Did he know? Or did the father hide the truth from his son?
That was the question Yasua of Nazareth put to his father Yusuf the Carpenter as they sat together and mended their relationship after the father confessed to his son that he had intended to kill him but that he understood now that this had reflected the will of God.
So, you are just like Ibrahim, said Yasua. You were intending to kill me just like he meant to kill his son and offer him as a sacrifice to his god.
Son, a father does not kill his own son, said Yusuf, grief in his eyes. My eyes were veiled by a black cloud and I hesitated — I did not know what to do. Now it’s over. You are my only son — is there anyone who would kill his only son?
And what about him?
I don’t know. I expect that Ibrahim did not know about the sheep. He heard Allah’s command in his dream. He couldn’t act against it, could he?
I’m asking you about Ishaq.
No, that was not how the story went. Where did that story come from, the tale of the father’s flight? Father Tanyous told her a different version, but then why did she see the son standing before the fire with a knife in his hand? And where had the fire come from? Maryam stood trembling as she faced the Mount of Qafzeh in Nazareth, but she saw no fire. She saw him, and she saw that they wanted to cast him into the steep valley; she stood at the rim of the wadi and trembled. Here, pausing before the courtyard of the church they called Our Lady of the Tremblings, the pregnant woman who has come from Beirut, under the cover of darkness, trembles in the cold air. Father Tanyous asks her why she has come to the church in her nightgown and she replies that she did not realize. I am asleep, Father. I am dreaming. This is all a dream; it has nothing to do with what is happening out there. What has pulled you into my dreaming? Now I am going to open my eyes, find myself in the house, and you will no longer be in front of me.
No, don’t open your eyes, says Tanyous, because there’s something very important I need to tell you.
The monk reads the story of the merciful Friend Khalil Ibrahim with his son. Do you know why Hebron is called the City of Khalil? His grave is there and his real name is Khalil because he was the friend of Abu Issa.
Abu Issa? But just who is the Father of Issa? she asked.
I see that you don’t read books, my girl. Perhaps you do have good reason not to know something in a book that will be written in Beirut fifty years from now. How could you read this book if it is yet to be written?
But you — how can you read something before it’s written?
Because I read eyes. And you too, Milia. You will read things before they are written. You will read them in the moment the ancient man stands before your bed in the Italian Hospital and says, Now, Master. The time has come to release Your servant.
You mean, when I have my son you will die?
Not me alone.
No, I don’t want my son to die, she cried. Does it make any sense for this to happen? Does it make any sense for a father to kill his own son?
The monk opened the book and began to read.
Ibrahim bound his son in ropes and set him before the pile of kindling. He sat waiting when lo and behold, the sky shone with a light, and Ibrahim saw three angels bearing a white ram that gave off the fragrance of water. They placed him on the pile of wood.
The prophet knelt and his tears ran. He came to his son, untied his fetters, and gently pushed him aside. Ishaq stood and went to the white ram. He put his hand on the animal’s head and heard a low moan coming from the belly of the small trembling animal. He ran to cut an armful of green grass to feed the ram. The animal nosed the grass and Ishaq’s tears welled. His hands filled with tears. He turned back and saw his father coming, a knife in his hand.
No, Father! shrieked the boy.
Ibrahim shoved his son away, seized the ram by the neck, and slaughtered him with a cry of praise and joy to his Lord. The blood spurted out to fill the wadi, and the boy heard the sound of rushing blood. The sound rang full in his ears. The blood flowed before him in a current that twisted and turned, seeking a channel in the earth, and the screams rose.
When Ibrahim slaughtered the ram, and the man and his son smelled the scent of death, blood-hunger erupted through their bodies. Ibrahim stepped back and gazed upward into the firmament and asked Allah to help him endure this trial. He looked at his son and so the boy bent over the slaughtered ram, who was thrashing about in his blood. He was trying to capture the animal’s final heartbeats that pulsed over the white wool spattered with sacrificial red.
He ordered his son to pick up the ram and put him on the pile of wood.
The boy obeyed, carrying the ram to the waiting kindling. He felt the knife blade at his back. The young man smelled his father’s scent, a mingling of blood and manure, and was afraid. He threw down the ram and turned back to see the knife blade gleaming in his father’s hand, and he fled. The father ran behind his son, entreating him to turn back. But the boy was certain that to return would be to fall under the sharp edge of the knife.
The father tried to catch up with his son but he could not. He retraced his steps to the pile of branches, lit the fire, and offered the slaughtered beast. He sat in the open air, knife in hand. And he remained there, unmoving, awaiting the coming of the true animal.
You mean the Messiah knew he would be killed in sacrifice? asked Milia.
Yes, surely he knew.
So why did he return?
Because the story had to end.
But I don’t want the story to end! she exclaimed.
There is no story that does not end.
You’re wrong — there isn’t a single story that comes to an end. Stories do not end. And I don’t believe that the father sat for a thousand years waiting for his son to return so that he could kill him.
Milia said she was tired and wanted to open her eyes.
Don’t open your eyes, shrieked the monk. There is still a story I want to tell you.
I’m tired of you and of your stories. The story doesn’t go like this. The Messiah knew that there was a sheep. Ibrahim took his son there against his will. He could not rebel against God’s command. He took him to the mount, he was suffering terribly but there was nothing else he could do. There he tied him up and lifted his eyes to the heavens and cried out and began to weep. That was the instant when the lamb appeared, and Ibrahim saw it and understood that God was testing him, testing his dedication. He knelt and asked forgiveness. He embraced his son and they wept together. And then they slaughtered the lamb and went home, as if nothing had happened. The Messiah knew this story; he had heard it or read it maybe a thousand times, and that’s why when they condemned him to the cross he was not afraid. He knew that his Father, who had sent the animal to save Ishaq from death could not possibly abandon his son.
Then why did He abandon him? asked the monk.
I don’t know — you are asking me? You’re the one who is supposed to give the answers.
Because, as I told you, he had been waiting for him, all those days he was waiting.
But he did not know — no, don’t try to tell me that he knew. He believed there would be a lamb. Otherwise, he would not have gone.
I don’t know, said the monk.
She did not want to hear this story again, Milia told him. She was in pain from head to toe. She tried to make a sound but it felt like a hand covered her mouth, and then it enlarged to cover her nose as well, and was throttling her. I am dying, she wanted to say. But she could not say anything. This was death. You die when you can no longer utter these words: I am dying. No! I don’t want to die. Who will care for my son, and what if they take him to Jaffa? She wanted to open her eyes and find herself in her own bed. She had told the monk from Lebanon that she could open her eyes whenever she wanted. And then he would have departed her world, because she would be alone in her own bed.