Read Online Secret Magdalene by Ki Longfellow - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Ki Longfellow
Tags: Fiction, Historical
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mere cubits from our camel!
Like a great tree, he stands planted before the sparking campfire, the skin of his thick legs and his thick arms and his thick neck and his fat cheeks above his black beard as ruddy as a roasted calf in the fire glow. Before our eyes, he boasts of his killing. He describes the stabbing of Ben Azar to a circle of seated men, all leaning toward him. We hear the man’s name: Simon of Capharnaum. In a voice thick with the unpleasant accent of Galilee, Simon of Capharnaum shouts out that he has killed other priests in other towns. He proclaims that he has killed Roman soldiers. He has burned whole villages of those he thought loved Rome. He killed a man in Jericho because the man was a Jew and would not be cut. He swears he would kill any Jew who polluted the Law, any Roman who suppressed those who kept it. “I have a brother and a son and a dozen cousins who would do as I do!” So shouting, he pulls a man to his feet, a man who looks nothing like him and is a full head shorter. This man glances round as if someone would kill him, and is speechless at the prospect. “This is my brother Andrew, a man every bit as righteous as myself!” Simon shoves his brother back down again, and here he stops his shouting long enough to glare about him. There comes a dreadful moment when I think he can see us behind our camel. No one moves; no one dares say a word as he tells them that the Lord will bring about the Last Days and that is certain, but he will not bring it with plague or with flood, no! He will bring it through the righteous anger of his Sons of Light. He tells them that he, Simon of Capharnaum, does God’s work, and that he waits for a man, a very king! “And then! And then! ‘We will make the people drunk with the Lord’s fury!’”
I see men listening who have long argued that no man can act for God. I see the ear biter who has forever sworn that the Anointed One has already come and he is Zakkai the Hidden. I see the man with one ear who claims he is a certain Judah the Priest. I see men who love John the Baptizer. Any moment, one or all of these men will surely leap up and run to Jerusalem in a night so that they might smite a Roman.
Now he is telling them what occurs up in Jerusalem, and as I listen my throat closes in fear. Simon and his brother are not only stabbing priests in the Temple, they are breaking into the houses of the rich. Simon swears that soon they will not just plunder the rich, they will kill them, and he laughs that the priests and the Sanhedrin and Rome stand helpless. I am frantic with concern for Father. Simon promises the robbing and the killing will go on until all righteous men will take heart, and arise. Then they will drive Rome and men like my father, children of the pit, from the land. The men who hear him snarl and shout out curses. Their hatred thickens the air until I cannot breathe.
I reach into the mind of this Galilean daggerman. It is as hot as his breath and as red as his rage. But to steal a man’s life and call it good? Father taught us no such thing. Our reading of philosophy has taught us no such thing. My heart tells me no such thing. Are these men right and all others wrong? If they do God’s work, has God gone mad?
I feel as if my illness is with me again, I feel as if I will once more sink into the heated dark where the shouts of this world become whispers.
“Come away,” Salome hisses. “We will wait for the next caravan.”
In that instant, a hand comes down on my shoulder, and I see an arm go round Salome’s slender neck. “What is this!” shouts the owner of the arm. The hand on my shoulder is a vise, its grip so strong I think my bone must break under it. We are shoved forward, out into the light of the campfire.
And all we can see is Simon of Capharnaum.
His hand is instantly under his mantle in threat. There must be a hundred fevered men here, and of these most are not his men, but men from the settlement. “And who are
Like a great tree, he stands planted before the sparking campfire, the skin of his thick legs and his thick arms and his thick neck and his fat cheeks above his black beard as ruddy as a roasted calf in the fire glow. Before our eyes, he boasts of his killing. He describes the stabbing of Ben Azar to a circle of seated men, all leaning toward him. We hear the man’s name: Simon of Capharnaum. In a voice thick with the unpleasant accent of Galilee, Simon of Capharnaum shouts out that he has killed other priests in other towns. He proclaims that he has killed Roman soldiers. He has burned whole villages of those he thought loved Rome. He killed a man in Jericho because the man was a Jew and would not be cut. He swears he would kill any Jew who polluted the Law, any Roman who suppressed those who kept it. “I have a brother and a son and a dozen cousins who would do as I do!” So shouting, he pulls a man to his feet, a man who looks nothing like him and is a full head shorter. This man glances round as if someone would kill him, and is speechless at the prospect. “This is my brother Andrew, a man every bit as righteous as myself!” Simon shoves his brother back down again, and here he stops his shouting long enough to glare about him. There comes a dreadful moment when I think he can see us behind our camel. No one moves; no one dares say a word as he tells them that the Lord will bring about the Last Days and that is certain, but he will not bring it with plague or with flood, no! He will bring it through the righteous anger of his Sons of Light. He tells them that he, Simon of Capharnaum, does God’s work, and that he waits for a man, a very king! “And then! And then! ‘We will make the people drunk with the Lord’s fury!’”
I see men listening who have long argued that no man can act for God. I see the ear biter who has forever sworn that the Anointed One has already come and he is Zakkai the Hidden. I see the man with one ear who claims he is a certain Judah the Priest. I see men who love John the Baptizer. Any moment, one or all of these men will surely leap up and run to Jerusalem in a night so that they might smite a Roman.
Now he is telling them what occurs up in Jerusalem, and as I listen my throat closes in fear. Simon and his brother are not only stabbing priests in the Temple, they are breaking into the houses of the rich. Simon swears that soon they will not just plunder the rich, they will kill them, and he laughs that the priests and the Sanhedrin and Rome stand helpless. I am frantic with concern for Father. Simon promises the robbing and the killing will go on until all righteous men will take heart, and arise. Then they will drive Rome and men like my father, children of the pit, from the land. The men who hear him snarl and shout out curses. Their hatred thickens the air until I cannot breathe.
I reach into the mind of this Galilean daggerman. It is as hot as his breath and as red as his rage. But to steal a man’s life and call it good? Father taught us no such thing. Our reading of philosophy has taught us no such thing. My heart tells me no such thing. Are these men right and all others wrong? If they do God’s work, has God gone mad?
I feel as if my illness is with me again, I feel as if I will once more sink into the heated dark where the shouts of this world become whispers.
“Come away,” Salome hisses. “We will wait for the next caravan.”
In that instant, a hand comes down on my shoulder, and I see an arm go round Salome’s slender neck. “What is this!” shouts the owner of the arm. The hand on my shoulder is a vise, its grip so strong I think my bone must break under it. We are shoved forward, out into the light of the campfire.
And all we can see is Simon of Capharnaum.
His hand is instantly under his mantle in threat. There must be a hundred fevered men here, and of these most are not his men, but men from the settlement. “And who are
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