’m surprised I remembered it now. I haven’t thought about it in years. You remembered it because he’s here. Ani touched his cheek and squeezed his hands in hers, tapping it as she spoke. It’s fine, Markos, you silly old fool. It’s a good thing. You tell him in the morning and that’s that. He’ll be happy you remembered. Ani yawned, turning away to hide her open mouth. He’ll be happy to talk about the old days. He’ll be happy to talk about anything else after the last few days, I bet.

Why? Were they arguing again? Oh, were they? About whom to let in? That, and other things. That and other things. Markos lay staring up at the beams of the ceiling. Shimon and Saul had been arguing fiercely over the admission of gentiles to the meetings. Markos had left them to it, sticking to the theatre, pondering his next move. As Ani settled again on her back, their fingertips touching, he tried to go back to his dream but it had gone. Now he had only a vague, long-distance view of the moon casting a white path on the sea all the way to the shore. His back began to hurt; his hips, his knees. Chickens were clucking and pecking outside. An early riser tipped water over their head in a nearby house: a sploosh and scoop. Suds trickled down the communal gutter where rats screamed at night as creaks in the walls lulled his eyelids and fed his imagination; he might be aboard a ship.

The first birdsong, sad and shrill in the dark. Markos lay wide awake. I have the meeting today, he said quietly, after a while, the room more grey than dark. Ani was asleep. Sighing, back and knees clicking and popping, he made it upright. Once you thought about needing the toilet, you had to get up. There was no escape. The body was a tyrant in these matters.

The houses where the meeting was going to be held were near the river, low bungalows with palms in the gardens and caged birds.

People spilled between the two, inside and outside, in a friendly spirit, and Markos was welcomed without question. He was relieved to find the crowd eclectic, many who looked like they’d come in from the countryside or straight from work. Men, women and children sat on the floor eating together and the host, a man he didn’t know, invited him to sit and help himself. There was wine, bread, fried fish and roast lamb. Romans were there, slaves too, women and children. There was a forced gaiety which made Markos nervous but all meetings with strangers made him nervous. Religious people brought out the best in him because he knew what they expected: the rules were clear. He played along. He smiled as he chewed. Good, good. Thank you, thank you.

Nibbling fried fish, Markos found himself listening to an old woman talking to the group in strongly-accented Greek. She was telling a story about Yeshua and Markos suddenly thought he recognised her. Miriam? he asked when she caught his eye. The old lady held up a henna’d hand and touched him. No, no. Identifying herself, she smiled brightly. But don’t worry, cousin, we are all friends here, all equal before God. Markos saw she meant this, or thought she did. He waited until she was busy holding court again and then shifted back, stood and floated off around the party. He felt simultaneously close to these people and ghostlike.

Was it jealousy he felt, this sour feeling? Yes, perhaps it was. All this admiration, adulation, for someone he’d known and once met, was that bothering him? No, it wasn’t that. It was adulation and admiration for anyone. Moreso, it was that he had been skipped over. He was being ignored and that went against every secret instinct Markos held truly dear. He, Markos, was made for great things. Those great things were just around the corner. Such was life, so ironic was the way of the world, that he’d had to wait right until the end of his life for success to come to him. But so what? Let it drop upon him with the last grain of sand! Let it explode on his head! But not this. Not this. He didn’t have the patience for false idol worship at the best of times. He was his own idol. It was time for him to be worshipped, that’s all it was. And he didn’t want it in death, like Yeshua. What was the point of that? No, no. He wanted it in life. He deserved it!

Soul steaming, he found himself in a small back patio, clouds ebbing unhurriedly across a bright square of sky. A woman was kneeling before a well in the middle of the patio. Markos could see the lines on the soles of her feet and they seemed to say something. A thin, dark-skinned man doused her head in blackwater which splashed cold onto Markos’ toes. The woman wheeled her long, wet hair backwards and the baptist set the roped pail down and began speaking in tongues, eyes rolling, his hand flat against the woman’s wet scalp, fingers spread. Figures moved in from all sides. Who’s next? the baptist shouted in Greek, holding out his hand, imploring them. Who’s next to repent? Come, come, time is short!

Markos approached the stone well and peered over the edge. The blackwater was lapping back and forth, the clouds reflected in its undulating surface and Markos saw his own face, his own dark eyes, and his head lit by a shining halo of sky. You, my son! The baptist saw how old Markos was when the other man turned – a bright smile. Oh, father - uncle - it is never too late! No, no. Markos stepped back. A mother hurried her child ahead of him and the boy knelt by the well. No more Jew or Greek! No more slave or freeman! No more male or female! All are one in the Kingdom of God!

In the second house, in a red room, Markos came upon Shimon sitting with a semi-circle of admirers at his feet. Shimon acknowledged Markos as he approached and made it clear he wanted to speak to him. They moved so they were alone and Markos said he was happy to see the other man so well. Shimon again thanked him for his hospitality and told him how impressed he was with his granddaughter Maya. You’ve been talking to her? asked Markos. Listening. Markos apologised for being out of home so much. The theatre, he said, was his real home. There he felt his body and spirit were united. Everywhere else he felt slightly lost, disjointed. Speaking too, was a second language for him and he apologised for talking off the top of his head. What I want to say is that I remember you, Shimon. I remember that you saved my life. I remembered last night. I dreamed about it and it was very vivid. Deep inside my soul I remember, even if my old mind does not. You saved your life by missing the rock.

Shimon’s face was ruddy again, though the illness showed itself in a sudden, racking cough. They spoke a while about what had happened that night. Shimon asked Markos if he’d thought any more about the proposal he and Saul had made. They needed someone they could trust, the old man said. Someone who could do justice to the story, for what they wanted to do with the story. You are an expert in words, old friend. That’s why we came to you. You must be the one to write it. Markos shook his head. I don’t know where to start. With Shimon he spoke like a child again, unguarded, unfiltered. Go back to the old country, Markos. Speak to people. I can help you. People will talk. Everyone wants to do this, Markos. We all want the same thing.

Over Shimon’s shoulder, Markos saw the old woman with the Greek accent from the first room. What about Miriam, Yeshua’s mother? I remember her from the old days. She was always nice to me. Do you know anything about her?

Shimon saw God at work in Markos’ speech. Quietly he said he knew Immah Miriam was alive but that Markos must be careful of speaking with too many people about her. Shimon knew where she was and yes, Markos could talk to her but the holy Immah needed to be protected. Things were not safe. She was very old. Now down to a whisper, leaning in, the sick man asked: When did you meet Immah, Markos? In Sepphoris, when I lived there, when I knew Yeshua. And later? No. At the end? I wasn’t there, Shimon. You were, Markos. Shimon stared into Markos’ eyes. Why do you deny it?

Markos didn’t know what to say. Later he would tell Ani, I think he confused me with someone. I really think he was confusing me with someone. Maybe there’s something else you’ve forgotten? she told him. Like almost killing yourself jumping from the cliffs?

A dust storm blew up as Markos left the meeting. When he got home, walking blindly, deep in thought, he found his daughter Ruth on the step gesturing frantically that something was wrong. Saul was rumbling with anger, pacing the lower room, speaking to himself. Sir? asked Markos, entering. Ah! finally! Now, listen. There’s nothing for it: I must leave. I wish you to compose a letter for me. Very well. Hurry, I don’t have much time. My boat leaves in an hour. Yes, of course. Looking about himself for his writing box, Markos felt his heart racing. In the red room Shimon had told him to go home; that Saul would be leaving that night. Markos and Maya would go with him. All would be explained in good time.

Where are you going, sir, may I ask? Saul will be going to Ephesus, Shimon had said. Home, said Saul, knotted fist under his mouth. You must go with him, Shimon had said. You must say…

How wonderful it would be to be able to look at the archives there, Markos said. I think it would help me enormously with my work. Saul stopped pacing. His dark brow tugged his face down; relaxed. A waved hand. Fine. Come, come. There are indeed a great many useful resources there. It will also give me an opportunity to repay your hospitality - and – yes, let’s go - we can compose my letter on the boat.

Markos saw Maya standing in the doorway. Grandfather, she primly informed him. I have your writing box. Nanna is finishing your things. Markos nodded at this information. His beard was beiged with sand, his lips pink, wet. He turned his palms upright. Very well. Very well.

It’s a cargo boat, Saul said. Grain. But I have been assured it will stay afloat. Aside: Which is more than can be said for some of the others I’ve been on.

Markos found Ani in their room, the curtain tied up, dust thin on the floor. Her footprints ringed the bed in a mad ghost dance. Come back, was all she said aloud. When you’re finished, come back to me. You hear?

III

As the sun’s heat increased, the passengers huddled under the wafting netting, bags and sacks piled along the rail at their backs, hemp coiled between them. Saul was apart from Markos and Maya with people he knew, in earnest discussion on the other side of the deck. Granddaughter and grandfather shared bruised fruit. The sea was a cobalt dream, too sparklingly alive to properly look at, a salty, breaking presence which sometimes rose up and kissed them. And this wood, Markos was saying, gummily chewing. Do you know the exact type of wood it is? The tree it came from? Of course I don’t, grandad. Well you should, you should. You should know everything you can see, everything you can touch. The ground you walk on. Markos finished the sentence with his hands. Everything!

Maya was cross-legged. Through the black gauze a bright disc flared. Opening her palms on her knees, Maya held a furry plumstone in one, a grape in the other: breakfast. The stone went over where fish flew out of the waves. But why? What difference does it make? She didn’t mean this: it was said with a smile. Because words are another of your tools! The most basic, Maya, the most basic. That’s what I’m saying to you. You need to know these things, to be interested in knowing these things. Do you know, then? Do I know what? Well, the wood for example? What wood is this? Markos blinked. No. Do you, grandad? Yes, in fact I do. Tell me. Maya peeled the grape with her teeth. Well, this is oak. Markos lay his hand flat on the initials and engravings. Through a pigeonhole the wash rushed by. Well that’s not much use. That’s like saying that what we’re on is a boat. But it is, grandad. We are. Yes, but this, to get back to the point, Markos opened his eyes - he’d been thinking painfully - is Quercus. That’s it. He was relieved, wide-eyed. Quercus? What’s that? She ate the skin of the grape alone, savouring it as she examined her grandfather. Sounds like a… She searched for the word. The wood, he interrupted. It’s white oak. Quercus robur. Doesn’t it sing, that phrase? Doesn’t that set off something in your imagination, Maya? The white oak, the Quercus robur? For me it does. Even if I don’t mention the wood at all in the story I’m writing, I know the boat better because of it - don’t you? Do you see that? I imagine the oak this wood came from on a hillside somewhere, so many miles from people, from any town.

Markos closed his eyes as they rose on the swell. Yes, he could see it: he told her so, chin lifted like a sage, voice a whisper. It is a sunny day, a spring day, a day like today. The sun is good and bright. I can see the fields of grass ahead of me, like blankets laid down, moving. Can you see the wind moving through the grass? The invisible wind?

Maya smiled. She’d closed her eyes, one cheek puffed out by a fruit stone. It could be a poem, she said. Her heart had fluttered slightly at the feeling brought on by the grass moving. Billowing hillsides of purple grass swirling with invisible snakes. Can you see the oak, grandad? No, Maya, no. I don’t see the oak - I am the oak!

The sea and wind rushed past. The old man was hooded, eyes closed, back bent, lips damp. Maya was cross-legged, sticky hands on her knees, grinning, eyes scrunched closed. Both were rapt in happy, mellow ecstasy.

Around them small huddles of travellers chatted and dozed. Children leaned over the side with their hands in the rushing wash and pointed at the faded, moon-in-the-day majesty of the sun-baked Cilician coast. In the sky, dark cuts circled, watched, dived.

The wind was favourable and the crew busy with the hold. Traders on their feet near the bow made deals - some had been waiting at Antioch two days for the weather to change. A drunk who’d been surreptitiously sipping suddenly fell asleep and his empty bottle rolled out from under his cloak and turned a noisy, comic circle by a group of off-duty Syrian soldiers playing dice. Alone in the sun, a Jewish father and son prayed facing Jerusalem. On the faded, dyed coast, a plume of smoke.

What you have in your power is how you arrange words. Nobody else can make them sing to your tune because nobody else is you; nobody else knows the songs you invent, nobody else can invent the songs you know. If you are true to yourself, all you create is in your image and your image alone: it will reflect your soul. You have the talent, Maya, the gift to hear the words, to pluck them out of nowhere. You know what sounds good and what doesn’t and you care. That is good. But you must respect your tools. You must learn the rules before you break them. Of course, when you learn the rules you realise there are no rules. But then again...there are; for that there are none is one. Maya was writing. She used a small pin dipped in ink. That voice in your head that you have heard since you were born is the one you must listen to, Maya. Those images which only you can see you must translate into words, through swirls and ink. Lose nothing in the translation for your language is you.

Markos sat back, took a breath, crossed his legs and dozed with his neck in his beard, his hands crossed on his chest, meditating on how he wished someone had told him all this when he was Maya’s age. Back then he’d been expected to work as a mason: what a fight that had been to escape! It had been like being born into the wrong family. And when he’d realised what he was - what he liked - poetry, words, imagination, inventing, creating, he’d had to extricate himself and learn this new trade the hard way. Nobody had helped him. It had been a tough road of trial and error. He’d had to swallow his pride. He’d had to learn to be humble. To be patient. But he’d always known it was the life for him. He’d always known it was the right thing to do because it was all so obvious to him: it had always been obvious. What he didn’t know and had never known was why? Why was he so sure about this thing of all things? For what? These were questions for - well - yes. He looked at the father and son. Perhaps for God.

Ah, the son. That poor instructed son. Him. Me.

How had he ever had the power to leave home? To leave everything? How that must have hurt his parents. He hadn’t even thought of it at the time, not until Ruth had come along, when he’d been a father too. But it had been the right decision and he was happy with his life because it had been his but where had that power to make it his come from? Now he hardly had the power to digest a meal, let alone pass one comfortably.

Flickering open his eyes he saw Maya bent over, tongue out, scratching away and a terrible thought struck him: What if she were the one? What if she were the reason he had lived so long? What if she were the reason he had learned his trade? The reason he had suffered? Surely not. Surely not. That would be beyond horrible. What if what had come so laboriously to him came easily to her? If she were the talent? If she were the messiah the world was waiting for? Grandad. Do you want to…? Markos had just managed to close his eyes in time. He kept them closed. Are you asleep?

He hid within himself. It would kill him. He could never be that nice, not ever, even to her. He was not done yet. It had not happened for him, what was supposed to happen. He had not received his dues.

Read my poem, grandad - look!

Falling asleep was like dropping inwards into the abyss from whence you’d once emerged.

Markos had been doing it so long he could bring sleep on, first by recognising the signs, by concentrating on the high-pitched humming noise he could hear in his mind which foretold of the drop and then managing the falling away. If he watched his thoughts he saw them mutate and change in front of him. At first he followed the changes. At first he was there, seeing the grotesques, seeing the warping of normality, but then his mind was completely subsumed by the dreams and until a few moments before waking he would have no obvious control over matters. It was only once again, at the end of the dreaming that he would become conscious that something was going on, that things were not right. Sense would impede and chase away the magical nonsense. But what happened during the lost moments? When he was defenceless, his soul somewhere, playing, making art, making connections? What happened then? Who was in control? He was, only he wasn’t. But he was needed. The mind fed on his life and this time it was the desert. Alone. Later he would think: I thought this because of the meeting in Antioch. Seeing the baptism.

The desert.

Walking barefoot - had he done it? - yes! With friends, on a dare. Going to see the madman specifically because they’d been told not to. All of them, walking there in a daze, not speaking. Who had wanted to go?

An aura of reverence, peace, charisma: some strange primeval sensation on the approach. A foreknowledge. A forewarning. A place of dying. Alone in the death place. In the place of a great accident. Life changing: life normal, life peaceful, life interrupted. This was the sensation: physical and mental. Animal and spiritual. Something is going on here and you have no idea what it is.

The booming voice from the water.

The stick thin man with the beard tied in knots, skin bitten and burned. The fire eyes and intensity of the ritual. An absolute lack of fear. Shouting about the Romans. Naming their problems. Fearless declaiming. Markos had never heard anyone shouting like that. The wild man had said things people whispered to each other at home, that they sniggered at or said when they were drunk. Nobody spoke like that in public. This was anti-hypocrisy, bald truths laid out in the sun.

The elderly sat in reeds on the bank under eucalyptus trees. Children on mother’s laps were splashed cool with brown river water, men with their hands on their hips, youths in groups chewing sesame seeds, girls hunched, squatting, watching. Markos remembered being stunned into silence. Who had he been with? Whoever it was, they did not mock the Baptist but stood watching. Nor did he go down to be baptised. Too frightening to loose control.

On deck he cocked his head as he remembered someone shouting from the bank that he was going to get into trouble, this man, if he didn’t shut his mouth - that he was going to get everyone into trouble. The man with the knotted hair and beard had held up his hands and laughed at them all - at their fear of earthly powers. Oh, you people who have no faith at all! You’re all terrified! Terrified! What are you scared of? Being saved? Heaven? Being admitted to the Kingdom of God? How can you perform all your rituals and sacrifices and yet still be so afraid of the truth? What are you afraid of? Of the Romans? Of earthly rules? How can you be afraid of all this when you have been created by God and to God you will return?

You can only be scared if you don’t believe what you are doing and saying! You can only be scared if you have no faith! Because there is nothing to be afraid of! You are afraid of nothing!

Markos came awake. They were docking at Myra. It was cool, warm, his head thick. You were snoring, Maya told him, giving him his sandals. Everyone was laughing at you. Two thoughts struck Markos as she hurried him to his feet. One: ‘The Voice of One Crying In The Wilderness’. Where was that from? Scripture? From his schooldays, memories. Isaiah, he thought - though he’d have to check. Two: he had dreamed of the mad baptist because of Maya. I am the one crying in the wilderness, Markos thought. Come on, grandad, Maya held out her hand and helped him over the gangplank. You need to eat. You’re going funny.

She is the chosen one.

Don’t fall in the water where the dead fish stare up at the sky.

You don’t like priests, do you, grandad? Me? Why would you say that? I know it. Well, I don’t know - apart from their secret rituals, they’re very open people. You don’t like secrets? No. You don’t have any secrets? Of course I do. Things you’ve never told anyone? Things I’ll never tell anyone. Markos nodded at the house across the street. Now be quiet and look at that one. What would you say? The girl with the plaits, scrubbing the door? Yes. What would you say about her? I don’t know. That she’s - well. She’s about my age. No, older. Thirteen? But what - what do you think she’s like? As a person? Is she happy, do you think?

Maya studied the young girl working on the step of the house in the sun. She was dedicated to her task. Next to her a black and white tailless cat was cleaning itself, licking its paws, one hind leg pointing gymnastically upwards.

No. She’s not happy. How do you know? The way she’s cleaning. Maya examined the girl. The shape of her hands. Her knuckles. As if she knew she was being talked about, the girl stopped, turned around and looked across at them. It was busy in their road, the day warm. In the shade on the step where they were sitting, Maya turned to her grandfather. She saw us. So what? What do you think her name is? Maya closed her eyes. Hmm. I don’t know. Something...something with C? Yes. Markos nodded, amused. I agree. Something which doesn’t quite fit her. Too old for her? Named after someone in the family? A dead relative? For sure, for sure. Unhappily named, unhappy in life, poor thing.

Your room is ready, here downstairs, Saul said, appearing behind them in the doorway. He stared out to see what they were looking at. Saw nothing. Maya and Markos looked up to him. Thank you. We eat together in the upper room. I shall see you later. Thank you so much, said Markos. You said you know where everything is? Yes, yes. Markos put his arm around Maya and asked her to help him up. She guided him back into the house. We’ll drop our things off now that we have a room and start work immediately. Until this evening then, Saul said, quickly shaking Markos’ hand in the doorway. My apologies for the haste. Things are moving very quickly. Until this evening. Good luck in your work. Thank you.

The room they’d been allotted was very basic but the straw was dry and fresh, the mats clean and there was a current.

Now what, grandad? asked Maya as they stepped over the threshold into the street a few minutes later. Markos squinted at the sun. Now we see a little bit of the city, he told her. We have some time.

Ceren! someone shouted from inside the house across the road.

The girl on the step dropped her washing and dried her hands on her apron. Coming!

Markos and Maya looked at each other and Maya nodded. Ah, but that one was easy.

It’s bigger than the Parthenon in Athens, Markos told Maya. Well, it has more columns anyway. Have you been there to check? No, but I know. They were looking up at the blue facade of the Temple of Artemis. The sun was high above the roof, lonely in the blue, and they were in the shade, standing near a small trinket stall making a brisk trade.

Earlier, inside the incensed hall, they’d admired the enormous statue of the great lady herself, resplendent with rolling fair hair and scarlet-cream hunting outfit. Pilgrims had stood about with their hands outstretched, some hands high to heaven, singing praises. They say Alexander the Great offered to finish the temple when he came here - Maya skipped in a small circle with her hands behind her back - but the city elders said that it was inappropriate for a god to dedicate offerings to gods. The night he was born it had burned down, you see, grandad. Oh, someone’s been reading. Markos was checking the price of a small ceramic rendering of the temple. The stallholder was watching him closely. You never knew. No. Someone’s been listening to a guide. Ah, is that what you were doing when you wandered off in there?

Why are we here, grandad? I thought you told Saul we needed to do some research? Patience, Maya, patience. Markos glanced at the crowd. Why were they there? Because Shimon had told him to come here when they were in the red room. The thought crossed Markos’ mind that perhaps Shimon had simply wanted him out of Antioch - he and Saul both? Putting down the figurine, Markos looked about for Maya: tourists swarmed the steps and concourse. He saw her talking to a grubby-looking boy, some kind of beggar. Maya! Maya! Come here, right now!

This boy says he knows you, Maya told her grandfather, walking over, hands behind her back, swinging her legs. Markos pushed Maya behind his back. He knew she was green. She had no idea what people were like. Who are you? he asked the beggar boy, bending over him, wagging his stick. What do you want? The boy replied in Aramaic: I’ve come to take you to a friend. Markos saw the same look he’d seen in the eyes of Shimon and Saul; the same unequivocal, half-smile he’d seen on the face of the woman in the meeting house. This little scamp already knew Markos would go with him. He knew everything that would happen. Markos could do nothing, only pretend that he had some kind of influence over his own destiny, his own movement. Who are you talking about, boy? Come with me. The boy began to walk away into the crowds, whistling. A blind girl was singing for money and the boy whistled along to the tune. The scented clouds coming off the meat grills wafted over the pilgrims. Gulls cawed, hungry, from the high holy roof. Maya held her grandfather’s hand. Come on, grandad. They know us...

It was late afternoon when they rode up into the hazy hills on the back of the cart, bumping along ever degenerating roads. The boy sat up above them cracking a rope, its knotted end landing in the same spot on the old ox’s flank, where its shoulder blade wound around and around under its hide. The ox hardly blinked. Pain was life.

Maya and Markos didn’t speak except to point out the views which sometimes rolled out behind them over the tailgate: the grey stone bowl of the theatre and, beyond, in the distance where the hills sloped down into the sea, the harbour. But soon there was nothing to see but gnarled, forked olive trees and farmer’s hovels. The land was dry, the sun hot. Gradually they ground their way over a series of braided hills and covered their mouths against the stirred-up dust. Maya fell asleep on Markos’ shoulder. Markos stared up at the boy and the bruised sky and wondered what Shimon had in store for him. He thought of Ani.

They drew to a halt in the lee of a hill. Maya woke to sparrows singing in the quiet gloaming: they were near a green, smooth grove. The tymbal buzz of cicadas undulated from the dry yellow field grass and the surrounding hills smoked with dying light. An old man waited for them, the faintest outline of a path between his sandaled feet and his crook. Ya! The beggar boy turned the blind-eyed ox and trundled off down the hill. The waiting man called out a greeting to them in Aramaic. He was another North Galilean, judging from the proud gait; that warrior stance. This one was old and dried out, not unlike Shimon. The same jewelled eyes. Welcome Markos, welcome, said the old man using a local, friendly dialect. And you must be Maya? Yes! Hello! Markos mumbled in reply. He recognised the accent; placed it right down to the town. Another of Yeshua’s friends, for sure. Now he was beginning to see their spirits: they were different from the others. He seemed to darken around them, his own soul. He was dim while they were bright. I’m sorry, sir, I don’t know your name. Yohanan, said the old man, already turning. Come, come. Immah is awake and will be glad to see you after all this time.

Walking across the glowing green grove towards a wood Maya examined the stone house which appeared ahead of them between the trees. They had entered an enchanted world: behind them the bright baked countryside and noisy civilization, here some hidden treasure, some alcove, some refuge. There was peace in this space, though it might have been the time of day or their tiredness. Even so, whatever the reason, there was peace.

At the door of the house they removed their shoes and washed and Yohanan pointed at the small brook gurgling out from under the doorstep and running off into the moss and bushes. The stream runs right under the house. We leave it open in the rooms and you can drink from it. On hot days it keeps it quite fresh inside. Immah likes it. He held out his hand. Please, please. She’s waiting for you.

Maya helped Markos up the two steps. Inside was quiet. A candle was lit and a bed set on the floor in the corner of the room, a single homespun sheet folded back. This was obviously where Yohanan slept: some of his clothes were piled, some hanging. Immah is in here, he said, indicating a door which was slightly ajar. Immah Miriam! Immah! Are you awake? Your visitors have arrived.

The one they called Immah Miriam came to the door. Silver blind in one eye, she turned her head to better see, greeting Maya and Markos with a gentle smile of happiness, touching Maya’s face and saying how wonderful it was to see them both; thanking them for coming and hoping their trip was not too tiring.

Yohanan went for food and drink.

Maya saw glittering light on the channel of water passing along the bottom of a wall of the old lady’s room. Miriam shuffled outside, insisting they sit and rest and have something to eat on the grass outside, especially as it was cool that evening. Going back down the steps, they sat together at the side of the house in the shade. Yohanan came back with dates and figs and lemon juice.

Miriam wanted to know where they’d come from and they told her. She asked Maya what she liked and what she’d thought of Ephesus and the trip - had she got seasick? When the old lady asked Markos questions, Maya examined Miriam and thought: I like her. She had the kind radiance of her grandmother Ani, a gentle soul who was at peace with the world, who loved people, who loved her life and who was grateful to be alive without being fearful or grovelling. She was a genuine happy spirit and she softened the edges of the world around her. As she did when she was with her grandmother, Maya felt a surge of love and admiration within herself. This was the type of person she wanted to be. These people were attractive; good people.

Markos was talking about Antioch and the visit and what Saul and Shimon had asked them to do and Immah Miriam said he must go back to the old country and speak to everyone there so that he had the full story of her son’s life - and he must go now, while some of the people who knew, who really knew, were still alive. Yohanan tutted and lightly chided her that it was too dangerous for anyone to go there now: Judea was in revolt, who knew where things would end.

Breaking the silence which followed this, Maya said: I love these flowers! The white ones! I’ve never seen them before. The old lady lit up and began speaking to Maya about her flowers. It’s her passion, Yohanan told Markos, the two of them walking away alone. How is she? Markos asked him. As you see her, he said, shrugging, inviting him to sit. She is the best of all of us. He spoke with Markos for a while about people he might see if he did go back, asking too about Saul and Shimon, but ended reiterating his message about how dangerous Judea was at that time. Perhaps this is the end we were told about, he said. Markos asked if it was really that bad. I don’t know. I don’t know. All I know is that the Lord asked me to take care of his mother and that is what I’m going to do. You can make your own decisions. God will show you, I am sure. But for the sake of a book, for writing, for letters, I would not advise it.

Markos bristled inwardly at the term ‘the Lord’. Some devil in him turned cold at this: he suddenly saw Yohanan as a fool, looking after an old lady who was the mother of a friend of his, all of them playing a game. He managed not to show this and he was not sure if it was even how he felt. What was this feeling within him, which felt like instinct, which was revolted by the piety and the reverence accorded to Yeshua? I’d better see if they are all right, Yohanan said, standing up and wandering back.

Markos was left on the grass licking his sticky, sweet fingers. Through the turning leaves on the trees he could see Ephesus far away, and the hazy grey sea further beyond, and thought: This is a nice place to live. But there was lurking death in the air, too. A place to come and die. The only thing that made it happy was that Immah Miriam was not afraid of death. But death was there in the trees and view, in the remoteness, in the temple-like tone of the conversations. Death was always there. Death was life, of course: we were what we were because we knew this.

Now you must tell me, how are your parents? Immah Miriam asked Markos when he came back. Maya was holding a small bouquet of flowers: off-white opium, a crocus and pink roses. Markos explained that his parents were both long dead, but he told their stories and he and Yeshua’s mother shared memories of the old days, where they’d met and the places they’d been in Sepphoris. Immah Miriam made a point of saying that Markos’ mother had been a very generous woman and that Yeshua, too, had liked her a great deal. Markos was confused by all this, happy when Yohanan interrupted, wanting to know about Shimon and Saul, if they had decided anything about the new church, about the gentiles. Markos said he was sure they had, because it was all they talked about, but he didn’t know what.

As Maya examined her flowers, arranging them, singing to herself, Miriam told Markos about her own family: she had great-grandchildren now and was blessed. She talked about Yosef and finally Yeshua, though most of what she said was transmitted by her eyes, by her looks, by her soft, turning hands and the figures and shapes they made. She held Markos’ hands in hers and said, it has been so long, Markos, so long - but you understand. You know what happened. What they did to him. You saw it all. You were there. Markos didn’t know what to say: We left for Antioch before all that, Immah Miriam, don’t you remember? My father moved for work and took us. I didn’t even have time to say goodbye. Markos began with his excuses. These he had prepared. The truth was he couldn’t remember exactly what had happened when they’d left: his memory jumped about and was exaggerated and warped. Some things he remembered very clearly, some he had invented or embellished. Who knew what was true anymore? It didn’t matter. Miriam shook her head, smiling gently. No, no, Markos. The last day, I am talking about. You were there on the last day. In the morning you came with us when they put him to death. You were there in the afternoon. Later, at the tomb, too, I remember. You were there for all of it. She seemed pained, suddenly, unable to read her guest.

I’m sorry, Immah Miriam, I don’t know what you mean?

Miriam studied him like a bird. Both eyes, silver and dark, widened slightly. Oh, it wasn’t you, was it? she stated quietly. And then the answer came to her and she whispered: It was your son! That’s who it was. He was also called Markos! She turned to Yohanan. It was his son who was there at the end with me. Was it? asked the old disciple. He looked at Markos. Then who is this? Immah Miriam had told Yohanan the visitor had been there at the end, had been there all the time. Yohanan had no memory of a Markos but he believed the old woman - who wouldn’t? Markos, meanwhile, had been pierced by the truth. Impossible, he managed.

Where is he now, your son? asked Immah Miriam. I don’t know who...I don’t know… Markos broke free of her hands and backed away. He stood up, dizzy. Saw the grey falling night and stumbled into it. The birds were singing out of sight, terribly sad: birdsong at dusk, so sad, so sad. I’m sorry, Maya told the old lady. I have to go with him. Thank you for the beautiful flowers - oh, and the delicious food! Maya off down the winding path, calling out after her grandfather. He was walking quickly, too quickly, staff thudding, rising, thudding.

The green hills were turning grey, a veil falling over the valley. They stumbled downhill on the rough roads for hours, Markos wide-eyed and mute, Maya worried, holding his hand, catching him when he tripped, holding him upright until her back ached. When night fell, the moon was so bright it lit their way, casting cloud shadows. Wolves howled in the hills behind them. The sea ahead was silver and beautiful, the moon broken on it. In town, in their street, in Saul’s house, feet numb, Markos fell into bed and lay rigid as Maya lay next to him, curled up. They fell asleep finally just before dawn.