Dark Resurrection

  * * *

  Joseph came to Jesus’ door and knocked, Mary letting him in as she was brushing her hair. “That was a good thing you did son, your mother and I are proud of you,” he said, sitting down in a chair.

  “Thanks dad,” Jesus replied, “Mary jumped on me about it though.”

  “I didn’t mean anything, it’s just with all the trouble you’ve had in the past, by helping people and all, I figured I’d look out for you.”

  “She has a point,” Joseph agreed, “Mary’s a smart girl, it would do you well to consider what she has to say on occasion.”

  “Yes father,” said Jesus, feeling they were ganging up on him.

  “Nevertheless,” Joseph continued, “I think you did the right thing tonight regarding those poor Roman fellows.”

  “They’re Greeks father.”

  “Greeks, Romans, what the hell’s the difference?” Joseph retorted, turning to the Magdalene, “Do you think you could come over and do our hair while we’re here?”

  “Sure, but we have to find dinner first, will you be up later?”

  “Probably, knock on our door when you get back,” said Joseph, rising from his seat and leaving.

  Mary watched as Joseph closed the door. Turning to Jesus and folding arms across her ample chest, she remarked, “So, what do you want to do, I’m famished.”

  “I figured we’d fly from town and find the ones who robbed the Greeks.”

  “Good idea, they can’t have gone far.”

  “Exactly.”

  Assuming chiropteric form, they flew from an open window and headed south, looking for warm bodies from the air. A short time later they spied their quarry encamped several miles from the road, a campfire burning brightly next to their tent. Alighting and transforming a few hundred feet from the camp, Mary asked, “How will we know these are the robbers and not nomads camped out in the wilderness?”

  “What do you care?” Jesus asked, trying to understand her seeming change of heart.

  “I don’t, you’re the one who cares about things like that.”

  “Yes I do,” Jesus answered, “Euripides said one will be missing an eye.”

  “Good for him,” said Mary while they headed toward the camp.

  A pair of Arabian stallions stood tied up to a twisted olive tree, with four men sitting around a campfire, getting drunk. One was wearing an eye patch, clearly proving they were the vicious assailants of Euripides and his business partner.

  “Okay, what do we do?” Mary whispered while they hid in the chaparral.

  “I haven’t decided, but these are definitely the ones who robbed the Greeks. What do you think woman, you always seem to have a better handle on this sort of thing.”

  “A diversion will work,” said the Magdalene, watching their victims.

  “Really?” asked Jesus, interested in her predatory tactics.

  “Yes, and have your dagger ready if you want to have fun with them,” she answered, brushing hair from her face.

  “Okay, it’s your move woman.”

  Planning further, she added, “Could you hit one of them in the head with the dagger, instead of the chest?”

  “Easily,” said a confident Jesus, “You want to save the blood don’t you?”

  “Why not,” she replied, “Watch this, my love.” Throwing pebbles toward the men and shaking a bush, she caught the attention of the inebriated road pirates. Growling something in native Anatolian, one rose and walked toward the disturbance, carrying a short sword. As he passed the Magdalene, she broke his neck by snapping it with one hand, draining him on the spot and dropping the corpse to the ground with an audible thud. Hearing the noise, the others rose and headed to their fallen comrade as Mary called, “Now Jesus!”

  Pulling a dagger, Jesus aimed the weapon at the temple of the one-eyed man. Throwing it overhand for maximum power, the speeding blade found its mark, piercing his temple. The dagger entered his skull, the man’s remaining eye crazily looking to the sky for a moment, as if asking God for a reason for his scrambled brain. It continued up to the hilt, and the man died on the spot, his body hitting the ground like a stone, dagger through the head. His comrades turning to view his demise, Jesus and Mary moved into the open, cornering their remaining victims next to the tent, baring fangs.

  “Vampires!” came the cry, Jesus declaring, “Next time fools, beware of Greeks who have friends.”

  “What?” asked one, understanding the Latin vernacular.

  “The men you robbed this evening, they were friends of mine.”

  “Only brief acquaintances really,” said Mary, running her tongue over her fangs.

  Grabbing the men, they sunk fangs in their necks, sucking their blood until they died.

  “That was fun wasn’t it?” Mary asked as Jesus walked to the one-eyed man’s body, knelt down and sucked it dry.

  Glancing at the corpses, Jesus belched and answered, “I get it now. It’s more fun to deal with them directly, rather than by using entrancement.”

  “I’ll tell you another thing, you’re damned good with that dagger, you nailed him in the temple, that’s incredible!”

  “I can hit anything within fifty cubits,” said Jesus, pulling the dagger from the man’s head and rising to his feet. No blood was evident on the blade, so Jesus slipped it in his robe.

  “Is that so?”

  “I’m good with a sword too. I told you before my father taught me the fundamentals as a child, but I really learned to fight with blades in my twenties when traveling through India.”

  “Yes, I remember you telling that to Simon Peter in Galilee.”

  “Ah Peter, I called him my rock, now he’s as dead as a stone,” said Jesus, waxing philosophical.

  “Are you going to rob them?” asked Mary, looking to the bodies.

  “Need you ask?” Jesus replied while checking the one-eyed man’s corpse for loot. “It’s as if this man were made of silver,” he added in surprise, finding a hoard of denarii on the body.

  “He’s wearing a nice toga too.”

  “That he is,” said Jesus, looking at the fancy clothing, “He was a Roman citizen, look at the signet ring on his finger and the leather shoes on his feet. Let’s take his clothes too; I could use a new pair of duds.” He robbed the other bodies, gathering a pile of metallic loot that he placed in two leather sacks, one bursting with silver; the other filled with gold and jewelry. While Jesus rooted through their tent, Mary stripped the one-eyed cadaver, saving the Egyptian cotton tunic, fine leather shoes, and wool plebian toga for her consort.

  “He sure had a small pecker,” Mary observed, looking to the naked body after her consort had returned from the tent.

  “Don’t be so coarse woman, it’s unbecoming of you,” said Jesus, “That’s a man’s province.”

  “You’re trying to say men are pigs and women aren’t?”

  “Not quite, but close.”

  “That’s not true at all, you’ll find women are much worse in that area than men are even capable of,” Mary retorted, a hint of anger in her voice.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Women are more carnal than men can ever be, or haven’t you noticed?”

  “Really?” Jesus asked, looking to her.

  “Remember, I was a whore in Magdala and Jerusalem and I liked it a lot, because it felt good to use men, especially when most of those flaccid bastards couldn’t satisfy me even if they’d screwed me for years. Hell, in the past I’d bed just about anything for money to feed myself, tell me dear Jesus, would you?” she asked, dropping the stolen clothing and putting hands on hips.

  “Well, I don’t think I could do – ”

  “That’s my point, men are pigs on the surface, where it looks good, women are pigs in their souls. Do you remember Adam’s wife Eve, in Genesis?”

  “I
understand,” said Jesus, holding up hands in surrender.

  “Good, that means you’re one of the few men who can actually admit that!”

  “Are you serious?” asked Jesus, looking his angered consort in the eyes.

  “What do you think? Actually, it’s a damn good thing women are that way; otherwise, the race would die out in one generation. Tell me, can you imagine anyone in their right mind who actually wants to pass something the size of a melon in agony?”

  “You mean bearing a child,” said Jesus, understanding her vivid allegory.

  “Of course - women, out of unremitting carnal desire, take the risk of dying during childbirth, along with being tied to the demands of a child afterward.”

  “So what, that’s the truth of our existence, if you’re looking to blame anyone for the role of your sex, blame God, if such a being even exists.”

  “Even then no one appreciates us or what we do in caring for babes and children, men demeaning us or holding us in contempt for simply being women!”

  “Whatever,” said Jesus, lifting leather sacks over his shoulder, “Why are you giving me such hostility Mary, do you really think men don’t appreciate women?"

  “Yes I do, look how your father treats your mother – would you want to be treated that way?”

  “He doesn’t mean it, he’s a bitter old man.”

  “You always said to treat others as you would have them treat you, did you mean it for men only?”

  “Of course not,” said Jesus, disgusted by the remark.

  “Your disciples certainly seemed to think so, look how they used to order the women who followed you!”

  “I wasn’t there all the time, what the hell could I do?” an angered Jesus asked, the couple having an argument in the middle of a desert, surrounded by cooling bodies.

  “They thought of us as camp followers, and didn’t even have the common decency to pay us for waiting on them hand and foot. We may as well have been their slaves for all they thought of us!” Mary exclaimed, ignoring her consort’s question, hands still on her hips.

  “Stop,” Jesus ordered, holding up a hand. “I understand, and it was not I who did that, especially to you, nor to any other woman I encountered!”

  Mary grew silent, obeying him, while Jesus knelt down and retrieved the stolen clothing.

  “Are we going to steal back their horses?” she asked.

  “Why not,” said Jesus, “These dead men have no use for them, besides, we have at least sixty pounds of loot, and we can’t carry that kind of weight around easily as bats, can we?”

  “No,” Mary replied, walking to the pair of Arabians, loosening their tethers from the olive tree.

  Jesus placed his sacks of booty over one horse’s back, Mary asking, “What do you want to do with the bodies?”

  “Leave them for the jackals. They’re in the middle of nowhere; by the time someone finds them, if they ever do, they’ll be bleached skeletons, and no one around here cares anyway.”

  They mounted the steeds, leaving the area with the campfire still burning brightly, galloping back to Mansahir. Tying up the horses in front of Euripides’ room, they walked to his parent’s room carrying their loot, and knocked.

  Jesus’ mother answered the door. “Please come in, we’ve been expecting you.”

  “Hello son,” said Joseph, “Did you kill off the bastards who beat the Greeks?”

  “Yes, we also robbed them and stole back their horses.”

  “Good,” Joseph replied, “After all this time justice is being done!”

  “I hadn’t looked at it that way,” said Jesus, dropping the sacks of loot to next to a table, still ruminating on what the Magdalene had said earlier.

  “Your father’s right,” his mother declared with an uncharacteristic harshness, “It’s about time somebody killed off rotten sonofabitches who do such things!”

  “You explained it to her well didn’t you father?” asked Jesus, never having heard his mother speak that way.

  “Yeah, she isn’t half as stupid as I once thought,” Joseph replied, forgetting himself for a moment and quickly adding, “I’m sorry wife, I didn’t mean that.”

  Mary looked to her husband and sighed. Turning from him, she asked the Magdalene, “So, Joseph told me you’re a beautician of sorts.”

  “I guess,” said the Magdalene, “I used to cut hair for the pimps and whores of the brothels I worked at.”

  “Is that so?” Mary asked.

  “Can you make me look like Jesus does?” asked Joseph, attempting to change the subject.

  His wife looked to him impassively as the Magdalene answered, “Certainly, let’s get started immediately.”

  Jesus and his mother watched while Mary cut Joseph’s hair short, making him look much younger than his fifty plus years, and trimmed off his long but neat beard in preparation for the razor.

  “I’ve never had a shave,” said a nervous Joseph, beholding the gleaming steel blade in the Magdalene’s hand.

  “Don’t worry father, it’s easy,” Jesus replied, trying to soothe his father’s justified fear.

  “Easy for you maybe, you’re a vampire,” Joseph retorted, “What if she cuts my throat with that thing?”

  “I won’t cut you, I have very steady hands,” said Mary, holding them out so he could see she did not tremble. Turning to Jesus, she asked, “Would you get oil from a lamp please?”

  “What’s that for?” asked Joseph, for a moment imagining his beard being burned off by flaming oil.

  “It lubricates the skin so the razor won’t nick you,” said Jesus, removing a lamp from the wall and blowing it out, handing it to his consort.

  “I see; if you nick me you won’t go crazy over the blood will you?”

  “Of course not,” Mary answered, rubbing warm oil into his beard, “We’ve already eaten anyway.”

  “You did at that,” said Joseph.

  “Besides, even if I did lose control, good Jesus would protect you,” she teased with an impish grin, Jesus smiling at the remark.

  “Okay,” said Joseph, turning up his chin, “Let her rip, or better yet, give me a close shave.”

  Within minutes, he was shorn of his remaining beard without the tiniest cut. Mary presented her mirror, Joseph marveling at the reflected image of his hairless face.

  “It feels so weird,” said Joseph, rubbing his smooth chin.

  “He said the same thing,” Mary replied, looking to her consort, “You’re looking a little haggard yourself Jesus, you could use a shave too.”

  “Really?” asked Jesus, rubbing stubble on his face.

  “It’s been weeks since your last shave, you don’t want to go around looking like a bum do you?”

  “No, go ahead and shave me.” Sitting on a stool, he drenched his short beard in oil.

  “You use too entirely too much oil, next time let me do it will you?” said Mary, wiping the excess from his face. She shaved him, trimmed his mother’s hair, and even took time to give her, Joseph and Jesus a quick manicure.

  “We look so nice,” said his mother, admiring her nails as she stood near a wall lamp. Looking to her clean-shaven husband, she asked, “Do you think we could get some henna, I’d like to try on designs I used to see on the Bedouin and Samaritan women.”

  “Sure, I don’t care,” Joseph replied.

  “I must admit I found it attractive,” said Mary, “Like carrying around a beautiful piece of embroidery on your body. I never understood why the priests said we weren’t allowed to wear such things, it seems so - ”

  “Maybe because the priests were a bunch of sanctimonious assholes who liked to control people,” Joseph retorted, looking to his wife with a frown, not wanting to continue the conversation.

  Sensing her husband’s ire and turning from him, she looked to the Magdalene and
said, “We thank you very much Mary, you’re very talented when it comes to cosmetology.”

  “I’m pretty good when it comes to clothing styles too,” the Magdalene volunteered, producing the sack containing the looted clothes, “Look at this fine toga, we stripped it from one of the robbers we killed tonight.”

  “My God!” his mother exclaimed, almost fainting while looking at the bloodstained upper area of the toga.

  “Don’t worry, the blood will wash out easily with cold water,” said Mary.

  “I suppose,” said his breathless mother, leaning heavily on a chair.

  Jesus sat oblivious while Joseph stared at the ceiling, smiling in amusement.