John by Niall Williams

  What we are.

  What little we are, we are for you.

  We who have remained and come now as witness.

  In fellowship.

  John prays. His prayers take mixed form, both the ancient texts of the psalms, scripture he has known since a child, and short simple phrases addressed to Jesus. He converses as though certain he is heard, though he hears no reply. He says all silently. He sits hunched down in the front of the boat, a small white form with blanket about him. Strands of his hair fly about. Spray saddles his shoulders darkly. The fisher captain offers him sea grass to suck, but he declines. In the blind dark where he is, John is far in contemplation. The physical world is gone. What is prayer and what is thought are not delineated. He has lived so long distant from the measure of time, the reality of the body, that he is as might be imagined a spirit, a portion of light in the corner of a fishing boat.

  The sea moves past. Adjudging the spring currents treacherous, the fisher captain sails them northwesterly. They leave behind them the Dodekanisos, the twelve, heading in the direction of the island of Ikaria, where they will pass the first night out of exile. The fisherman has a cousin in Agios Kirykos. The small boat is borne swiftly, a ragged banner of the gulls of Patmos overhead. Other boats cross before them, fisherboys and men eyeing the strange crew of Christians who cast no nets. Lemuel waves to them. Wind flaps and cracks in the sewn sail.

  'Are you well, Master?' Papias asks. 'I have water if you thirst.'

  The pale face turns upward to the voice. 'Thank you, good Papias; no, I thirst not.'

  'We are away from Patmos.'

  'Yes.'

  'I had forgotten what it feels to move freely.'

  Though he has not indicated fear, the Apostle says to him, 'Be not afraid, Papias.'

  The youngest disciple sits by John. He drinks the water himself. In the sea he feels still an unslaked thirst.

  They sail on in silence, the disciples burdened each by fear and hope alike. Do they come in triumph now? Is this at last the time for salvation, the age of Jesus Christ the Lord and Saviour come now, and they its harbingers? It is long since they have walked in a busy street, had casual converse before a trader's stall, laughed at wit or anecdote, dwelled in the flux of everyday that the ordinary is to be extraordinary for them, and as such holds a fascinating terror. How shall it be?

  As the boat puts Patmos behind them, with every moment the world draws nearer. Danil looks up at the sail, tight with wind, and wishes the breeze might lessen for a time. Might not the breath of the sky be stilled awhile? Sudden change in sea condition is not unheard of; wind as easily goes as comes. Why not now? Why not a brief respite, and they to be left adrift mid-sea, meandering the blue waters for a time until their hearts were ready? It has been too quick, Danil thinks. Three days to change a lifetime. To turn around to face the world. Would it have been so terrible to have waited a week? Even a month? What is a month to the Lord, who has all time unto eternity?

  The wind does not lessen. It sits in the sail like a chest-proud athlete pressing forwards. Hunched against the creaking, salty timber, shut-eyed, Meletios rocks softly to the rise and fall of the southern Aegean. Next to him, Eli knots his fingers, knucklebones a rough bridge beneath his chin, and stares at nothing. Lemuel alone looks at the world approach.

  In the proximate noon of the day, the bell ringer at last sits and then kneels in the bow, and the others do likewise. As has been their way for years, they pray the twelfth hour, and, bent in the boat travelling the sea waves, are as in the side gallery to an invisible altar.

  The blue is unbroken above them.

  Seeing them so the fisher captain is moved and steadies the sail. Abashed by the reverence and being witness to the peculiar intimacy, he looks away into the wake. In the trailing white water he sees a silver school offish. It glitters just below surface, a great wide V, following, fleet, as if pulled in undertow. In all his years of throwing nets he has never seen so great a number. He studies the waters about them, what might betoken this uncaught catch, what manner of thing is happening. But the sea on all sides is as ever and reveals nothing. He takes a step on to some wooden crating for a better view outwards and down. In the full scope of his vision, as far as the furthest ripple they have left in the sea, is this gleaming arrow of fish. It comes in their after-waters catching light, then shadow, then light again. Though the boat moves cross-current toward Ikaria, the fish follow, a silent suite, opaque as souls, profound as mystery. Such might last a moment, might in ordinary fish life be the happenstance of tide and timing, a brief meeting of man and creature in the sea hectic, but this is something other. The fish follow. While the disciples pray, bowed in the boat, the multitudinous school swims after and grows greater until it seems a portion of light itself fallen from above and by means unknown attached to this strange cargo of Christians.

  22

  They come ashore at Agios Kyrikos. The island of Ikaria is verdant and fertile, and it does not escape the disciples how barren and unforgiving was Patmos by comparison. Here are green arbours, olive groves, many freshwater wells to the single shallow, poor one in Patmos. The disciples step from the boat like innocents, heartened by the loveliness, by the ordinary that seems to them tender and full of marvel, even by the noisy movement of traders by the boat docking.

  'What have you got?' a short, sour-faced trader calls to the fisher pilot.

  'Travellers from Patmos,' he says, and looks behind to where the fish are no longer to be seen.

  'From Patmos? What do they bring? What do you bring?' the trader asks, his head pressed forwards on his neck and his eyes narrowed, as if to scrutinise this puzzle.

  'We bring the word of the Lord Jesus Christ,' says Papias with blunt innocence.

  The puzzle revealed, the trader pulls back. 'Christians,' he scowls, 'you have nothing so.'

  'We have . . .'

  'Papias, come,'John interrupts, lifting a hand toward the trader. 'God be with you.'

  They move away, staying close together. They wait while the fisher captain visits his wife's cousin, brings the news that she is with child. They walk the unfamiliar way into a street of dwellings that seems to crowd toward the water. Outside dark open doors, men stand conversing in the shade. They stop to watch the strangers.

  'God be with all,' John says quietly as he walks on, leaning to Papias's arm, progressing up the street and leaving behind them murmurs and whispers. Word of their arrival slips away into the open doorways of the village like a cat making rounds. When they are passing near the top of the street, a large man of heavy jowls salutes.

  'Greetings, strangers. Be most welcome to Ikaria.'

  The disciples stop.

  'God be with you,' says Lemuel, his blue eyes smiling.

  'And with you, strangers,' the man says, and makes a shallow bow, laying forwards his arm in the air and drawing it back as though he rolls out before them an invisible carpet. 'I am Cenon. This is my dwelling. You have travelled from Patmos?'

  'We have,' Lemuel answers. 'We are Christians come from exile to bring the word of our Lord Jesus Christ.'

  'You must be hungry, Christians? I have food,' Cenon says. He places his hands on the amplitude of his hips and rocks gently in his sandals. 'Come in and eat.'

  They are hungry, it is true. Momentarily they stand in the street shadow before the large figure, given pause by the surprise of generosity. Is this how the world is to be? Is this the sign of the coming times when the hungry shall be fed and the weary given rest?

  'Come, come inside. The old man looks weary. Come sit in the cool shade and rest yourselves,' Cenon offers, and turns sidelong as though he obscures the attraction of the entrance. He takes two steps towards it, holds out his hand, smiles back at them. His eyes are small as dark beads.

  When the Apostle does not speak, Lemuel answers for them. 'We will, with thanks,' he says.

  They enter a stone house for the first time in many years. The straightness of the walls, the carpets, the
cushions of lambswool, carpentry of table and stools, all such are as marvels. So, too, the sudden quiet. For, inside, they no longer hear the sea.

  'Sit, sit, Christians,' Cenon says, and indicates the best places, the scented water bowl where they may wash. The room is dim and smells sweetly. 'I have figs from Thessalia,' he tells them.

  When they are seated, there falls a hush in which the disciples feel lost. It is so long since they have sat in the company of others, they have forgotten.

  Roundly Cenon chews a fig, offers the bowl. Fat-fingered, he scratches at the brown curls above his ear.

  'So tell,' he says. 'You have been in exile on Patmos?'

  'We have,' Lemuel answers and beams, as though in telling it now there is only humour.

  Cenon nods. 'There is no cruelty like Roman cruelty.' When this brings no response, he says, 'Drink, drink your fill. You must thirst after the voyage. I have berry wine. Old sage, will you drink wine? Here, give this beaker to him.'

  'I would drink water,'John says, 'with thanks for your kindness.'

  'Water, here, water first. Drink your fill.' He pours it. He stares at the blind apostle. 'You are a great age, O wise one.'

  'This is John, the beloved apostle of our Lord Jesus Christ,' Papias says. He has said it before he realises he shouldn't. He has said it before he sees Eli and Danil shake their heads.

  'Indeed?' says the large host. 'I am honoured.' He rolls a hand over thrice in front of his chest, as though spreading a fragrance. 'My house is honoured.'

  Papias looks down, his face burning.

  Cenon presses his great weight forward. 'You were with him in Jerusalem? What wonder! What miracle your own enduring! I have heard from travellers' tales of this great prophet, this Jesus. They say he could make water wine, turn rocks to bread. O mighty prophet indeed!'

  'The message of our Lord is love,' Papias says, thinking to recover himself.

  'Love, indeed love. Noble message, young traveller. Love, O that we love one another. I am myself a servant of love. Have loved long and wide, am known for love. Ask any. Indeed a noble message. Drink, more berry wine; these olives are without parallel. I offer them in love.' Cenon bows slightly, chin pressing fat folds forward. 'So you were exiled to Patmos?'

  'We were.'

  'Bare nothing. Verily a rock, nothing more.'

  'It was where we held our community,' Meletios says. His soft-spoken manner is suited to kindness, to the sympathy of this stranger.

  'Of so few? Did you suffer plague? They say there is pestilence on Patmos? You are all . . .' He does not say 'clean'; he says '. . . well?'

  'We are,' Danil replies quickly, the berry wine strong. 'We bring nothing but the good news.'

  'A wonder. A marvel. Verily I thank my good fortune in encountering you. Blessings upon us all.' Cenon draws a fig, pulls back its flesh with his top teeth, turns it in his cheek. 'But you, O sage,' he says, swallows, 'you in truth are the marvel. You have been at the right hand of Jesus of Nazareth?'

  John does not answer directly. There opens a brief unease, but Cenon is quick to dispel it. 'O a mighty prophet,' he says, 'a most excellent prophet. Here, I have roasted goat meat crusted with herbs. Christians, help yourselves. Be welcome. Be welcome.'

  Unfamiliar with charity, the disciples are unsure. They look to one another for consent, for guidance. Hunger turns in the empty bowls of their stomachs.

  'We thank you,' Danil says, and goes to where the meat is laid. Eli and Meletios and Lemuel join him. Papias stays by John's side. They hear the commencement of a prayer of thanks.

  'Shall I bring you some meat?' Cenon asks. His breath is sweet. 'There is plenty for all.'

  'Water is food enough for me, my thanks,' John answers.

  'You are a wonder, Ancient one.' The large host considers the others eating his food behind them, then he leans closer still to the old disciple. 'I know,' he whispers. He looks back; the others have not heard. Papias, although present, is ignored. Cenon brings his mouth to the Apostle's ear, hotly whispers again: 'I know. I have heard of you. I have heard tell there was one, an ageless sage who remained. I have heard he, too, did miracles and wonders. Cured the sick, made whole the infirm.' Cenon turns his tight eyes back to the others. 'There is sweetbread with honey,' he calls. Then he whispers again: 'I know your Jesus made more than water into wine or rocks to bread. What use of wonder are these? I know he made stones to gold and silver, too, and why would he not, being able to? And is this what he taught you, O sage? To Patmos did you bring a wealth, or did the Romans take it from you? It matters not. You have the power still. You come back to make the golden temples to your Lord, and praise be to him. Praise indeed! But for my kindness, for my welcome, something small.' Cenon draws the bowl of olives and places it in the blind apostle's hand. 'Make these to gold, it will suffice.'

  The disciples have noticed the intensity of the exchange and have come forwards. They stand close.

  John holds the olive bowl a moment only, passes it to the side. The anger in his voice is apparent at once. 'Our Lord Jesus Christ is the Son of God,' he says.

  'O indeed, I doubt it not,' Cenon answers quickly. 'The Son, the greatest of the prophets, a spirit of almighty powers! Hail to him! I am a believer like you, like all of you. And ask only a little reward.'

  John stands, Papias with him. 'Blessed are they who give and seek nothing.'

  Cenon blocks their way. 'A bowlful of olives. No more. Just this,' he asks. 'So that I might spread the word of your master,' he says to the disciples.

  But already they are moving to the entranceway.

  'Stop, stop, reward a believer!' Cenon calls, and when it is clear they will not, he puts down the olives and cries out, 'You have eaten my food! You have taken my generosity! And given nothing!'

  The disciples come out into the sunlight with the fat host hurrying behind them. At the rear, Meletios stops. 'We have no coins,' he says. 'We give you our thanks, we have some seeds.' He offers a handful. Cenon slaps them into the air.

  'Seeds for wine! Seeds for meat! You are robbers all of you! Christians are thieves and beggars as they say of you!'

  The disciples move away. They do not look back. Behind them Cenon roars and curses. He picks from the ground stones of hand size and throws these after them; his aim poor, they land short and thud into the hardened dust of the street. But a boy, watching, serious and intelligent, lifts a smaller stone and offers it. 'Fire it! Go on! Fire it! Thieves and beggars!' Cenon cries. Briefly the boy stands, perplexed with the licence to wound, then he flings the stone overarm. It whizzes through the air and catches Danil in the back of his head.

  'Good boy. Good boy, another. Another for a sweet fig!' the fat trader calls. But the boy, studying the ground for another stone of just such weight and size, allows the disciples to escape down the street.

  They hasten down the shaded side of the crooked line of dwellings. Some have come outside to see the commotion and watch without comment this elderly caravan of men pass. A woman cradles a basket in her arm, considers Papias, whose bitten ear sings redly. With the old apostle on his arm, he looks away from her. They cannot move quickly enough. Danil leads, then comes Papias guiding John, with Eli, Meletios, and Lemuel behind.

  The Apostle's gait is uneven and uncertain. The stones of the street catch his toes; he stumbles and sways and is borne upright on the strong arm of the youth. This is a new dark. In the years John spent on Patmos — first seeing, then blind — the geography of the island he took inside himself. He knew how each path ascended from the sea, which rock-way crossed to the altar stone and which to the well. Each crag and slope, each fissure, terrace, and fall of ground, he knew as one might come to know as an intimate the features of a prison. The island became to him an inner as well as outer place, in time first familiar and then even — though it went unsaid - in some manner, comfortable. To leave it was a considerable challenge to all, but to him whose blindness had become lessened with acquaintance it was an arduous decision.

&n
bsp; So he finds the way troublesome. John has never set foot before on Ikaria. He has no sense of the street, its upwards slope, its crooked turnings. He does not know where they take him, nor what figures watch from doorways. Dimmest blurrings of light he catches if he turns his face full to the heavens, as though the blue above is thickly veiled. He knows the earth and the sky, but little more. He is made breathless with their flight out of the village.

  'None are behind us,' Danil says. 'We can stop.'

  'Here, rest here, these rocks.'

  John's right hand reaches down, Papias guides it to the rock.

  When they are sat there none speak. They are like ones that bear the pieces of a broken vase.

  It is the afternoon of the day. Behind them the land greens with April. Olive trees are in bud. The sea air is softer than on Patmos, and the springtime of the year is everywhere. But the disciples are spirit-wounded and sit slumped in recovery. In each is the need to reassemble the idea of the world they go to meet. It is an old story, the misunderstanding, then the hatred and the persecution. And though their experience thus far is of only one, this fat trader Cenon, it has echoes in a hundred memories. Silently they chastise themselves for the simplicity of their hope, and then must rebuild it stronger. They must believe in a new world. They must believe in it strongly so to accept that the last vestiges of the old one, the age of intolerance and hatred, are still present, but that it is also about to end, and that they return not only as heralds, but as architects of the time of love and forgiveness.

  It is an onerous and intricate spirit-labour. They sit in silence. Some pray. An hour falls past them, another.

  In the changing light, a thin figure approaches. Papias gets quickly to his feet. The others stir. The figure comes the dry dusty road very slowly. He is in the sunset and they see only the silhouette. Soonest to defend them, Danil rises and stands before the Apostle. They are old men for fighting now but if needs be will give their lives for John. The figure stops. Only now has he seen them by the side of the road. There is a moment of delay, a brief interlude in which the figure must consider their number and strength, and then he comes forwards.