The Abbot waited in silence. He waited a considerable time for the flames to waver again, for the harp to quiver once more with fright. ... Nothing! He shook his head. “The body of man is accursed,” he murmured. “It’s the body which always intrudes and refuses to allow the soul to see and hear the Invisible. Slay me, Lord. I want to be able to stand before you free of the dividing wall of the flesh, so that when you speak to me I shall hear you!”
The door of the cell had opened noiselessly meanwhile, and the untimely awakened monks had filed in, dressed all in white. They stood against the wall like so many ghosts, and waited. They had heard the Abbot’s last words, and the breath stuck in their throats. He’s talking with God, they said to themselves, he’s upbraiding God: now the thunderbolt will fall upon us! They stood against the wall, trembling.
The Abbot looked off into the distance. His eyes were somewhere else; they did not see. The novice approached and prostrated himself.
“They have come, Father,” he said. He spoke softly, in order not to frighten him.
The Abbot heard his subordinates voice. Turning, he saw the others. He moved from the center of the cell, walking methodically, slowly, holding his moribund body as straight as he was able. He reached the stall, mounted the low stool in front, and halted. The phylactery with the holy apophthegms which was around his arm came undone. The novice darted forward in time to retie it tightly, before it could be soiled by touching the ground on which men walk. The Abbot put out his hand and grasped the ivory-hilted abbot’s crosier which was next to the stall. Feeling new strength, he tossed his head high and swept his eyes over the monks who were lined up against the wall.
“Friars,” he said, “I have a few words to say to you—my last. Open your ears, and if anyone is sleepy, let him leave! What I am about to say is difficult. All your hopes and fears must wake up and alert their ears in order to give me an answer!”
“We’re listening, Holy Abbot,” said Father Habakkuk, the oldest of the Abbot’s suite, and he placed his hand over his heart.
“These are my last words, Friars. You’re all thick-headed, so I shall speak in parables.”
“We’re listening, Holy Abbot,” Father Habakkuk repeated.
The Abbot bowed his head and lowered his voice. “First came the wings and then the angel!”
He stopped, glanced at the monks one by one, then shook his head. “Friars, why do you look at me like that, with open mouths? Father Habakkuk, you raised your hand and moved your lips. Do you have some objection?”
The monk put his hand to his heart. “You said, ‘First came the wings and then the angel.’ We never noticed those words in Scripture, Holy Abbot.”
“How could you have noticed them, Father Habakkuk? Alas! your minds are still dim. You open the prophets and your eyes are able to see nothing but the letters. But what can the letters say? They are the black bars of the prison where the spirit strangles itself with screaming. Between the letters and the lines, and all around the blank margins, the spirit circulates freely; and I circulate with it and bring you this great message: Friars, first came the wings and then the angel!”
Father Habakkuk reopened his mouth. “Our minds, Holy Abbot, are lamps which have gone out. Light them, light them so that we may enter into the parable, and see.”
“In the beginning, Father Habakkuk, was the longing for freedom. Freedom did not exist, but suddenly, at the very depths of slavery, one man moved his manacled hands quickly, violently—as though they were wings; and then another, and another, and finally the entire people.”
Questioning voices rang out joyfully: “The people of Israel?”
“Yes, Friars, the people of Israel! This is the great and terrible moment which we are now passing through. The yearning for freedom has grown ferocious; the wings are beating wildly; the liberator is coming! Yes, Friars, the liberator is coming, because ... Wait—this angel of freedom: what do you think he’s made of? Of God’s condescension and charity? Of his love? His justice? No, this angel is made of the patience, obstinacy and struggle of mankind!”
“You place a great obligation, an unbearable weight, on man, Holy Abbot,” old Habakkuk ventured to object. “Do you have that much confidence in him?”
But the Abbot ignored the objection. His mind was riveted on the Messiah. “He is one of our sons,” he cried. “That is why the Scriptures call him the son of man! Why do you think thousands of Israel’s men and women have coupled, generation after generation? To rub their backsides and titillate their groins? No! All those thousands and thousands of kisses were needed to produce the Messiah!”
The Abbot banged his crosier vigorously against the stall. “Take care, Friars! He may come in the middle of the day, he may come in the middle of the night. Keep yourselves constantly prepared: bathed, hungry, wakeful. Woe is you if he finds you filthy, satiated or asleep!”
The monks herded one against the other and dared not look up to see the Abbot. They felt a wild flame flow out of the top of his head and attack them.
Coming down from his stall, the moribund advanced with firm steps toward the frightened herd of fathers. He held out his crosier and touched them one by one. “Take care, Friars!” he cried. “If the yearning is broken off for even an instant, the wings become chains again. Stay vigilant, fight, keep the torch of your soul burning day and night. Strike! Forge the wings! I’m going—I am in a hurry to speak to God. I’m going. ... These are my final words: Strike! Forge the wings!”
Suddenly he stopped breathing, and the crosier slid out of his hand. Without a sound the old man fell tranquilly, gently, down on his knees and rolled silently onto the flagstones. The novice uttered a cry and ran to help his superior. The monks moved away from the wall, stooped, laid the Abbot out on the stones, and lowered the seven-branched candelabrum and placed it next to his livid, immobile face. His beard gleamed; his white gown had opened, revealing the rough cassock with the sharp iron hooks which swaddled the old man’s bloody chest and flanks.
Father Habakkuk placed his hands over the Abbot’s heart. “He’s dead.”
“His deliverance has come,” said someone else.
“The two friends have parted and returned to their homes,” a third person whispered, “the flesh to the soil and the soul to God.”
But while they talked and arranged to have water heated in order to wash him, the Abbot opened his eyes. The monks recoiled in terror and gazed at him. His face was resplendent, his thin, long-fingered hands moved, his eyes were riveted ecstatically upon the air.
Father Habakkuk knelt and again placed his hand over the Abbot’s heart. “It’s beating,” he whispered. “He’s not dead.”
He turned to the novice, who was prostrate at the old man’s feet, kissing them. “Get up, John. Mount the fastest camel and race to Nazareth to bring old Simeon, the rabbi. He’ll cure him. Quick; it’s getting light!”
Day was breaking. The clouds had scattered; the satiated, freshly bathed earth gleamed and looked up at the heavens with gratitude. Two sparrow hawks leaped into the sky and flew circles over the monastery to dry off.
Wiping away his tears, the novice went to the stable and chose the fastest camel, a young, slender one with a white star on her forehead. He made her kneel, then mounted and let out a yodeling, throaty cry. The camel wrenched herself away from her foundations, stood up and with great strides started to race toward Nazareth.
The morning gleamed over the lake of Gennesaret. The water scintillated in the early light, muddy at the banks from the soil which the rains had washed down during the night, farther on blue-green, and farther still milky white. The sails of the fishing boats were stretched out to dry. Some boats were already in open waters: the fishing had begun. Rosy-white ring plovers perched happily on the quivering water. Black cormorants stood on the rocks, their round eyes pinned on the lake in case any fish should surface to rollick gleefully in the foam. Next to the shore a Capernaum drenched to the bone was awakening: cocks shook the water from thei
r feathers, donkeys braved, calves mooed tenderly; and, mixed in with these ill-matched sounds, the meaningful talk of human beings added security and gladness to the air.
Ten or so fishermen in an isolated cove, their large feet braced in the pebbles, were singing softly while they slowly, dexterously pulled in the nets. Over them stood old Zebedee, their loquacious and seven-times-cunning boss. He pretended that he loved every one of them like a son and pitied them, but he did not give them a moment’s rest. They were paid by the day, and voracious old gobble-jaws made sure they did not relax for even a second.
Bells chattered. A herd of goats and sheep bounded toward the shore. Dogs barked; someone whistled. The fishermen turned to look, but old Zebedee rushed forward. “It’s Philip and his philipkins,” he said with irritation. “As for us, back to work!”
He grabbed the rope himself and pretended to help.
Fishermen continually appeared from the village, loaded down with nets and followed continually appeared their wives, who carried the day’s provisions balanced on their heads. Sunburned boys lost no time in grasping the oars and rowing. They stopped every two or three strokes to bite the dry crusts they held in their hands. Philip stepped up onto a rock where he could be seen, and whistled. He wanted to chat, but old Zebedee frowned. Cupping his hands to his mouth, he shouted, “Leave us alone, Philip. We’ve got work to do. Go somewhere else!” And he turned him a cold shoulder.
“Let him go gab with Jonah; he’s over there throwing his nets,” he grumbled. “As for us, lads, we’ve got work to do!” Once more he seized a knot in the rope and began to pull.
The fishermen resumed their sad, unvarying work chant, and all had their eyes glued on the buoys of red gourds, which came continually closer.
But just as they were about to haul the womb of the net with its load of fish up onto the beach, they heard a dreary buzzing in the distance, all over the plain, accompanied by shrill cries like those of the dirge. Old Zebedee tensed his huge, hairy ear in order to hear distinctly, and his men seized the opportunity and stopped work.
“What’s happened, lads?” Zebedee asked. “That’s the dirge; the women are lamenting.”
“Some great man died,” an aged fisherman answered him. “May God grant you a long life, boss.”
But old Zebedee had already climbed up onto a rock. His rapacious eyes swept over the plain, where he could see men and women running to the fields, falling, getting up again—and raising the dirge. The whole village began to turn upside down. Women passed by pulling out their hair, but behind them the men walked in silence, bowed down to the earth.
“What’s happened?” Zebedee yelled to them. “Where are you going? Why are the women crying?”
But they hurried past him toward the threshing floors and did not answer.
“Hey, where are you going? Who died?” howled Zebedee, waving his hands. “Who died?”
A stocky man halted, puffing. “The wheat!” he replied.
“Speak sensibly. I’m Zebedee; people don’t joke with me. Who died?”
He was answered, by cries which came from every direction “The wheat, the barley, the bread!”
Old Zebedee remained standing with gaping mouth. But suddenly he slapped his behind: he understood. “It’s the flood,” he murmured; “it washed the harvest off the threshing floors. Well, let the poor complain; it’s no concern of mine.”
The cries now inundated the plain. Every soul in the village had come outdoors. The women fell on the threshing floors and rolled in the mud, hurrying to gather up the small amount of wheat and barley which had been left as sediment in the hollows and furrows. The arms of Zebedee’s men fell useless to their sides: they had no strength to pull in the nets. Seeing them all gazing toward the plain with unemployed hands, Zebedee flew into a rage.
“To work!” he shouted, coming down from the rock. “Heave!” Once more he grasped the rope and pretended to pull. “We’re fishermen, glory be to God, not farmers. Let the floods come. The fish are expert swimmers and don’t drown. Two and two make four!”
Philip abandoned his flock and jumped from stone to stone. He wanted to talk. “A new deluge, lads!” he shouted, appearing before them. “Stop, for God’s sake, and let’s talk. It’s the end of the world! Just count up the calamities! Day before yesterday they crucified our great hope, the Zealot. Yesterday God opened the floodgates of heaven—just exactly when the threshing floors were loaded—and away went our bread. And not very long ago one of my sheep had a two-headed lamb. It’s the end of the world, I tell you! For the love of God, stop working and let’s talk!”
But old Zebedee caught fire. “Won’t you get the hell out of here, Philip, and leave us alone,” he yelled, the blood rising to his head. “Can’t you see we’ve got work to do. We’re fishermen and you’re a shepherd, so let the farmers complain—what do we care? ... Men, your work!”
“And have you no pity, Zebedee, for the farmers who’ll die of hunger?” objected the shepherd. “They’re Israelites too, you know, our brothers; we’re all one tree, all of us, and it’s obvious that the plowmen are the roots—if they dry out, so do we all. And one thing more, Zebedee: if the Messiah comes and we’ve all died in the meantime, whom will he find to save? Answer me that if you can!”
Old Zebedee huffed and puffed. If you’d pinched his nostrils, he surely would have exploded. “Go on, for the love of God; go back to your philipkins. I’m sick and tired of hearing about Messiahs. One comes along, he’s crucified; along comes the next, he’s crucified too. And haven’t you learned what message Andrew brought his father, Jonah: it seems that wherever you go and wherever you stop, you find a cross. The dungeons are overflowing with Messiahs. Ooo, enough’s enough! We’ve been getting along just fine without Messiahs; they’re nothing but a nuisance. Go on, bring me some cheese and I’ll give you a panful of fish. You give me and I give you: that’s the Messiah!”
He laughed and turned to his adopted sons. “Step lively, my brave lads, so that we can light the fire, put on the chowder and eat. Look, the sun’s risen a yard and we haven’t done a thing.”
But no sooner had Philip lifted his foot to go join his flock than he halted. A donkey, nearly perishing with a load which reached to its ears, appeared on the narrow path which hugged the shore of the lake, and behind the donkey was a colossus with bare feet, open shirt—and a red beard. He held a forked stick in his hand and prodded the beast: he was in a hurry.
“Look! I think it’s old devil-hair himself, Judas Iscariot,” said the shepherd, holding his ground. “He’s started his rounds to the villages again to shoe mules and make pickaxes. Come on, let’s see what he’s got to say.”
“A plague on him!” murmured old Zebedee. “I don’t like his hair. I’ve heard that his ancestor Cain had a beard like that.”
“The unfortunate follow was born in the desert of Idumea,” said Philip. “Lions still roam there, so better not pick an argument with him.” He put two fingers into his mouth and began to whistle to the donkey-driver.
“Hello, Judas,” he called, “glad to see you. Come over this way a bit so we can get a better look at you.”
The redbeard spat and cursed. He did not like this shepherd fellow, nor did he like Zebedee, that parasite—didn’t like them at all. But he was a blacksmith, a man of need, and he approached.
“What news do you bring us from the villages along your route?” Philip asked. “What’s happening on the plain?”
The redbeard stopped his donkey by pulling its tail. “Everything’s just fine,” he answered with a dry laugh. “The Lord is exceedingly merciful, bless him! Yes, he loves his people! In Nazareth he crucifies the prophets, and here on the plain he sends a deluge and takes away his people’s bread. Can’t you hear the lamentations? The women are wailing for the wheat: you’d think it was their own sons.”
“Whatever God does is right,” Zebedee objected, vexed because all this talk was crippling the day’s work. “I have confidence in him no matter wha
t he does. When everyone drowns and I’m the only one to escape, God is protecting me. When everyone else is saved and I’m the only one to drown, God is protecting me then too. I have confidence, I tell you. Two and two make four.”
When the redbeard heard these words he forgot that he was a day laborer who lived from hand to mouth and had to rely on every one of these people for his livelihood. Fired up by his evil disposition, he spoke and did not mince his words. “You have confidence, Zebedee, only because the Almighty lays a nice soft bed for you and your affairs. Your Worship has five fishing boats in his service; you have fifty fishermen as slaves; you feed them just exactly enough so they’ll have strength to work for you and won’t die of starvation—and all the while Your Highness stuffs his coffers and his larders, and his belly. Then you raise your hands to heaven and say, ‘God is just; I have confidence in Him! The world is beautiful; I hope it never changes!’ ... Why don’t you ask the Zealot who was crucified the other day why he struggled to free us; or the peasants whose whole year’s supply of wheat God snatched away in one night—ask them! They’re rolling in the mud right now, picking it up grain by grain, and weeping. Or ask me. I go around the villages and see and hear Israel’s suffering. How long? How, long? Didn’t you ever ask yourself that, Zebedee?”