YESHUA...THE MISSING YEARS! I’d missed him by a day. A single day. I’ll never forgive myself. If it hadn’t been for that stupid deal when my father couldn’t bear to lose a damn kobo, I would have seen him again. There I was, riding like a maniac. All for nothing. More than three years had passed since I last saw him. I missed him from the day that we parted company. In Egypt. He was the closest friend I ever had. As a matter of fact, considering the time I spend travelling, he was virtually my only friend. And now he’s gone. Dead. They tell me the Romans executed him. Like a common criminal. Why—Yeshûa wouldn’t steal a crust of bread. He wouldn’t hurt a fly. Not the Yeshûa I knew. Could it really be true? They’ve directed me to this broken down hovel. A house, a shack really, on the back-streets of Jerusalem. Mud bricks and a straw roof. The headquarters of his followers. I just don’t believe it. I can’t. He was… He wouldn’t let them… Yeshûa… where are you Yeshûa? Don’t listen to me. I am in a state of shock....“Don’t listen to me. I am in a state of shock. Wouldn’t you be? You would, had you known him as I did. If you knew him at all. Even if you had just met him.” I look around. My eyes fall on a stone bench against the eastern wall. A mud brick wall like the house. All around the courtyard: drab walls, drab bench, drab, beaten down ground for a floor. Yeshûa was never drab. He was rich beyond belief. He was the perennial giver… They let me sit here. Someone came out, told me what happened and went inside again. I’ve been alone since. As usual. As he was. Had been. This is where it had all started. At least for me. On the outskirts of Jerusalem. This is where I’d met the man who now is no more. I know it. The man who came out told me. I’ve also heard it in town. But in my heart, in my heart of hearts, it’s too much to accept. Although, on the way here, I did sense something peculiar. In the whole city. The City of Peace. Peace indeed! A city where they murder innocent people. Not the mob, not some crooks in a dark alley, but the people in power. The Romans. The illustrious noblemen. This is a farce! And the men inside the house aren’t much help either. Or weren’t to him. At least I assume there are men inside. I only met one of them. They told me, outside, before I got here, in a whisper, that his disciples are hiding here. Hiding from whom? And why? Maybe they know something I don’t? They certainly didn’t know him as I do, even if they had followed him during these last three years. Much good it did them. Or him. I feel a pang of anger. So much had happened during these last few years. I’d had my share of excitement, though I shared neither my father’s nor Yeshûa’s ambitions. Live and let live was my motto. So far it served me well. Apparently my friend hadn’t fared so well. And then I’d heard, all the way home, that he was a full-fledged teacher. A Master, they called him. Like a Mallam or Guru, or bishop. God how time flies! I’d just returned home from Nigeria. I had dropped everything and rode all the way. I had to see him. To see if his dream had come true. He never lost hope that it would. That he would fulfil his mission. It had taken weeks to get here. It would have been many months, had I travelled with a caravan. Had I had a premonition? Had he called me to “side? Somehow? I’d missed him by a day. "But how exactly did it happen? I mean, he was always an easygoing fellow. At least, I found him to be so. And…” I catch myself speaking aloud. I glance around but nobody is listening. Not to me. Anyway, they are all inside. They are all lost in their own thoughts. Apparently dark thoughts. They all seem to have crawled into their shells like a bunch of snails on a hot summer day on the shores of Tiberias. I can’t take it any more. I’m going inside. It’s dark. The only light comes in through the doorway I just entered. Small openings, high up on the wall, are shaded. This time I speak aloud. I want to be heard. By whoever cringes in the semi-darkness. “Didn’t you know what would happen? I mean, could you not have helped him somehow, some way?” My hand rests on the hilt of my sword. I know it’s frustration speaking through me. Even anger. But after riding day and night only to miss him by a day, I have a right to be upset. No one answers. My eyes are getting accustomed to the dark. There are bodies everywhere. Inert. After a while, a heavy, thickset man lifts his head. As he looks up I can just see his face. It is lined as though from an intensive effort of trying to understand something beyond understanding. His hair seems prematurely gray. He looks at me as though he is emerging out of a deep, painful dream. “No.” That’s all he said. No. No we couldn’t. No, we tried, and we couldn’t. No. No one could help him, not even He whom he called his Father. It took a long time before I understood what he meant. It was all there. Stated as clearly as though he’d spoken all the words out loud. What really showed in his eyes was pain. Such pain, as I’d never seen before. There are eleven of them sitting on the floor, their knees gathered under their robes, their heads bowed, or hidden in their hands. In the other room I can just see three or four women, huddled together as though trying to avoid the sand carried by the desert wind. Only there is no wind. The air stands still. In abeyance. Waiting? There is not even any noise. Not even a whimper of discontent from Mother Nature. Nor from people in this room. These people might as well be dead.
Posted on: Thu, 25 Jul 2013 13:34:02 +0000
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