Cold night of glittering stars spreads overhead. The disciples untie blankets. From his place nearby, hunkered, holding his knees, the boy watches. Meletios brings him a bedcloth.
In the first wafer of dawn light, when Lemuel rings the bell, the boy is discovered to have come nearer in the night.
When the Apostle gives the day blessing, the boy's head is bowed like the others.
23
The fisher captain finds them in the morning. His eyes swim in the night's drinking. His footing on the ground is uneven, as if the earth is not flat. The tide turns, they must hurry.
They follow him through the village, the mute behind. Papias tells him he must return to his parents, but the boy simply follows a few paces after. Villagers with looks quizzical or mistrustful arrest and stare. A dog yelps, dances in frenzied tailspin barking. At his doorway Cenon scowls, tips a bowl of yellow foulness at their passing.
'May God curse and strike you down for thieves and beggars!' he cries. He looks to the blue sky. 'O God hear my prayer!' Then he sees the stone thrower. 'Boy. Boy, come here! Throw fresh stones. Boy. Idiot boy, come!'
But the boy doesn't. They board the fishing boat as before, the captain making ready the ragged sail. Wind awaits. The mute watches them. Then, as they are leaving, he holds out a hand and Danil pulls him aboard.
Their route takes them north-east. They pass the islands of Thymaina and Fourni to the south, sail the steady waters between Ikaria and Samos. All are silent. Even Lemuel sits and clasps his hands together in thought.
John turns his face to the oncoming wind, as though he sees.
It is coming now. Now we return.
Ephesus. To Ephesus.
He knows where he goes. For he has been there before. In a lifetime since, it was to Ephesus he came with Mary after the crucifixion. To a small, low house with a vaulted doorway, where she might be kept safe. It was as he was instructed, but it was not what he had wished. He was young. In the aftermath he wished he might die. In the shadow of the cross he wanted a sword. He wanted to run against all, flailing a blade, to kill as many as he could. He wanted to be crucified. Nothing other could appease the loss. It did not matter to him then that his discipleship would end at once, that there would be no continuance, no preaching or conversions. He had seen the nails being driven and turned away, biting away his lips to keep from crying out. How could he stand idly by? What was to be gained by living? He had stood at the foot of the cross in the wild lamentations. He could not look up at the body with the downfallen head, the glisten of sweat and blood in the thunderous dark. The cries were all about him. Murmurings and jeers, whispers, pointing. He wanted to shout to them all, to say, Look, look what you have done, that here was love itself nailed and dying before them. How could he not cry out?
Then, knowing his grief, Mary had turned her head towards him. She did not speak. In her was a calm like a white robe folded. From the cross Jesus said, 'Woman, behold thy son.' And to John, 'Behold thy mother.' And the youth he was knew his last instruction was to care for her, and he did not think yet there was another meaning coming after and into his care would be an entire community, a Church.
It was a lifetime ago. It was the day he most wanted to be dead. To be with the Lord, not to live and care for his mother. But he obeyed and remained.
They had stolen away from Jerusalem weeks later, after the third time the risen Jesus had shown himself, leaving the city by night with a single ass and going northwards as if following a star, though in the sky none shone. They moved like lepers under darkness, wore coverings of thick blanket over their heads, spoke to no other, their route at first not direct nor expedient but the staggered meander of a small creature stunned under a blow.
Ephesus. They had come to Ephesus to seek asylum, to be unknown in the crowded city, where believers were varied and many. When they entered the low stone building at the end of their journey, they sat in the darkness without words. Neither peace nor rest was there, only an exhausted quiescence. In the stillness of after-travel, grief caught up to them and came with its paring knife. They suffered it without complaint, each in the unimaginable torment of having lost the company of Jesus.
Ephesus. John remembers. He was there before the beginning of his great travels. He knows it is there he must return.
Bent forwards in the boat, Papias's back stings. The mainland of Asia Minor is before them. The disciples watch the coastline with volatile mix of hope and apprehension. Glory awaits, Papias thinks. We are almost here. The scabs in his back sting, but he does not itch them. Tremors of excitement move in his blood. It will be now. Now the work will be done. The way will be prepared for the Lord once more. And though I am unworthy.
He stops. He sees the shoal offish in their wake. He takes from it instant meaning, and his spirit is further stretched and in joy flaps like a sheet held at each end. He dips a hand in the swift sea. Then he notices that the mute boy is looking directly at him and has seen the fish following, too. Papias smiles. The smiles keep rising like bubbles off the floor of his belief. He cannot keep them from his lips. He lowers his head when he fears he might burst one in laughter, then smiles at the boat bottom at his feet, the small slop of saltwater in which sit his sandals. Sunlight plays upon their heads, makes liquid dazzle, and their arrival is accordingly imbued. All will be well, Papias thinks. We are in his hands now. Eyes shut, he raises his head to let light flood his face. His smile goes heavenward. Noise of the near shore is within hearing, traders, boys, labouring carts, those in converse whose eyes turn to consider the cargo arriving.
The fishing boat slows, bumps, sounds a rough drag, and sways back and over twice.
Though I am unworthy.
Papias opens his eyes to the great joy that is to begin. He stands as do the others in the tilt and knock of the boat. He holds out to the Apostle his arm and touches it against him so as to ascertain its support.
'We are arrived.'
As the old man reaches out his thin hand, Papias takes the briefest look behind him. But in the murk waters the fish are no longer to be seen.
24
Be with us.
Be with us even as we come to meet you.
They are on the outskirts of the city only, but already in the commotion and press of commerce. Traders, dealers in fish and fruits, merchant's boys, eye all arrivals for bargains. Sun falls on the Christians as they leave the fisher captain and come on to the mainland in a tight cluster. Even in the flux of travellers who frequent that place, coming from the four-cornered world, it is apparent at once that these are other. They wear a frail hesitancy and cannot keep from looking at all that surrounds them. The ordinary is rendered miraculous, all the loud and untidy activity of human engagement. Cries, calls, laughter; there is such noise, Meletios thinks, turning his head this way and that at each voice. It is truly now that the long silence in which they have lived is apparent. The island has transformed them, among its actions the ablution of the memory of this, the rough animation of man. They have forgotten what it is to move in a crowded street. Some push against them, going elsewhere. Others call overhead the price of a catch, are haggled down, cajoled. A crate of fish is carried past; stacked silver and mouth agape, the fish appear in astonished pose no different to Meletios, Danil, Eli, Lemuel, and Papias.