John

Ioseph moves his thin legs stiffly, rises from the rush mat. Simon lies in a shuddering sleep by the wall.

He sees the spreading light of dawn. The sea is calm. He draws slow, full breath, then kneels down on the stones to pray for Simon's health and for the community's safe passage to Ephesus.

After, he comes back inside and prepares a new poultice for Simon's arm. There is a mortar and pestle, herbs and oils. He works in the half-light. When the remedy is prepared, he draws the stool to the other and sits. Simon's eyes startle wide.

'I am sorry to have woke you.'

'In my dreams I heard a bell ringing, Ioseph. Calling me. Is it calling me to death? Am I at death now?'

'Calm yourself, Simon. You are not at death. It was Lemuel ringing the dawn bell. Be at ease, Simon. I have a fresh poultice made.'

'They are going now?'

'Soon.'

Simon sits upright. He is thinning by the hour. Lengths of white hair lie on the sacking of the pillow. His brow, fretted with a lifetime's worry, he palms tenderly like an egg.

'It was ringing in my dream, too,' he says. 'Or I lose my wits, Ioseph. Do I? Did Prochorus go mad? He didn't, did he?'

'Calm, Simon. It is all right. You are fighting the illness. You will defeat it. I will be here with you.'

Simon lowers his eyes. 'You should go,' he says unconvincingly.

'I am not going until you are well.'

'What if I give you the, the, this?' He holds out his arm. The sores worsen. What was red is blackened now and smells putrid.

'Then I will have it with you, and we will cure together.'

'Agh!' Simon turns toward the wall. 'You are losing your wits already,' he says.

'Perhaps.'

'You have a last chance. You should go now. Take the boat.'

'I am staying.'

Simon's eyes burn as he turns back. 'What if this is my punishment? What if I am meant to be left alone here, to die alone? Have you considered? What if it is the Lord's plan? It will not be so easy to care for me. I am not. . I won't be. . accepting.'

'I know.'

'I will say things I shouldn't. I may cry out against the Lord, against you. I know myself, I am weak. You must think of the days ahead, Ioseph. When the illness ravages not only my body, but my mind. Ioseph, kind Ioseph, go. Go with my blessing. Take the boat.'

Ioseph's chin rests on the bridge of his hands. He considers the urgent face of his old friend, the prominence of the cheekbones now, the pallor of flesh, the eyes aswim. The first signs of rash are progressing faceward from the left ear. Simon seems to have grown smaller in sleep, frailty making him a thin, ancient boy.

'I am staying,' Ioseph says. 'It is decided. Now be still and I will apply the dressing.'

Simon's chin trembles; he presses his lips tightly. His arm he extends, his head he turns away.

After, wordless, in the dull tranquillity that follows acceptance, they go together outside. Though he needs it not yet, Simon uses a stick of olive wood slightly curved. His head is lowered near his hand-grasp. They come some fifty paces, no further, to a little platform of the rock. Light is risen. Gulls and other birds cross the wind. Side by side the disciples stand and watch below the small remnant of their community progress across the shore to a fishing boat with cream-coloured sail. They watch, unspeaking. Lemuel helps the Apostle to step from the water onboard. Then Papias, Danil, Eli, and Meletios, are by turns hand-pulled up. It is done in moments. Then the fisherman turns the sail and swiftly the boat slaps away into the shallow waves.

They watch it go like a candle flame, bright above the darker water, but with each instant diminishing further into the distance, until at last they can see it no more. Neither man moves. For a long time they watch the nothing that remains of it on the horizon. Then Ioseph sees that Simon's hand shakes badly where it holds the stick, and for support he places his arm under the other disciple and leads him across the silent island to a rock where the sun warms.

The fishing boat cuts quickly into the water. The disciples do not speak. Each carries jumbled burdens of anxiety, uncertainty, caution, of regret as well as hope, but these remain unvoiced. They look to the Apostle, who sits in the prow, his blind head aslant to the sky. Then, each to their fashion, they try and lighten their spirits. Sand-haired Meletios looks back at the island, as if it is part of himself that retreats now. He sees its contour and dimension for the first time and is astonished that it seems so small. How can this have been where such faith was? How can this mound of grey rock have been home to the entire community? It looks no more than a dark fragment, fallen off, adrift from the greater mainland, rocky anchorage of a lesser God. The years they have spent there grow small even as the island does. All that time, the day after day of waking to the dawn bell, the rituals of their faith, the silent enduring through harsh winters, blazing summers, seems in some manner diminished as the boat pulls away. Will none of it matter if in Ephesus they are not received? Will the world be ready for the Word? Meletios holds his hands tightly. The island gone, he lowers his head, and is like Danil and Eli across from him, bowed over a stomach tangle of questions.

Lemuel the bell ringer is not so. He stands by the mast, his face turned upwards in a smile. His eyes shine. In the slap and roll of the sea beneath him he delights. He is remade a boy and opens his mouth with surprise at the strength of the wind, the crack it sounds in the sail. He bounces six steps down the boat following a high wave, and though the others wish he would sit, they don't say. The voyage to him is a wonder. He leans to the side to see the Aegean depth, what fish silver the under-boat, what brown-and-white gleams flash past and sink into sea ink. A wave crashes the old salt timber of the bow, and the splash rises to his face. He cries out and the others look up, but for a moment only. Lemuel laughs. He laughs full-mouthed with head back and hands by his side. Great whoops of joy escape him. His eyes are blue of lapis; he is in his fifth decade but in dripping seaspray is giddied back to an earlier self, awe-filled, juvenate. He cannot sit down. The fisher captain shakes his head. This is the sea-madness of the Aegean, the sometime elation that takes hold of a soul skimming over such blue. Sky and sea alike are ultra, are blue beyond blue. The whitecaps of the waves arise like rapture. Lemuel bends across the side, his heels out of his sandals, his head and shoulders out of sight where he reaches to put his hand in the moving tide. He five-fingers the flow, watches the eddy about his white hand. There is such pull, such energy of motion, such elemental force. Lemuel lets his hand get pulled away from him through the water, then tugs back through the wake. What it would be to slip over into the current now, what easeful peace to be carried swiftly away in the blue.

'Lemuel.' Papias places his hand on the bell ringer's back. 'Be careful.'

The other moves back from where he hangs overboard. He looks at the younger disciple and beams.

'It is dangerous, Lemuel.'

'I am filled with joy.'

'God is with us. He brings us out of exile.'

Lemuel smiles. He cannot keep a smile from his round features.

'We might best to sit,' Papias suggests, but Lemuel shakes his head. 'This flowing of the sea, it moves me, Papias. I have forgotten.' He smiles again and turns back to the slap and splash of the side, the fishing boat tilting now in meeting currents, angling over deep into a seam in the sea, then righting as it seals up beneath them. Lemuel stands and rocks, in the slow rhythm of the Aegean not imagining water sprites, sea serpents, or other of the vast population of mer-creatures mythic and storied, but only as it comes to him a memory he does not know he has remembered: in his mother's womb, the sea, and he a sail.