Revelations(3)
There is only us and we. And we are good, good to go, we are good, good together, we are…
Damn. Momentus interruptus. One of them. One of his other disciples. Who dares disturb us now? Of course—it’s Simon. Peter. Whatever he calls himself these days. Woman hater extraordinaire. And that’s the only point on which he and I will ever agree. He’s standing there staring at us, and I can see his eyes travel up and down the Master’s body. My own eyes narrow, and a low growl escapes my throat, as I can’t help but say snarkily, “Seen enough? Perhaps you should take a picture—it’ll last longer….”
Simon is a hulk of a man, always has been, always will be—large and bulky, but not in a particularly muscular way; I think most of his muscles are in his head
—and he is incredibly hirsute. Naked he resembles a walking bearskin rug—not a pleasant sight. And I think he has impure thoughts about Jesus. I’d slap them out of him if I could, but I know that would only earn me a reprimand from my young prince and he would turn upon me those sorrowful eyes he can affect at the very best of times. But I watch Master Simon, very carefully, for one of these days he and I shall have a showdown regarding this matter, and I don’t intend to come out of it the loser in any way.
“Take a picture?” He frowns at me, mulling over my words, even as I sigh.
He’s generally the last to catch on in any given situation, to acclimatize to the place, to the time, and as usual he’s off a few beats. It isn’t worth the discussion, I decide. Besides, we’ve had this conversation before, and I’m tired of it.
“Never mind,” I snap. “State your business. And quit staring.”
“Judas…” Jesus’ hand falls upon my arm, light as a feather but yet somehow impossibly heavy with meaning. He manages to shush me, before addressing the burly apostle. “What is it, Simon, that you wish to tell me?” His dark eyes are incredibly filled with the love and peace he exudes toward everyone, and how can that simpleton help but be drawn into their depths? Jesus is the magnet toward which we’re all attuned, and it never fails to amaze me—over and over again—that anyone can bring themselves to harm him in any way, much less kill him. But obviously it happens, and will continue to happen, until mankind can get it right.
And in case you are wondering why we are all sans clothing, where we are and what we’ve been doing—get your minds out of the gutter, no apostolic orgy here, I assure you—we’ve spent the night beside this timid body of water that dares refer to itself as a pond, drinking wine and skinny-dipping, and that’s an activity best performed unclothed. End of story. Not risqué at all, is it? Disappointed? Too bad.
The big brute breaks into a simpleminded smile. “Come back into the water,” he urges, “we’re all getting in again, the lot of us. Join us, Master…” Does anyone not notice that his invitation does not extend to me?
I’m highly indignant at this proposed end of our tête-à-tête. There are more things I wish to say, things far more important than the immersion of that glorious body into yon pond, and my face must reflect my feelings, for Jesus kisses me softly, almost apologetically, whispers, “Later, my Judas,” and catches my fingers in his, as he draws me along with him. Can I refuse his siren call? Of course not. I follow him willingly, for I belong to him heart and soul, and I can do no less.
When we reach the water’s edge once more, he’s inundated by the others, who cluster about him demandingly, and I lose that precious contact with him, his fingers slipping from mine as they draw him and him alone into what undoubtedly is damn cold water until the sun will have a chance to warm it—or until Jesus does that thing he knows how to do to hasten the process along. The same sort of trick he employs when walking on water, or making wine from water, or feeding the multitude. Do I consider those miracles? Not really. Jesus is the miracle—those are merely manifestations of his divine being. But they never fail to draw the requisite response from any given audience, no matter the time or place.
I watch as Jesus stands for a moment at the edge of the pond, the others having given him some space at last, breathing room as it were, in order to bear witness to his marvelous performance. Which also means they’re no doubt feasting their vulture eyes upon his superb body as well, but I fight back the inevitable jealousy as I watch him raise his arms above his dark head and execute a perfect jackknife into the waiting water, to the applause of the jackanapes upon the shore, who wait all of ten seconds before cannonballing in after him. Oh what a ruckus they make.