That produces a snort from yours truly. “That lot? None of them cares. They’re always glad to see me out of the picture. They look forward to it, in fact. And they celebrate afterward. I’ve seen them…”
That’s something she can’t deny, and she doesn’t even try, for it’s too true. I’ve seen them before, I’ve watched them at their revels, time and again. Okay, maybe strictly speaking they weren’t held to actually celebrate my demise, at least not openly, but my death is a general topic of conversation, and it’s discussed with a definite lack of sorrow, and usually accompanied by such epitaphs as “rotten bastard” and “good riddance to that pain in the ass.” Also a great deal of wine. I find it ironic, considering they’re always the authors of that demise. Whatever. It’s immaterial to me, now and forever.
“There is a reason for everything that happens, Judas,” she continues, as if she hasn’t heard my somewhat bitter words, “whether you know what it is or not.”
“How can I not know the reason for this?” I shake my head in disagreement. I mean no disrespect, but we’ve done this for far too many years, played out the scenario over the decades, the centuries even, exactly as written, at His direction, under His leadership—for God is the orchestrator of all of this, of course, and we are powerless to change it in any way. If mankind would simply take the time to truly look around him, take the time to see what it is that he’s looking at, he’d realize that not only has there been a Second Coming but a Third Coming as well as a Fourth, and many more besides—simply because men cannot seem to get it right, they continue to make the same mistakes, over and over and over again, ad infinitum. Ad nauseum. As a result, His only son must be sacrificed each and every time. The scenario changes, the specific conditions under which we operate vary, but the song remains very much the same. As does my part in what happens. It is written, and it happens, much as I might wish it to be otherwise. End of story. At least until the next time.
“Perhaps this time will be the right time for you and he…” The words fall between us almost stealthily, so soft and so insidious it takes me a moment or two to actually ascertain what she has said, although my heart has caught on more quickly than my brain. What? What does she mean? Surely, she isn’t saying…has something happened, has something been changed I’m unaware of, a revision I’ve not received? Oh please, my God, please, tell me I have a ghost of a chance, and I mean this from the bottom of my heart. Any chance at all, as for over two thousand years I have had none whatsoever.
“M-Mary…” Damn, I’m stuttering like a fool, spit it out man, ask the fucking question. “Mary, do you—”
Too late. As surely as I’ve turned my attention from the watery revelers, they’ve given up the sanctity of the pond to converge upon us. No, not now, not now, I find myself almost protesting aloud, as Jesus drapes a damp arm about his mother’s neck, coming up behind her in welcome, bending down toward her. She turns her cheek to receive his kiss, but her almond-shaped eyes remain enigmatically focused upon me. Damnation! What does she mean? But there’s no help for it now, I must grin and bear it. I know I won’t get another word out of her until she’s ready to release it.
“Is everything ready for tonight?” she asks her son. Surely she knows the answer to that question; she’s simply changing the subject to end our discussion.
When is Jesus ever not prepared? I make quite sure of that—it’s what I do, after all.
“Yes, Mother,” he replies fondly, indulgently, happily, raising his dark eyes to mine, and my protestations die, aborted upon my lips. Why am I so weak when it comes to him? Why can’t I say what I mean, how I feel? Am I never to have any rights in this matter?
But the moment has passed, and now the talk turns to tonight, so I simply bite my tongue, and bide my time…as usual.
Chapter Two: Mary Magdalene
Whore, slut, sinner, liar, lesbian, saint. Blessed, holy, virtuous—and many other things I ain’t. I’ve heard them all over the years. Been reviled, revered, admired, and despised. Laughed at, worshiped, respected, and abused. That’s a whole lot of emotions to stir up just for one woman, don’t you think? And not only that, but I’ve been confused with a whole bunch of other women over the course of time, so it becomes necessary for me to look real carefully to sort out just where the truth lies, between all the tangled skeins of the stories that have been threaded throughout the generations. And generally I come to discover it wasn’t me to begin with.