27 Stories from the 136-Story Collection

Where Were You at the Crucifixion? 

© 2008,2009

 

 

 

Introduction to the Stories

How is it with me when I encounter something from a higher realm?

Am I afraid? or angry? or hateful?

Or, is something evoked in me, an echo of how it could be for me?  Do I see myself more truly?  Do I suffer for what I see?

Is it a relief? or a burden?  Do I recognize the higher at all?

Does an encounter with the higher break me? or make me whole?

Does it quiet me? or cause me to follow?

How is it with me?

These stories are written in the “voices” of actual contemporary people, pictured in the time of Jesus.  They are but a few of the thousands and millions that represent the human experience.

I  ask myself, “Who am I?”

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The Boatman

You’ve seen our boats on the river: the diagonal yard with the triangular sail.  We can carry perhaps twenty-five sacks of grain or ten passengers.  We charge the smallest bronze coin for the hour-long trip up the river; the winds are usually favorable, and the current helps on the return trip.

Three years ago, six of the eight passengers on one trip were in white robes.  I had taken men in white before, but this time, one of them was their leader.  No one needed to tell me that.

The passengers sit facing the stern, where I face them holding the tiller.

We set out, and the leader seemed to be asleep (at least his eyes were closed).  At the same time, an extraordinary sense of peace and well-being came over me.

I have no other recollection of the trip.

When we came to the dock upriver, the men in white disembarked, leaving a small gold coin on the seat—a great overpayment.

I sat in the stern, overcome, and watched as one of the other passengers slyly pocketed the gold coin.  It didn’t matter to me.

That inner quiet is with me still.

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The Convict

I once saw a magician escape from chains, but that was just a trick.  What happened to me last night was not a trick.

We were locked in our cells for the night.  The jailer I hate was asleep in the room at the end of the hall.  It was very late.

It wasn’t noise that woke me up, but a light, I think.  There was someone walking through the hallway.  He was all in white, and I guess that was the light that woke me.  He came into my cell.  Just—-came in.  The door was still locked shut.

He stood there, looking at me.  I knew him.

He held out his hand.  I took it, and we walked out.

We walked up the hall, and into the jailer’s room.  The jailer was awake, and looking at the man.  This man held out his other hand to the jailer.

The moment the jailer took it, I knew what was up.  I could leave, but the jailer had to go with us, and everything in the past would be over.  Washed away—–like it had never happened.  This jailer had done some terrible things to me, and I swore I would get him back for it.  So I just stood there.  I couldn’t make up my mind.  I knew it was no trick, but I couldn’t stand to have the jailer go free.

The man in white started for the front door, and the jailer went with him.  I stood there.  As they went out, I let go of the man’s hand.  The moment I did, I was back in my cell again.

The next morning, I heard that the jailer had quit, and I never saw him again.

What was I to have done?  I couldn’t do it.  Really, I couldn’t.

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The Archer

They call me The Archer.  I am very good at what I do.  I am a Zealot.  We have promised to drive the idol-worshiping Romans out, and we will do it.  We are prepared to eliminate all those who oppose us.  Today, I have come to meet a man I call Mister White-Robes.  He has encouraged people to cooperate with the Romans.  I am standing in a passageway between two buildings.  It is near mid-day and hot.  Flies buzz around my head, but I don’t move.  I have a quiver of arrows exactly like the ones the Romans use, and a Roman bow I plan to leave behind, though I will use my own bow for this job.

There!  That whistle means he’s coming, and that he’s alone.  I wait.  Another whistle.  Now my lookout is saying he’s ten paces away.  I draw my bow.  A white figure fills the opening to the street.

What has happened?  I cannot see.  There is a blinding light, brighter than sunlight from a polished shield.  I am falling.  My bow breaks.  A bow cannot break, just like that.

Now I am awake again.  It is late afternoon.  I sit up.

Now, I am home.  This changes everything.  I cannot speak to my friends about this.  I must think.

Now, I am at a house.  I am told that the man I call Mister White-Robes is here.  Will he see me?  I tried to kill him.

Now, I stand before him.  I call him Master.  He nods.  He asks me what I want.  I do not know.  I tell him about the passageway.  He nods again.  He waits.

It is six months later.  I am a Mister White-Robes myself.  For the first time in my life, I am truly quiet.  I smile.

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The Archer’s Wife

Every time I go to see my husband, a black dog growls and snaps at me as I pass through the village.  I always take a stick.  But it’s always the same: my husband smiles at me, listens to my pleas, and tells me he wants to stay there.

White robes.  I’ve come to hate white robes.  They’re all so very nice there, but they won’t let my husband come home.

Okay, I’ve thought it out.  I’m going to make some special poppy-seed cakes.  For their master.  There is a white mushroom that grows on the river bank.  I have been warned never to eat even a little of it.  I add three mushrooms to the batter.  I hate their master for stealing my husband.

All is going well.  As I came here, I even fed one of the cakes to the black dog.  He ate it right up.

Now I have been let in for a talk by the master.  He sees me and asks me what I have.  I tell him I baked some cakes for him.  He smiles and seats me to his right.  His talk is about harmlessness.  It’s hard not to smile.  He eats a cake, then looks at me and takes another.  He is talking about the last days of someone he calls the enlightened one, someone from Hinned (I don’t know where that is.)  He has eaten most of the cakes.

There’s something wrong.  Maybe when you bake the mushrooms, they’re harmless.  He’s just fine.

I’m going to try one.  They must be okay.

“Stop!”  He glares at me.  “Those are for me!”  He eats the last cake.

The talk is over.  I didn’t see my husband at all.  The cakes didn’t work.  I walk home.

As I pass through the village there is a dead black dog on the path.

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                          The Furniture Maker

They came for me in the middle of the night.  They said I was a Zealot.  They threw me in jail and kept asking me where I hid my knife.  “All you Zealots have knives,” they said.

I was two days without food, and there was nothing to drink.  They took me and four other men and put shackles on our necks and chains on the shackles and walked us out of the jail towards the harbor.  I think they were going to drown us.

It all happened very fast: we were passing through the marketplace and a tall man in white motioned to me to step over towards him, so I did it.  Then he pointed to the men in shackles.  I was still there.

He said something to me, and we walked away.  There was a donkey there and I lay across a cloth on its back.  He put a blanket over me.   The donkey started walking.  I remember how my neck hurt.  I heard a sound behind me and soldiers were running and shouting “After him!”  They ran right past.

This man took me to a house where I was fed and my neck was bandaged, and I rested.  In three days I came here to this place.  I make furniture here for them, because they saved my life.  I don’t go to their ceremonies.

I look different now, and I could go anywhere I want, but I stay here and make their tables and cupboards.

This is what happened to me.

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                         The Housekeeper

I am the housekeeper for a very wealthy man.  I keep the master’s rooms and the guest rooms clean and neat.  I have done this for many years.  Nobody seems to notice me, and I can get my work done.

My master has one guest who he holds in very high regard.  This man stays in one of the servants’ rooms.  It is very unusual.  He won’t let us make special dishes for him, and every time I go to clean his room, he has made the bed, and the room is spotless.

The last time he stayed here, it was in a servant’s room again, but when I went into the room, I right away saw that the bed hadn’t been made completely.  One corner of the cover hadn’t been tucked in.  As I went to tuck it in, I saw that he was still in the room.  I excused myself, and he stepped over to the other side of the bed and said to continue.  When I had put the cover to rights, I noticed that a corner on the other side was loose, too.  I went and tucked that in.  I looked again, and the corner I had tucked in first had come loose.  I tucked it in again.

I didn’t understand what was going on.  I finally looked at the man.  He was looking at me in such a kind way that my heart melted.  Without a word, he embraced me like a father would embrace a child, and the weight of many years flowed from me.

After a few minutes, I wiped my eyes, looked at him again, went to the bed and deliberately loosened the last corner I had tucked in, smiled at him, curtsied, and left the room.

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                          The Housewife

The baby was asleep in the bedroom, and I was sitting at the table cutting vegetables for the midday meal when I heard it.

We live on a main street, so we get all kinds of people.  I looked out through the peephole, and there was a man in white looking back at me.  He didn’t say anything, just looked.

I didn’t say anything either.  We were just looking at each other.

“What do you want?” I said.  He kept looking.  I felt like he could see me with the door shut.

“I have food.  Do you want food?”

No change.  He just kept looking.

My husband made it very clear that I’m not supposed to open the door to strangers.

“Go away!  I don’t have anything for you.”

Now I started crying.  He just stood there.

“I don’t have any food for you.  Go away!”

I went back to the table, and, still crying, started cutting vegetables.

I never told my husband.

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                      The Slave Trader

I am a businessman, like the rug seller and the butcher.  I help people find new homes, and their new hosts reward me.  People call me names, but I’m just trying to make a living, like everyone else.  I don’t make these people homeless, I just help them out.

I’ll tell you about something that happened to me.  I was going through the market with a beautiful Nubian girl, trying to find her a new home.  I don’t rent out my girls like some people in my business.  She was walking a little ahead of me, when I saw them—-four guys in white robes coming toward us.  These guys call me names.  They’re a lot of trouble.

Well, she saw them too, and she went down on her knees in front of the tall one.  Well, he just stopped.  He looked at me, and I knew he wasn’t going to ask me “How much?”  Then he just held out his hand and said, “Stand up, my sister.”  My sister!  She’s as black as coal and he calls her sister.

Now, he looks at me again.  What am I going to do?  I can’t figure out what to do.  They all turn around and she walks with them.  There are four of them.  Anyway, I don’t like the look in the tall one’s eye.  I let them go, but I remember.

About six months later, I have some business that takes me to their big building near that lake that nobody swims in.  They feed anyone who comes there, so I go, and I get fed, along with a bunch of other people.  Well, about midway through the meal, there she comes into the room, dressed in white.  She’s really a knockout.  She sees me, but she doesn’t look scared. She goes off, and in about five minutes, there are about ten guys standing around me.  “Is this the one?” one of them asks.  “Yes, I saw him steal one of our bowls,” somebody says.  They grab me, and put me in a locked room.  I was there for two days.  They didn’t give me anything to eat or drink.  They finally let me out.

It just isn’t worth it any more, doing my old work.  And when I see one of those men in white, I get out of there.

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                                 The Madam

Oh, you’ve got to hear this!  I don’t know where to start.  It all happened so fast.  Yesterday afternoon someone shows up at my door with a black girl.

Nobody can understand a word she says.  I have no idea who she is or what she’s doing here.  We’re just a block away from the center of the market.  I’d know she wasn’t a working girl just by looking at her, even if she didn’t have those white robes on.

Well, we feed her and give her some darker clothes to wear.  Somebody makes signs to her that we want to wash her clothes, but she won’t let go of them.  Somebody points out a tear in her robe.  Even then, it was tricky getting her to change clothes.  I think Felix put something in her food to make her sleep.

Let’s see—-oh—-well, this morning, way too early, they came.  I could hardly keep a straight face.  Three of them—in white.

They asked if I had something exotic, and I suggested our really tall girl, but they finally asked if we had a black girl.  I acted puzzled, then I said we did.  They paid me for a session, and one went upstairs.

Way too soon, he was back.  They talked among themselves, and one of them asked me if I ever sold girls.  I said I might if the price was right.  They said how much, and I said five gold coins.  I could hardly keep from giggling, they were so naïve.

I expected them to bargain, and I actually would have let her go for nothing, but the next thing I know, one of them is holding out five gold coins in his hand.  I tell Felix to find her white robes and bring her down.  Well, he does that, and they’re out the door.  No sign that they know her.

As soon as they’re gone, I burst out laughing.  What idiots men are!

I figure that she was going through the market with a group of their men and someone just grabbed her.  I don’t know what he thought he’d do with her: here she is, black as coal and dressed in white.  So they brought her here.

I still can’t believe it—five gold coins!  Too bad she wasn’t a working girl—I wouldn’t have sold her for ten times that!

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                         The Scullery  Maid

I was working in the kitchen, like I did then, and I was washing cups and one had a crack.  Well, sometimes they can be pretty hard on people who break things.  It’s probably good for me that I was wearing brown robes, because the white-robed ones are the ones they’re really strict about.

So the lady in charge told me to throw it away, and I put it in the basket we have for that.  Well, it got me thinking, how am I ever going to become a white-robe if I can’t be more attentive.  And then I thought “The cup was probably cracked already, and I didn’t do it.”

We get people from all over here: Persians and Egyptians and these shamans and from China or someplace like that.  Is there a place “Mongol”-something?  My favorite is a man—-I think he’s from China.  He was here then.  The master sometimes passes through the kitchen, but he’s never spoken to me.  But this man from China is my favorite.  He always smiles at me.

He was in the kitchen that day.  I asked him if he thought I would make a good white-robe.

He smiled, and reached into the basket and brought out the cracked cup.  He said, “You put cold water in, what?”  I said, “It’ll leak.”

He said, “You put hot water in, what?”  I said, “It’ll break.”

He gave me a big smile, then “You right.  Very good,” and he left.

I understood then, and the next day I left, too.

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                           The Ship’s Captain

I know men.

This was a sticky situation.  Here was a man dead, and four men who looked like they killed him.  But it didn’t add up.

The dead man was one of my sailors, a real hothead.  I asked the four what had happened, but they wouldn’t say anything.  We were six days to sea, and we would be in Egypt by the morning.  Now this.

The four were those white-robed ones, very strange.  And the tall one was their leader.  Here was my man on the deck with a knife in his chest, and these four.  His hand was on the knife.  Very troubling.

I went back to my cabin and thought.  Only these passengers, and it didn’t add up.

I started asking the crew.  Last night, the dead sailor had got all liquored up, and they said he went topsides to “kill me some white-robes.”

These guys—white-robes—they never fight, even to defend themselves.  But I had another idea.  I went back and said to the white-robe, the tall one, that I thought my sailor had come to do them harm, but had turned his knife on himself.

He looked in my eyes for a long time.  I’ll go to my grave remembering it.  He said, “Very well, then.”

We buried the sailor at sea that evening.

The tall one said, “May God help him.”

I got the feeling that God would.

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The Repairman

I don’t know you—–you must have taken the white robes recently.  Put that broken pot down there and sit here by me, and I’ll tell you my story.

I was a sailor, and I had built my boat with my own hands.  We were on the sea and a big storm came up.  We took our sail down and threw out a sea anchor to bring our bow into the wind.  There was a lot of lightning and blue fire was on the tips of the mast and the yardarm.  I don’t remember this, but they told me a great stroke of lightning split the mast and knocked me down.  They threw water on the stub of the mast and tried to wake me.

When I came to, I was in another boat, and it was early morning.  They told me I had been out for two days and that my boat had sunk.

I was very agitated.  I couldn’t lay still or sit or stand.  Even wine made no difference.

I still knew how to fix things, so they set me up here, tied to this stone seat.  People would come with broken things and I would rave at them, but when I began to work, I would grow quiet.

One day, the day before the Sabbath, a tall man in white brought me a staff broken in two.  I shook my head no; I could not fix it.  He smiled and said it just looked broken.  He put the ends together and closed his hands around the join and it was whole again.  I could not move or speak.  He leaned across this stone table and touched my upper lip, like that, and I fell asleep.

When I woke up, I was back in my house, and I was whole, too.

That is why I am always out here on the day before the Sabbath, and I never take money from the people in white for my repairs.

Now, what happened to this pot?

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                        The Scribe’s Wife

In the dream it’s always the same: first, I’m walking, holding my father’s hand, then I tire, and he carries me on his hip.  We go up the white stone stairs, past the two lion-y things, and into the building.  It’s dark and cool.  We wait, and then a man comes for us.  He speaks to my father, then he looks at me.  It is a wonderful look, at once deep and tender.

This is when I wake up.

I’ve had this dream ever since I was seven, but in the dream, I am much smaller, about three years old.

I had this dream often as a child, but seldom since I grew up.  I am a grown woman now.  My husband was a scribe, and he taught me and my sons to read and write.  They grew up and married, and now I am by myself.

Last night, I had the dream again.

Today, I am asking the people I know about a building with stone creatures outside.  They seem to agree where and what it is.

I need a gift.  I will bring three wool blankets I made.

There it is, exactly as in my dream.  I climb the stairs.  I am admitted inside.  Someone asks me why I’m there. “I wish to see your master.”

Now I am waiting in the cool and dim interior.  A man in white, tall and confident, comes toward me.  He looks at me.  And in me.  And through me.  I wait.  He says, “You have brought a gift.  Do you wish to join us?”

I say “Yes.”

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                                The Ferryman

I was upriver from the path where I pick people up, fishing.  It was getting kinda late, so it was hard to see.  Well, these three guys came down to the river, and I don’t think they saw me.  Anyway, they were way down from the path where I pick people up.

One of them started wading across.  You can do that there—it’s pretty shallow.  When he was a ways out, he calls to the other guys to come, too.  That’s when I notice he’s not in the water.  He’s like on top, like not getting wet at all.  The other two look at him, and then they start off, too.  They’re doing pretty good, but something happens, and they both fall in.  It’s only up to their chests there, and I think one of them starts laughing.  Well, the one guy keeps going, and waits on the other side for them.

That’s it.  That’s what I saw.

There’s an old guy fishes down here a lot.  I told him about it, and he says that the guys were all dressed in white, right?  And I said, yeah.  And he says he saw somebody do that about a year ago.

And he says there was something funny about the light, too.  And I said, yeah, it looked like the one was too bright.   And he says, yeah.

Then he says it’s a good thing more people don’t know how to do that, or you’d be out of a job.

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                               The Blacksmith

I was working at my forge in the fig grove.

A party of bearded men dressed in white came through the grove, and their leader, a tall man, stopped under the tree that had the best figs, reached up, and, looking me in the eye, picked a beautiful fig and ate it.

I was dumbstruck, and furious.

I followed them out of the grove, but there was no way to confront their leader.

I became obsessed with the man, and I would go to his public talks, where he talked some nonsense.  Once, seeing me in the crowd, he even winked at me.  Oh, was I mad!

When I heard he was going to be crucified, I was glad he was going to get his just deserts, and I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.

As he came up the hill carrying his cross, I suddenly saw him differently.  My God!  What were they doing?

I tried to stop them, but a soldier hit me over the eye with the shaft of his lance.

I couldn’t help him.

I don’t think he saw me then.

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                               The Gardener

I have done much harm in my life.  I cannot speak of how, but I have.  My garden gives me solace: here, I help; here, I never destroy.  In my garden, the blot on my life lifts, and I am not dark inside.

There is one who could help me, one who could heal me.  I cannot bring myself to see him, to have him see me inside.  I saw him once, in the square, preaching, and in a flash I knew this.

Again, he comes to town.  Again, I must see him.  Again, I do not go.

I have kept count.  Eleven times I have not gone.

God help me!  I have heard the news.  He is to be executed.  I cannot speak of how.  I am too late.

The crowd is immense, unbelievable.  I can barely see him.  It is too late for him to help me, but perhaps I can help him.

Elbows are quite wonderful; I never knew.

I am two paces from him.  I see his pain.  God help him!  No one can withstand such pain.

All has stopped.  The crowd is silent; no one moves.  He sees me looking at him.  Worlds are born.  Worlds collapse.  All time passes; no time passes.  I disappear.  All is as before.

Now I hear the crowd again: they were not silent, I was.  And I understand.  This is how one heals.

There is a great wonderful emptiness inside me.  All is as before, except that I can heal.

It is done.

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                    The Flower Seller

When my father was still alive, when I was about eight, we hired a wagon, and went to the sea.  I splashed in the salty water, and I remember how wonderful the sun was that day.  I was so happy.

My father was a trader, and when his ship went down, so did our fortunes.  From well-off, we went to poor in about two years.  I had to work then, selling flowers in the market.

One evening, three sailors, drunk and loud, pulled me off the street and had their way with me.  That was two years ago, and since then, the fruit seller has called me “sourpuss”.  Of course, I can’t tell anyone why I’m so soured on life.

Now, today, I am walking through the market with the saddest bunch of flowers I’ve ever tried to sell.  And coming toward me are perhaps five men, all in white.  I try to pass through them, but as I do, the tall one in the middle says, “What flowers!”

I look up at him.  Is he joking?  The flowers are—-the flowers are beautiful!  I look at him again.  It is that day with the sea and the sun, only much better.

Without a word, I hand him the flowers, and one of the men is told to pay me.  They pass on, and I turn and look at them.  But I can still remember his look.  I walk back through the market, and the fruit seller looks at me and calls me “Sunshine”.  When I get home, the coin in my hand is not a bronze one.  It is a small, round coin of gold.

Now, that is in the past.  I went to a house where I heard that man stayed, and I was told that he was not there, but a very nice lady bought all my flowers.  And yesterday, I heard in the market that he was dead (one person even said that he had been crucified), so I went to the house again.  That same lady assured me that I (and she pointed to me) must know that he was alive and well.

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                              The Miller

You see that little stone on the shelf there?  I’ll tell you about it.

It was five summers ago.  Three guys in white brought me a sack of barley to grind.  We fell to talking, and I asked them if they had eaten.  They said no, and I dished them up some lentils I had made.

Boy, if I had known how picky they are about food, I wouldn’t have offered.  But they ate it, and asked me about myself and I asked them questions.  They seemed like real nice guys.

Well, the one says “What do we owe you?” and I don’t know why, but I said “Just give me your blessing.”  He picked up a little stone, and he put his other hand on my head, and he blessed me.  He dropped the stone and they left.

Well, that was really something.  I didn’t see which stone he had picked up, but there was one—-we were just outside the mill—-that was kind of glowing, you know.  I guess it wasn’t really glowing, but it was the stone he held: I could tell that.

Did I mention the oxen?  Well, those guys must have picked some grass before they came in, because they fed it to the oxen, and they loved it.  One of them was licking one of the guys’ faces.  I never even think to feed them grass, with all the grain around.

Well, now when those guys come back, I can always tell.  The oxen start jumping around and getting really excited.  One time, they brought reeds.  They had peeled the outsides, and the oxen just gobbled up those soft roots.  They left me some that time.  They taste pretty good boiled.

Let’s see—-oh, yeah—-the boss of those guys never came here.  I saw him once, and I don’t think I’d want him to bless me.  I’d probably keel over, dead.  It’s strong enough for me when those guys do it.

That one time, I was grinding somebody’s grain, and the whole mill just lit up.  It was like that little stone was on fire, but this guy who was there didn’t notice anything.

I found out their boss had died that same time.

Well, any time somebody gives them grain, I grind it for them, and we talk, and they bless me.  That’s what that stone is about.

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The Butcher’s Wife

I have heard the news.  The Complete One is to be killed, slowly and painfully.  I must go.

Other women have come.  We stand together.  They show him to the crowd.  Many shout.  We are silent.

They take him away.  They will whip him.  The whips have beads on their thongs, to hurt more.  The cruel Romans.  Can they not see?

A cross sits on his shoulder.  Heavy.  They start off.  We follow.  We weep.

It is long to the hilltop.  Here it will end.

The men writhe.  We weep.  Time passes——-very slowly.  He dies.  We weep.

Now they have taken him down.  His body will be seen to.  His body is glowing.

As we go down the hill to our homes, we weep.

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The Captain’s Child

My father used to be a captain in the army, but he isn’t one any more.

I am a girl, but I don’t feel much like one.  I don’t play with dolls or with other girls.  The boys won’t let me play with them, so I’m pretty much by myself.

My parents fight a lot.  It’s the first thing I remember about them: they were fighting in the kitchen and my dad slapped my mom.  If I ever get married, it won’t be to a man who slaps women.

We don’t do many things as a family, so I thought we’d have a good time when we went out last week.  We went across town, walking.  Then we stood by the side of the road.  Pretty soon a kind of parade came by, but not a happy kind.

First there were soldiers on horses.  My dad pointed to one and said something to my mom.  Then there were more soldiers, walking—all going slow.  Then I saw them: three men with big crosses on their shoulders, heavy crosses.  If they stopped, a soldier would whip them.  They were all bloody.  One, especially.  He had sad eyes.  I think he looked at me.

It was the worst thing that ever happened to me.  I started to cry.  My dad told me to stop.

I started marching back and forth in front of my dad, real stiff, like a soldier.

I couldn’t make them stop.  They just won’t stop.

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The Foot Soldier

I’m what you call a conscript.  Me and my brother were farming over by those hills you see, and they just came along and made us soldiers.  I don’t guess we’re very good at it.  My brother gets in more trouble than me: he gets mean when we get drunk on our day off.  I just get sad.  That’s the way it’s been for us for most of a year.  Spring’s here again, and I just want to get back and start plowing.  My brother doesn’t think so.  If they catch you, they whip you half to death.  I’m still thinking about it, though.

Today we got guard duty, sort of.  There’s this guy they say wants to be king.  They caught him, and we’re going to take him up to be crucified.  I’ll tell you, he is a mess.  The crown they put on his head are these big plum shoots—real sharp.  Now, they’re giving us all these reeds, and we’re supposed to bow down before him, then hit him with the reeds.  Some of the guys are hitting him right on that crown. That’s got to hurt.  I sort of hit him on the arm, but not hard.  I hope nobody notices.

Well, after all the whipping and stuff, these guys carry their crosses up the hill.  I know what’s coming.  But what I don’t know is what happens at the top.  The guy who’s supposed to hammer these big spikes in—quits.  So they tell me to do it.  Maybe because somebody saw me not hitting him.   There I am with that big hammer, and the guy says, “I’ll help you myself.”  Well, by now, I can hardly see, I’m crying so bad.  I manage to get one of his wrists on, and he doesn’t even flinch or anything.  Then they make my brother do the rest.  The man tries to comfort me.  Me.  He’s telling me it’s all right, and I can’t stop crying.

Wait, now—it gets worse.  They’re all saying what kind of a soldier are you, and I’m crying, and they tell my brother to take me back to the barracks.  We go, and I can’t stop crying, not that evening, or even the next day.  I don’t care what they do to me.  Well, about three days later they send both of us home, so I guess some good came out of this after all.

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The Governess

“Come along, children.  That’s it, two and two.”

“We’re going to see what happens to you when you steal.”

“That’s good.  Not much further.”

“Now we’ll stand here and wait for them to come.”

“Don’t fidget.  I can hear them now.”

“Here they come!”

“That’s what happens to you when you—–oh, God!”

“Now, children—-we’re leaving.”

“I know you didn’t get a chance to see.  We’re going home now.”

“Yes, I’m crying.”

“I saw something very sad.”

“No, he didn’t steal.”

“I don’t know what he did.”

“Now, why are all of you crying?”

“Yes, it was very sad.  Now, we’re going home.”

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The Metal-Worker

“Well, I heard about the trial, so I went down there.  There were a lot of people.  We waited outside for a long time.  Then, the doors opened and they showed him to us.  I’d seen him before, but I didn’t know how big he was.  He’s scary, too.  It was quiet for a little, and then, without anyone asking us, we all said, ‘Crucify him!’”

“That was the scary part, all of us saying that at once.  Everybody surged forward, too, and the soldiers put their lances up to stop us.”

“I was surprised how mad I was at him.  I had never even gone to one of his talks in the squares, but I hated him.”

“They say he’s trying to start a rebellion.  I don’t think so.  I think people are scared of those eyes.  They make you feel things you don’t want to feel, so people don’t like him.”

“I followed them the whole way.  He got whipped, and then he carried that heavy cross (I couldn’t believe that anybody could do that after a whipping like that.)  I didn’t leave until he was dead.”

“We were all calling out to him the whole time, yelling things at him.”

“I’m not usually like that.”

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The Shepherd

When there’s dogs attack our sheep, we chase them off with stones.  I am really good with a sling, and I always hit what I aim at.  Just ask the other guys.

Well, whenever I go to town, I always have a sling with me, ‘cause you can just put it in your pocket.

Well, we done this before: we’ll throw stones at the prisoners going up to be executed.  We don’t really hurt them, and it’s kinda fun to do.

Well, me and a bunch of guys was watching them going by, and this was one of them fancy processions, like you call it.  There was horses, and a bunch of soldiers.  We always wait till it passed by before we throw stuff, ‘cause hardly any soldiers walk in back.

There was three guys going by, and I picked out the tall one.  That’s when I notice that there’s about five, ten guys in white robes pretty near us.  When I put a stone in my sling, I notice they’re all looking at me, but like I say, I never miss.

So I swing the sling around and I let go the one end, and—you won’t believe this—the stone doesn’t go anywhere near him.  So I pick up another stone, and these guys are still watching me, and the guys I’m with are too.  And I shoot again, and this one goes even wilder, and it hits a guy standing on the other side of the road.

Well, he’s really mad, and these guys in white are all watching me, not saying anything.  Well, I’m gonna try another time, but my buddy says don’t, so we all go off looking for someplace to get a drink.

You ask me what happened, those guys put a hex on me, is all I can figure out.

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The Veteran’s Son

I am six and my dad is real old, about thirty, I think.

We go to places together.  There’s a man we go see.  He talks and we listen to him.  There are a lot of people there, and I sit on my dad’s shoulders and listen to him.  I like him.  He always looks at me and smiles.  I like him.

My dad was hurt when they were fighting.  He doesn’t walk good.  He says being a soldier is not all that it’s cracked up to be.  My mom says he’s just cracked up.  That’s funny.  My mom doesn’t want to go to hear the man talk.  We bring her candy when we go, but we eat some, too.

My dad is going out today.  I ask him what he’s doing, but he won’t tell me.  I ask him if he’s going to see that man.  He says, “Sort of”.  I tell him I want to come.  He doesn’t want to take me, and my mom says she’ll make me pudding if I stay home, but I want to go.

So we go, and it’s different.  I tell my dad I want to see and he puts me up on his shoulders.

I can see the man, but he isn’t talking.  They’re making him carry a big heavy thing and they’re hitting him with a rope thing.   I ask my dad why they’re hurting him, but he just shakes his head.  I can feel my hands are wet because my dad is crying, and I’m crying, too.

When we go home, we don’t bring any candy.

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The Widow

When my husband was alive, he could never stand to watch.  The street from the court to the hill where they execute prisoners is just around the corner from our house.

Now, when there’s an execution, the soldiers let me give the prisoners water before they climb the hill.

My own grandmother said that the top of the hill was used this way for a long time, and that the Romans brought this horrible custom of crucifixion.

By the time the prisoners got to my house, they were barely recognizable as human.  My husband had said that if the king himself were one of them, no one would know.

And then it happened.  As usual, my neighbors were jeering and screaming, and pelting the prisoners with garbage.

I stepped into the street.  They put their crosses down and stood, barely.

I was frozen in place, the cup of water in my hand.  Everything had vanished, and only an incredible pair of eyes watched me.

Many moments passed.

And then it all started again.  The men drank; the neighbors screamed; the procession passed.

I stood in the street for half an hour.  Alone.

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                       The Wine Merchant

Passover is coming.  I will buy lamb and horseradish.  My wife will bake the flatbread, and light the candles to welcome the Sabbath bride.  She becomes one of God’s angels when she does that.  This year, I will tell the children about how we are slaves, not how we used to be slaves.  They are old enough.

I cannot continue to live here.  I have been unmade.

It is no one’s fault—I looked at him and he looked back.  I knew what I was, then, and now I know what I must do.

No one else in the marketplace knew, even the two men in white with him.

The scene etched into my mind—the pink sandstone walls of my shop; the slight uphill as they walk from right to left; the feeling of the stool beneath me.  Then all is gone—only his eyes, and the knowing.

Who can one tell?  Who would understand?

I thought that perhaps I would go to Egypt for answers, but now I know it will be Greece.  The Oracle at Delphi.  Yes.

Will this be my last Passover here?

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