Last Supper - Excerpt from THE FIFTH GOSPEL a Novel.

On the south side of Mount Zion, there stood a property owned by Nicodemus and Joseph of Arimathea, which they had given over to the Essenes of Jerusalem for their celebrations. Here, in an upper room called the cenacle, reached only from the outside by a staircase, Jesus gathered with his disciples for the celebration of the Passover feast.

The room glowed from the warmth of firelight and from the windows there came only a scant light, from that silver moon that rose in the ocean of black above. The tables, set like a horseshoe, followed the shape of the room, and were surrounded by divans upon which the disciples inclined. On the middle divan sat his master, he sat to his left, and on the right sat Judas with the rest dispersed here and there according to their fellowship.

The tumultuous events of the past week, had given way to a contemplative mood among them, and a renewed feeling of gloom, of foreboding, began to fall over those present with the oncoming night, made more real by the whispering of an unearthly wind that whistled around the walls of the houses, and made the trees shiver.

This wind recalled to John stories of that first Passover, and the sweeping destruction that was visited on the people of Egypt by the angel of death, passing over only those whose doors were painted with the blood of the lamb. A thought came to John,

A blood sacrifice had once saved the people.

He thought on this as the others ate and talked quietly among themselves, the women came to refill the cups with wine and the baskets with the unleavened bread. When his eyes fell on Christ Jesus he was taken by his radiant presence and another thought came, like fish glimmering below the surface of a stream:  

He is that image handed down from generation to generation. Jesus is the true Passover lamb! He must die to save Israel!

Full with this realisation he looked about him but realised that none of his fellows had seen it, they hanging on his master’s words.

‘I have desired to eat this Passover with you,’ he said to them, ‘before I suffer my sacrifice…for I say to you, that I will not eat again until the Kingdom of God has fulfilled its task in my body.’

He took a basket full with unleavened bread and gave thanks for it, and began breaking it into small pieces, and handed it to those present.

‘This bread is like my body, which I shall sacrifice for you. A time will come when you will not see me though I am within your heart. When you eat of the bread, made from wheat, remember, you will be eating of my body, which will have become one with the earth.’

Taking the jug of wine then, he gave thanks, and filled a jasper cup and said,

‘Drink this among yourselves.’

He lifted the cup high.

‘When you drink wine made from grapes remember, you will be drinking of my blood, which I have shed for you. Look at this cup. In times to come, when you shall not see me, take comfort, for I will be with you, in your soul, in the same way that wine sits in this cup.’ His countenance looked about the group. ‘I will be in your hearts, in all of you, even those who do not love me.’

‘We all love you!’ said Phillip.

‘You may say that, Phillip, but even now, one among you at this table, will betray me.’

John saw anxiety scurry over those faces in the group, like a light disturbs mice in a dark room. Whispers and looks, and wisps of glances, were exchanged and all around men fell into disbelief, moving their hands this way and that way.

‘Who is it Lord. Is it, I?’ one man after another asked.

At this point John felt as though he was in a dream. Quietly Lazarus-John, the beloved of his Lord, entered the room. To his mind he carried a basin, and a pitcher, and on seeing him, the others began to mumble and to argue among themselves, not as to the betrayer, but as to whom it was that was closest to their master. In his heart, John, son of Zebedee, felt no desire to be greater than the one who was raised from the dead. In fact, he felt a certain kinship with the beloved of his master. His raising, in itself, meant that some strange mystery was affixed to him, which John did not fully comprehend, but which he knew in his soul to be of profound significance.

In this dream, he saw his master lay aside his garments, and take a towel to gird himself. He saw him pouring water into a basin and brought it to the table, and no man knew what he was about to do until he knelt, and started removing the sandals from Andrew’s feet, to wash them. Andrew seemed astonished. All were amazed, as the master proceeded to the next disciple, and the next.

He continued to wash their feet, one by one, and while he did so he said to them,

‘Who is greater, the one who sits at the table or the one that serves him? Is it not he that sits at the table? I sit at the table and I serve those whom I love. For you are like my feet, and hands, and arms,’ he said to them, ‘what would I do without you? Just as the head must bow down in loving, humble service to all that lives below it, so must I bow down before you who are a part of me…’

He came to Simon-Peter and Simon-Peter, aghast, fell to shaking his head, ‘No! No! I shall never let you wash my feet!’

Christ Jesus looked up at him, ‘But Peter, my brother…if I do not wash your feet, then you are not a part of me.’

Simon-Peter was full of emotion then for it, ‘Lord! Not my feet only, then,’ he said, and put his feet in the bowl, ‘but also my hands, and my head! My whole body!’

There was a quiet murmur of laughter among them.

‘Your feet are the lowermost part of your body, they help you to stand on the earth,’ he said, wiping them with the towel, ‘When they are clean, your body rejoices. But your soul may also defile your body, if it is bound by passions.’

John came awake with a start and realised that he had been day-dreaming his master’s words to life. 

Christ Jesus continued, ‘For this reason, your soul must not be your master, but you must rather be the master of your soul, or you will pollute your body. All of you who sit among me represent various degrees of perfection…you, I can lead to the Father…for you are clean, and unpolluted…all except one whose soul has mastery over his body, and whose passions have taken control of him.’

The disciples looked about them again, not knowing what he meant.

‘He is the one whom I say, shall betray me.’

‘Who do you speak of, Lord?’ Simon-Peter asked.

Lazarus-John had taken a seat beside Christ Jesus, and was inclining his soul to his master’s words, and it seemed to John of Zebedee that his master had answered the question, for he heard these words:

He is the one, whom I shall give a sop when I have dipped it’

His master dipped a portion of bread into his wine then, and handed it to Judas, and this, being a most intimate and honoured act, made Judas hesitate.

Judas looked at him.

‘You have been given your wages, do it quickly,’ Christ Jesus said.

With eyes round and strange, Judas took the sop and put it in his mouth, and in a flicker, John saw the deathly vision of Satan reflected in his eyes, and Judas took his bag and was gone into the night.

The others thought that because Judas held a bag full of money, Christ Jesus had asked him to buy something for the feast, or had sent him to give something to the poor, but John knew the truth. In his heart he knew it, though he did not know how. Judas had already been paid for his betrayal!

When Judas left the upper room, Christ Jesus said,

‘Now the circle is made pure, for all that is selfish and full of passion has left it.’ 

After that, they ate the bread and wine without appetite, and gave thanks by singing a Pascal hymn, from the second portion of the Hallel. John’s heart was low. He did not wish to think on how the betrayal would come, or when.

After the Hallel, Christ Jesus stood and having found his mother said some words to her and kissed her on the cheek. John saw how his Lord’s mother near lost her footing for it.

When she was consoled, he returned to his disciples and said, ‘We go.’

Taking some torches, they went out into the darkness of night. Above, the hiding moon gave scant light and they were afraid.

It was a strict observance of the Passover to remain inside the safety of the home, for in the open no man was protected from the avenging angel of death. But John loved his master and trusted him and despite his fear he fell in with the others, and followed them into the chilly air. They passed by the gate north of the Temple and descended into a desolate part of the valley of Kidron. John realised how tired he was. The long week had made inroads into his body, and weariness now caused him to feel breathless. They   walked on, and crossed the swollen brook, and took the road that led toward Olivet, to the garden of Gethsemane.

His master told them, ‘Soon you will not see me…I will be delivered to the Levites and they will take me to the Gentiles and I will be crucified…’

The wind sang in his ears, and John felt wilted with terror for these words.

‘I will follow you!’ said Simon-Peter, stumbling in the darkness, ‘I will fight cheek and jowl with your enemies. You see, I have brought my filleting knife? Sharp too it is and no mistake! I am ready to go to prison, and to march into death with you!’

Christ Jesus looked at him in the mysterious blue light of that spring moon, ‘Put your knife away, brother…you say you will lay down your life for my sake and yet…I say to you, you will all desert me.’

There were gasps.

‘All,’ he said significantly.

‘Not I!’ Simon-Peter said, ‘This lot, may, but not I!’

He stopped to look at Peter, ‘Before the cock crows you will have denied me three times.’

Simon-Peter howled then, like a wounded wolf. ‘Not I! Tell me it is not so!’

Jesus was grim-faced and stern, ‘Satan desires to have you and take the best of you for himself as he has taken Judas. But I know, that in your heart you are full of faith, and for this reason I have prayed for you, that your faith will not fail…I have prayed that you will stay with me, to help me carry my cross!’

‘I will carry it!’ said Andrew.

Looking to Andrew he said, ‘Yours shall be a different cross, Andrew, and for this reason it shall be remembered by all men…I tell you, this night, none of you will remain with me…you will scatter, every man to his own, and you will leave me alone for fear…But I will not be alone, because Christ is with me and through Him I will overcome the world!’

Christ Jesus walked on, breathing heavily, as if all things were now an effort for him.

Simon-Peter, who would have fallen to his knees after those words from his master, were it not for Philip and Andrew beside him, trailed behind, sorrowing, ‘Why did you say, that you would carry the cross, Andrew? Do you always have to better me…? I will carry it, by God! I will not fail you, master! I will not fail you!’ Simon-Peter called out.

Some of the disciples began to mourn. John’s eyes filled with tears.

Christ Jesus said, from his position ahead of them, ‘You are sad now, I know it, and I tell you, you shall be even more sad later, but your distress will be turned into elation. Have courage! Do not let yourselves be afraid, for fear will make you sleep, and I need you awake! Is it not true, that when a woman labours she is full of sorrow, because her hour is come, and then as soon as the child is born, she is full of joy? I will die, that is certain, but what is death if not a spirit birth? Death my brothers, is only semblance. I say to you, I was born from the spirit and again I shall leave the world, through death, and I shall return to the spirit, and I will live again!’

John had known it all along, but only now did the others understand that their master was indeed going to his death. To this was added the understanding, that his death would bring forth new life.

‘What do you wish us to do?’ asked Bartholomew, between tears. ‘Tell us, and we will do it…because we love you!’

‘As I have told you, I am like a man taking a long journey. I leave my house, and I command the porter to watch the gates until I return.’ He paused now to say to them, ‘You are my porters…if you love me keep watch! Do not let me find you sleeping…do not be tempted to sleep!’ he said it, and his voice seemed full of exhaustion.

Joseph of Arimathea had given them the key to his garden, which was full of olive trees and roses, and fruit trees and they had come here for contemplation, rest, and prayer during the last week. His master used the key now, to open the lock, and they entered into the garden where all seemed strangely evil.

Simon-Peter said, ‘Lock it again Lord, it will buy us time.’

‘Why should I buy time? The Wheel of destiny is set in motion, and all will be as it will be…you cannot change it…’ He took Simon-Peter’s face gently into his hands, and looked deep into his eyes. ‘When will you understand, my brother, why I have come to this earth? When will you see that I have not come to teach, or to heal, or to cause miracles…? I have come to die!’

This last word took all of his breath and he let go of Simon-Peter’s face and continued walking.

‘The hour of darkness is at hand, the people, the guards, the priests, they all have their parts.’

‘Does no man have a choice?’ Phillip said to him catching up. ‘What of the freedom you have told us about...are all things foreordained, so that nothing can be changed. What of those who will persecute you, do they not stand a chance, or will they be condemned forever to pay for it?’

He looked at him, ‘Until now, you have all been bound to necessity and you have not been free. You have not been free but you have believed that you are free, because you are trapped in illusion. What is to befall me soon is still necessary, Phillip, but after my death, you will have freedom and the possibility of salvation.’

‘Freedom from what?’ Phillip asked.

‘Freedom from the illusion of death,’ Christ Jesus answered. ‘I will die and overcome death, to save the world from illusion, to show all of mankind that after death, there is life. Then salvation may come, not only for those who love me, but also for those who are against me now, those who raise their hands to strike me, and those who come to take me to my death. Rest assured, although these men do not know me…although they may spit upon me, and call abuse, and wound me, they shall remember me, even after death, and this will prepare the way for them to come to me freely, in their coming lives.’

‘What did he say?’ said Andrew.

Simon-Peter, stunned by his master’s words, now lost his composure entirely. ‘Why don’t you listen Andrew! Must I always be your ears? He says that everything that happens to him is destined to be, but that after he dies his death will bring about freedom, so that even those who do not love him now, in the future, may choose to love him!’

When they reached a clearing bordered by trees their master said to them, ‘John, Peter, James, come with me, the rest may remain here…pray that you do not fall asleep, that you are not tempted to lose yourselves, that the world might know how I have fought to wrest men’s souls from the clutches of death.’ 

John followed Christ Jesus his brother James and Simon-Peter to a different place, deeper into the garden. Around them lurked the shadowed corners, and above where the moon came and went behind clouds. A damp, frozen wind, swept the trees, and wound around the shivering group.

What would they do without him?

Where would they go?

Behind them the others huddled together: Andrew and Phillip, Thomas and Matthew Levi, Jude and Simon the step-brothers of the Lord, and young James, the son of Cleophas, as well as Bartholomew. Those who had walked with him, and broken bread with him, and suffered with him all the deprivations of the last three years. 

Christ Jesus left the three of them in a small clearing. He would go nearby alone. He warned them not to fall to sleep.
They sat together, pulled their cloaks around them and looked at one another with dread-filled faces, for they understood with clarity, that the hour had come.They had been warned of it, time and again, and yet in their eyes was matched their un-readiness for it. Fear made a longing for the oblivion of sleep, a longing for the comfort of nothingness. Above, winged shadows menaced the moon and the wind was full of voices.
John’s exhaustion was deep. He remembered that such a feeling had come over him before, upon the mountain of spirit, when he had not endured the vision of his master’s glory. It struck him that he should not sleep again. No. But his eyes were heavy. He could feel a dullness rise upwards to wipe away his thoughts – like a dreadful guardian who bars the mysteries from those who are undeserving. Perhaps his will was unequal to sleep’s unstoppable force?

He looked at the others, they were already asleep.

He pinched his skin, he rubbed his eyes, but the sounds of their regular breath lulled him. He made a prayer in his heart for strength to withstand it, since he did not want to fail his master when he needed him the most! He told himself, he must stay awake and ‘watch’…and yet…how blissful the others seemed to him in their numb peace! Perhaps he could close his eyes for a moment…surely a moment would scarcely matter? How consoling it would be to rest, to forget the unpleasant and dreadful events that he knew would soon come; time enough to worry about them on the morrow.

He blinked. It was only one blink, and then came the sound of his brother calling through the darkness of the garden,

‘Get up! They come!’

Standing among his fellows now, with his mind in a fog and his mouth dry, he rubbed his eyes and saw torches, striking a path through the garden. He realised that with a blink, fear had drawn a frozen hand over his eyes and he had failed his Lord.

Confessions of an Author: My muse, and how the Rolling Stones got it right.

All artists know that enigmatic, mysterious, exhilarating and annoyingly indeterminate moment when inspiration lifts the soul out of the dung heap of mediocrity. 


One can be toiling away for days, weeks, months, years, writing utter rubbish (unfortunately often when a deadline is looming) and then, quite unexpectedly, seemingly undeserved, a word enters into the mind like a whisper, or one comes across a book lying around or someone says something at a supermarket check out that suddenly works like a white brand of light out of a blue sky, shattering the fabric of your world, shinning a light upon the path that you must tread to creative excellence.  


The Goddesses responsible for these moments of inspirational bliss were known to the Greeks as muses, and all good poets, writers and musicians have acknowledged their valuable help. They were ethereal creatures that increasingly embodied real women: the Florentine  Dante had his Beatrice, Orpheus his Euridice, Shakespeare his Dark Lady, Novalis his Sophie, Scott Fitzgerald his Zelda, Ezra Pound his Olga...I could go on and on. 


My muse has, over time, become as tangible and real as a friend,  but there are moments when I, the mortal that I am, have lapses of forgetfulness; moments when I'm too busy with my own thoughts to listen to my friend's gentle urgings.


Last week I experienced such a lapse and this is my confession.


I was going quite mad looking for a book I thought I needed to continue writing the sequel to THE SIXTH KEY. In my heart of hearts I felt that the book was not in the house but my head would not listen! 


Looking for a book is a tiresome activity that, due to my tenacious nature, leads inexorably to a process that must run its course. Firstly I must tear up of the house looking for it. Next there is much blaming and finger pointing, after which comes the inevitable denial of any responsibility on my part, followed by a period of incertitude and palsy that lasts until something happens to break the miasmic spell. 


In this case it was an idea. 


I woke up one morning - 3am -  with the idea that the elusive book must be on our little boat (where I write on and off). So the next day I set off with the uncharacteristically choleric walk of a hunter in pursuit of a valuable prize that must be procured at any cost. But after hours of searching through a wilderness of previously unseen nooks and crannies, I had to sit back defeated, with only a glass of mineral water and the gentle lulling of the waves to calm my nerves. It was over, the hunt for the book had come to grinding halt and I would have to find my way home empty handed, humbled and broken.


During moments of despair, if one is quiet, one can discern the gentle voice, the soft suggestive whisper that speaks in the ear and says: Look!  And if you are obedient as I am when completely deflated, you will do as you are told. I looked but I did not see the book I wanted alas (!) I saw another book that I had quite forgotten about lying around. I grudgingly opened it to any page and on closer inspection was shocked. Elated. Grateful.  


This was exactly what I had been looking for! 


When I got home I took the new book to the bookshelf and inexplicably found the other book I had been looking for sitting on the shelf quite happily! I had not seen it  because it was the WRONG BOOK!


In the end I could have saved myself a lot of trouble just by listening to my muse and trusting that when she doesn't give me what I want it is because she wants to give me something better - she wants to give me what I need!

The Alchemical Dew and Assorted Trials!

For me writing is an Alchemical process which is not too dissimilar to baking a cake. Yes! And I am going to share a slice of mine with you over a coffee. Ready?

The deconstruction of my darlings, spoken of in the last blog I call the 'solve' or dissolving aspect of the work. It can take from a week (rarely) to a few months (commonly)! And even when it is over I am by no means on my way to making the ideal - the delicious concoction that will not only engage, but educate, not only thrill for a moment but hopefully enter into the hearts of its readers for a while making them see the world differently.

At this point, sad to say, I have merely turned the oven on and cleaned the bowl in which I will combine the ingredients.

Before I begin to create I have to ascertain what sort of creation it will be, and this is a process of building - 'coagula' - and deconstruction - 'solve' again. This I liken to the making of the shopping list and it has to do with a monumental number of possibilities because the recipe or various combinations of recipes are made up of any number of ingredients. All my research, the endless prevarication, procrastination and conversations have led me to a number of characters and plots that now appear on the list! They take turns at trying to out do one another in order of importance. I ask myself:

How many characters will I have? Which one is the protagonist? Will I use a God voice, first person or third person voice? Will it be in past or present tense? What is the structure? What location will I use, what country, what nationality? What relationship to true events? What plot will be the best vehicle for what my characters want to say - what I want to say - what the cake maker wants to say!

What tone, substance, quantity, qualification, relation, place, time, attitude, habit, action and passion?

After the peace of deconstruction one is compelled to put one's head inside an anthill again, meanwhile attempting to live day to day with family, friends, dogs and parents as if one is perfectly normal and not a   nutcase with a million recipes and combination of recipes and their assorted ingredients competing for space in their brain. At this point (labour pains come to mind), I want to scream:

WHAT IS THE BIG PICTURE!!!!

This is how I deal with this moment, where one is on the verge of creation or utter ruination - without going completely mad and driving everyone else mad with me. In the day I write down everything that comes to mind on a big pad. I doodle all the time! In the night I review everything again. I take all of the possible ingredients, everything from characterisation to plot into my sleep and I allow it to die away until there into nothing. Another 'solve', another mini deconstruction! Is this difficult? Yes because once again I am creating darlings! Is it possible? Most of the time! There in lies the rub! Ha ha - a maniacal laugh.

However the upside is that in the morning, if all goes well, the myriad of possibilities that I have let go of have been cleverly and conveniently distilled into a drop of very concentrated essence I call the Alchemical Dew - the 'coagula'! If I haven't been rudely and inconsiderately bounced out of bed by anxious dogs, hungry children, husbands late for work, phone calls from my mother to see if I'm awake yet, and alarm clocks that I have forgotten to turn off, I notice it. If I am dragged out of bed with  no time for that peaceful moment to occur, I notice it later as I go about my day -  I realise that a mysterious process has occurred in the night. I have woken up feeling that something has been placed in the crucible of my soul! A little present from the elves!

I see only two or three ingredients at first, only the ones I am meant to combine at this stage, like butter, sugar and eggs. The interesting thing is, that as I bring these together, the process itself begins to dictate what needs to come next - dry ingredients, milk so on - for the proper order of ingredients will create either a sponge cake or a mud cake, a thriller or a love story - it is up to me! I am always free, I can change the recipe at any time. That is the science and the art of it!

I know I'm on the right path when I can follow the recipe, while always trusting that the great cake maker who wrote it - me - knows what kind of cake it should be in the end.

So...where am I? In my bowl I have found my protagonist! Yes indeed.  So it is 1888, the world is on the verge of war. I take a book dealer whose name I don't yet know and I combine him with a cemetery in Paris, a mysteriously locked box,  and I add a conversation with Conan Doyle about the death of a colleague and the disappearance of seven boys connected to his psychic work in London.

Coagula!

I bring the spoon to my mouth...mmmm...this one tastes perfect so far!

More anon...

THE DARK NIGHT OF THE SOUL - an Author's Confession!

Every author has his or her own way of coping with the immensely stressful, though potentially rewarding moment they are faced with a blank page or screen.  This moment, alas(!), is even more terrifying if you have previously written a best seller that has been well received and highly recommended, and if added to this horror or horrors you have a tight deadline and a well meaning editor calling you at odd intervals to ask how you are going.

Some of us work well under pressure. Others can become paralysed with fear at the sight of that blank,  endless, horizonless wasteland, one could liken to a blizzard that obscures an otherwise blue sky on the way to Mt Everest. The way up is your career, you have a contract, you have done well, everyone expects you to do it again, you can see the summit, your legs are taut, your head is clear, you are well prepare and then - blizzard! 

If you are a sailor like me, you will liken it to a white squall that comes from out of nowhere and hits you with all your sails out and your sheets flapping - suddenly the boom is headed your way and...you're in the water without a life jacket! 

What comes after the blank page is the dark night of the soul!

Dramatic? Yes! That is what this is all about! Drama!

Why do I call it a dark night? Because for me a new book can only come after a period of deconstruction. I have to kill my darlings! Blot them out! You see, I am so in love with my last book that I want to do it again and again and again, and so I have at least ten beginnings that are like the other book but are not right and it takes a lot of writing and feeling utterly bad about what you are writing to deconstruct! You have to do it until you are quite sick of yourself, until you realise that you can't, or shouldn't, try to build a new house on old foundations. Whether you like it or not you have to bring in the bulldozer and set to work demolishing that beloved construct of your mind to clear the way for something new one to come.

How do I deconstruct?

I spend a lot of time researching.  I tend to eat more than I should. I go for walks without noticing anything at all, talking to myself, asking myself questions - should I connect this with that and that with this and that again with something else? By no means am I a martyr who drowns alone, I have to bring everybody into the water with me. I call my mother annoyingly all through the day to ask her what she thinks, I confuse, mystify and frustrate my poor long suffering husband, I irritate my children, I bemuse my friends, I confound and tax the intelligence of my poor dog! I question my talent, I question my commitment, I question my questions!

Most nights I go to bed fretting, reading, thinking and then I wake up with indefinite ideas that sound terrific, edifying, fantastic and then fizzle out as the day goes by leaving me empty and bereft. I spend too much time on facebook, twitter, my website, rearranging things and making endless videos. I write long blogs about my frustrations (ha ha!) I decide to empty out my kitchen cupboards and rearrange the pots and pans differently, then I put them back where they were before I started. I decide to learn a new programme on my mac or to bleach all the linen in the house. I make sour dough starter and launch into a frenzy of bread making and cake producing that might be the norm in commercial kitchens but is rarely seen in sane households. 

Somehow, this procrastination allows for the deconstruction to take place, so that all the conversations, all the research, all the endless thinking, reading and thinking again can die away into nothing and be born again around an idea. When it comes I feel a strange equanimity, I walk around with a smile on my face, like an overdue pregnant woman who is about to go mad if someone doesn't pull that baby out. I know however, beyond the manic need for action, that if the idea is to become an ideal, if it is to be born healthy, I must not use forceps, or drugs, or epidurals or call for a cesarian section (unless absolutely  necessary). I have to be patient and wait for nature to do its work, naturally.

That is where I am now...I am in my living room, it is raining, the fire is crackling pleasantly in the hearth, the pool is about to overflow and flood the house, the dog is asleep and I'm taken with the wonder of it! I'm watching a group of characters and plots float before my eyes around that idea...which is only a question at this stage:

What if the first world war was meant to start in 1888?

Suddenly it is no longer night and the day has dawned, the sky has cleared. What do I care if outside the sea is pounding and the sky is coming down in a torrent, I have seen the light and can now face that blank page with all the courage I can muster! I have my first labour pains!

More anon...

Temptation - Excerpt from FIFTH GOSPEL - A novel.

TEMPTATION

T

HE man Jesus walked through the crowds on the shore swaying and stumbling, while the God in him saw the world as foreign and unknown, a distortion of faces and loud noises, of heat and sun and overwhelming smells. In the body, the muscles strained, air rushed in and out of the lungs and the heart pounded in the chest while in the mind thoughts flitted past like shadows. How painful it was to cram his mighty power into that mind and that body! A power that could harness nature and cause miracles so that his mere presence would seem to men like a world of marvels a tempest of splendours. It was not his purpose to enrapture and bewilder, to dazzle and astonish, so he directed Jesus into the wilderness in search of a quiet place wherein he could guard the birthing of his new forces.

That is how he came to be in the old cave situated high above the vast mountainous wasteland of Judea. From its lip he could observe the sun falling into the night, and partake for the first time in the splendour of colours that are separate from the self. Above Christ looked to the home of his heart, now distant and detached from him. From beyond those stars he had come, descending downwards aeon after aeon. Men had seen him in their mysteries and had worshipped him in their rituals and given him many names and now he would walk among them – a God extracted, separated out from heaven and born into the body of a man - and how many would recognise him?

His conception on earth was to his Fathers in the heavens, like a death. He was alone. 

He heard a lamentation. He listened. It came not from heaven but from the sleeping souls of the world. They were reaching out to him in their supplication as they had always done. And this reminded him of why he had come: to make this earth his heaven and rescue it from the maws of hell.

Jackals called as the moon made a rise. He had never seen such a moon nor heard such a sound and an intuition drew his attention to the shadows of the night. From them came the vision of a red-winged angel, falling from the sky and landing at the lip of his cave.

It thrust one sad, melancholic eye at him, and said, ‘If it isn’t the favourite come down from his high perch to visit his poor relations!’

‘What are you?’ Christ asked it.

‘Where are your manners, brother? Did no one tell you that this is my kingdom? Come, before you step across my threshold you must first recognise the master of the house!  Bend low before me and our little quarrel shall be forgiven…perhaps I’ll even share some of the riches and power I have gained from this wretched world with you? You have to concede this is more than you did for me!’

A vision came then of Jesus standing before a man who was running from the Devil on his shoulders. This was that Devil, he realised. This was Lucifer, his brother who was cast down from heaven.

‘Lucifer,’ he said to it now. ‘Look into my face! I see you haven’t changed...You think you can lure me with power because this is your weakness, but listen carefully to me…I have not come into this world to rule it, nor have I come to serve you, I have come to serve the rightful gods!’

Lucifer’s gloomy eye turned to white and a shiver passed over his wings. ‘The rightful gods…yes…what do they know of the world? Do they know anything about thirst? Well? Do they know that human thirst is unquenchable? You are a God, you need not thirst for puny human knowledge, when you can be an angel, like me, an angel is wisdom itself! Throw yourself from the lip of this cave and you will see, as the Psalms say, God will give his angels charge of you, and you will be among them, and they will bear you up with their own hands, so that your foot will not even strike one stone!’

But there was something more in the cave with them. From out of the shadowed corners of the cave came a blur of blue wings, desiccated and clawing and the world stirred to make way for it.

Another voice came into his ear:

‘Son of God! Do as your brother says, let us see? Jump! What can happen to you? Fear is something only mortals feel, angels are above such feelings!’  

What was this thing called fear? He felt it now, when he thought of jumping from the cave to that great distance below. He was not an angel. He was now birthed inside a man! If he jumped, Jesus would die and his task would die with him.

‘Listen to me, Lucifer, your arrogance is made weak by your companion who has just pointed out that fear is perfectly right for a mortal man! I am a mortal man and fear has given me wisdom! Again, it is written–do not tempt the Lord thy God, to whom you should surrender yourself!’

Lucifer cried an anguished cry, and flew off towards the moon, defeated. But that crawling malignant thing entered into Jesus now. He could feel its blue wings furl and unfurl inside his soul and he plunged in after it.

‘Son of God!’ the creature breathed. ‘Let me tell you something of hunger. Hunger is a terrible torment for a man; capable of driving even the most pious to sinful acts. But you need not suffer hunger, for you can so easily turn stones to bread merely by saying a word! Say it to impress us!’ 

Christ tasted ashes and felt the thickness of the bones under his skin, and the mind, imprisoned by a skull, found a memory of the leper…this malignant spirit had tempted that poor man and had eaten him alive. This was an archangel, and he was far mightier and more dangerous than Lucifer, his brother.

He knew his name.

He cried out to the ancient creature, ‘Satan, you father of lies! Leave me alone. It is written: man should not live by bread alone, but by every word that proceeds from out of the mouth of God!’

‘That is what they say,’ whispered the creature, ‘those gods who know nothing of men. But men have turned a deaf ear to them, naturally, since they know that the belly must be fed, or the body dies! You see how I love men more than you? When you made life and death a law and left human beings to their own devices I showed them how to turn stones to coins, and coins to bread so that they could live. And so, as there are stupid men and cunning ones, there are also the rich and the poor. One man can feed his hunger while the other cannot, and each trespasses against the other, grasping for the daily bread. If you have come to preach love and eternal life to these animals called men, you might as well go back to that starry home from which you came, Son of God! Brotherly love is impossible while there is death! Over this mystery the will of the heavens cannot rule!’

Christ understood. These backward angels, Lucifer and Satan, had caused human beings to swing like a bell from one extreme to the other. But he had come to show how it was possible to overcome pride and arrogance through wisdom, and death through love. And here in Jesus’ soul he discerned a dual nature, a weaving of wisdom and love so endearing that it worked like a great power of attraction for him and he united his forces with it and became one with Jesus.

He felt a sting, a sudden gnawing in his bowels!

The blue archangel Satan gave a mocking laugh.

‘Now you’ve done it! Feel the tearing of hunger in Jesus? That is why men must live by the rule of the daily bread, and walk side by side with me…the archangel of death!’ The whisper came closer, ‘Listen to me, I am like you, I am stubborn and full of longing, I am eternal…and that is why I can wait. When the time comes, I will return for what is mine!

And he was gone.

Christ Jesus let out a gasp and fell to the earthen floor of the cave. Above him he sensed warmth; the love-radiant thoughts of the stars were making a way into his heart to comfort him.

And so the orphan from heaven closed his eyes then, and slept his first earthly sleep.

Epiphany Part I.

Epiphany Part I

I

T was the fifteenth year of the rule of Tiberias, on a day when Venus stood in Aquarius that John the Baptiser awoke, feeling his muscles and sinews taut, his mind awake and alert and his heart calm.

The sun had popped up out of its desert crib to cast its fiery eye over Israel and to beat upon the brows of men and the backs of beasts. Each day he faced this sun, standing waist deep in that freezing river, observing with an unfaltering eye the whirling tumult of dead thoughts and sins that were discharged into the river from the souls of those whom he baptised. Each day he wondered where the strength would come for his work and each day he was given the forces necessary. But this day something was altered. In himself he felt it, the nearness of the fulfilment of his task, accompanied by a strange bewilderment…since he found himself desiring to forestall it!

In this mood he left his hut of rushes to say his prayers to the God of Israel and to perform his ablutions before taking himself to that little bend in the river near Bethany, situated in the lower Jordan. 

Large crowds came to be baptised and he worked for hours without pause, looking into each soul to determine its measure and value, dividing the lambs from the vipers. Near the midpoint of the day the leaders of these vipers arrived at the river, a deputation of priests and Levites upon asses preceded by a retinue of guards whose swords caught the bold sunlight and reflected their sharp sting into John’s eyes. They pushed aside the crowds to allow the priests to come to shore.

Well…well…his words had moved across the land, so that even the Temple in Jerusalem had heard of him! He was pleased for the sake of his task.

He said to them, ‘The Masters of the ancient wisdom of the snake, the brood of vipers, the initiates of Lucifer, have come!’

One Pharisee said from his high position, ‘We are here on behalf of the Sanhedrin, to ask you some questions.’

‘Questions?’ the baptiser said, looking about with mockery in his eye. ‘If you come asking questions concerning laws that are written in books, you will not find anything here to satisfy you. I do not answer to laws that indicate this or that to be right or wrong. I answer only to the power that exists in every man to know right from wrong in his own heart!’

‘Heresy!’ the Pharisee said, ‘A son of Abraham must follow the laws of Moses!’

The Baptist looked at him with flares for eyes. ‘You make much of having Abraham for a father, but this alone does not make you worthy! Your body of flesh is like the stones at your feet…in the same way that you can pick up any of these stones and make them yours…God can make any man, a child of Abraham.’

Gasps came from the priests. Rants, and raves and astonishment filled the air. ‘You dare to say, any man can be a child of Abraham! Any man can enter the lineage of the blood tree of your forebears, which is sanctified by God!’

The Baptist roared like a lion at them, ‘Why do you call on this dying tree! God has given me the axe–and I will cut it down!’ He pointed to the people and cried, ‘Israel! This tree no longer bears good fruit!’

The delegation was turned over into a rumble of voices. The guards stood at the ready with their weapons.

‘Jerusalem!’ He pointed at the delegation. ‘Your laws and your knowledge were brought to you by way of Moses, but the time of these laws is finished now! Soon, grace and truth will come into the world by way of the anointed one. He will descend to earth so that the blind sons of Israel may see Him! But only those who can hear the voice of conscience in their hearts will recognise him!’  

The rabbis, priests and the Levites talked in an excited fashion among themselves, shaking their heads and distorting their countenances. They could not agree. Meanwhile in the crowds, a man called out to John,

‘But how shall we become good men? What is this voice you speak of, that is in the heart?’

John the Baptiser answered, ‘Do you not shrink to see others cold or hungry? Do you, who have much, not hear a voice that tells you to help those who have little? This voice speaks tenderly in the wilderness of your soul, and it will say to you: he who has two coats, let him share with him who has none; and he who has meat, let him do likewise.’

Then a publican called out, ‘But what of our livelihood?  We have to earn a living, from shelter and food! What will you have us do? Give men a bed, and a bowl of soup for free, to be good?’

‘Listen to the voice, it will say: Do not ask for more than is rightfully yours.’

And the soldiers, who were Herod’s men and had come with the priests and Levites, asked him, ‘How can we soldiers be good men, if we must use a sword and accuse others for our wages?’

John the Baptist told them, ‘The voice will say: do not do violence to any man and do not accuse another falsely. What you do, must be good and right, if you are to take to yourself your wages and be content.’

‘Who are you?’ Another Pharisee called out, ‘Are you the Messiah?’

John knew these questions needed to be asked, to prevent confusion in the people’s minds, and so he answered, ‘Listen to me…all of you…know that I am not the Christ. He shall come after me!’

‘Do you say that you are Elijah, then?’ Another priest said.

John shook his head, ‘I am sent in the spirit of Elijah.’

‘But it is said, that a prophet will come before the Messiah comes, are you not that prophet?’

‘I have told you…do not look at me, look for that other who will come!’

‘Who do you say that you are? We must return to tell those who have sent us, the council of great men at the Sanhedrin,’ that same Pharisee said.

‘Tell them, that I am the voice of the soul, crying in solitude, cut off from the likes of those who hold fast to the blood of Abraham. I am the free voice, without a folk, who seeks Him who comes to sustain me!’

‘Why do you preach repentance and baptise, and make pure men, if you are not a Prophet, or Elijah, or the Messiah?’ A Levite gave back.

‘I baptise with water, but there stands one among you that you do not recognise. He has the forces derived from a higher source than mine! He is mightier than I, for I am not worthy to stoop down to unloosen even the laces of his sandals. I baptise you with water. I do this in preparation for Him, who will baptise men not with water, but with the Holy Spirit fire!’

‘Is he here?’

John’s heart was full with joy, ‘I feel he is among us!’

The priests looked about them.

Each man searched his neighbour.

‘Where is he?’ they asked.

‘You shall not see Him until He makes himself known to you.’

The priests mocked him and said he was a madman. They told the crowds that no man should believe such lies and with their dispositions proud, gathered to them the reins of their animals, and took themselves and their soldiers from the shores of the river. But two members of the Sanhedrin remained behind, and sat among the crowds. John sensed that these men had been touched by his words.

After that, he continued with his work until the sun reached its zenith, and the crowds began, as was their custom, to disperse for the midday meal. Now standing alone in the chilling water, he saw a man step forward and come to the edge of the river.

He put a hand up over his eyes to see, for the sun’s rays were shimmering on the surface of the river, blinding him.

He recognised the man’s form and the contours of his face. How bright did the sun shine at that moment! As if it’s body were leaning over to touch the river! John squinted, and still he could not see, and yet he did see. This was a man he knew, and yet, it was not simply that he saw a man he knew, for this man, whom he had met at Qumran, seemed not to be there at all, but in his place was a soul that he recognised in its essential foundations. It was as if he were looking at his own reflection, a part of himself, long lost and forgotten. Did this soul that came towards him not seem like the youngest, and purest, soul in the world? And was this not the opposite of his own soul, which felt to him ancient, cracked, and used up, like an old jug emptied of its contents?

His heart near burst with the mighty impression this thought created, and his eyes filled with tears, and he let go his staff into the water.