What did I just do, and why? And why do I want to still be out there, doing it again?
Father, please, talk to me?
Chapter Eleven: Judas
What the fuck just happened?
Chapter Twelve: Mary Magdalene
There’s a good crowd tonight. A very good crowd. Friendly enough, the little I’ve seen of them. Not too sophisticated and yet not too backwoods, I think. Other than a few who gawp at the band, their mouths open in amazement, doing a bit of a dead fish impersonation. But you get those everywhere.
I look up in surprise as the boys begin a new song. Some sad melody, about someone who loves a person he can’t have. Oh, so that’s how it is, is it? I have to smile, in spite of myself. I can definitely guess who that’s aimed at. I hope he’s listening. And writhing. It serves him right. Am I too open in my hatred of that man?
Mary stands beside me. She lays her hand upon my sleeve, and I bend closer to hear her words through the music. “Appearances can be deceiving…” Nothing more. I can’t even be sure what she’s referring to, but I have some idea. From the corner of my eye, I notice Jesus re-enter the tent. Simon must’ve found him, just where I’d known he would be. Where I’d known they would be, actually.
He’s heading toward the back of the stage now, and even from here I can see his agitation, most apparent in his flushed cheeks. Seconds later, I see Iscariot.
He’s looking a bit wild-eyed himself—guilty, even, as if he’s just committed murder in the first. He seems to be even redder than Jesus. He looks as if he’s trying to beat the devil himself in his haste to be inside. At first I think he’s following the Master, but no, he’s heading away from him now, and I lose sight of him in the crowd. Not that I care, of course, but now my curiosity is piqued. I exchange glances with Mary, who seems to know more than I do. She seems to have her finger on the pulse of the situation, but she remains silent. No use in asking what she’s obviously unwilling to divulge. No matter, I can ask Matthew later what he knows of things—he’ll tell me anything I wish to know. As will Jesus himself for that matter. But for entirely different reasons. I just don’t want to upset Jesus any more than he already is by asking, though.
He’s upon the stage now, beckoning to Philip. I wonder what’s up. Normally he simply comes on and begins the next song. He’s looking very splendid in his pale blue robes. I know he’s most comfortable in such familiar garb. He tends to wear them upon the stage, or when he’s in our company. In this day and age, it wouldn’t do to go out into public dressed that way. It probably wouldn’t go over very well. But it seems rather appropriate for a group that styles themselves as The Apostles. Philip listens to him attentively, and then makes a sign to the rest of the band. I wonder what’s going on. It seems as though he’s made a change, he’s doing something unexpected. At least it appears that way from the reactions of the others.
As the boys begin to play, Jesus walks toward the front of the stage, carrying his wireless mic. The mic is a concession to the fact that he has a tendency to roam too much in the course of both his vocalizing and his speaking, and wires tangle too easily. He raises his beautiful voice in song, and I am caught by surprise. His voice reveals a depth I don’t remember hearing before, which is saying a lot, because he has a voice like no other. His choice of music is also quite revealing—
to me, anyway. It’s an old song— Kyrie by name. I haven’t even thought about it in years, but now the words flow about me as he fills the tent with his glorious dulcet tones. Kyrie eleison, kyrie eleison, kyrie… Lord, have mercy on me...
Something’s wrong. I can feel it. I’m too close to him not to feel it. Something huge must be troubling him so much that he should make this very public appeal to his father—for that is doubtless what it is. He has never sung this song before.
Never. It doesn’t take a genius to realize what the problem is—or should I say who.
The juxtaposition of events is just too handy. I clench my fists in anger even as I search the crowd nearest to the stage, and sure enough there he is, on the far side, close but not too close. He always snags a point of view nearest the stage when Jesus sings or speaks; otherwise he roams wherever he likes. That little bastard. I excuse myself to Mary and Ruth, push my way politely through the crowd, until I’m standing beside the betrayer himself. He’s unaware of my presence. His eyes are riveted upon the stage. Upon Jesus. Always upon Jesus.
“What’ve you done to him?” I hiss, coiled as if prepared to strike at this, my ancient enemy. I barely restrain myself from slapping his fool face.