John

T see all that is,' he replies. 'You have kept the faith of your father.' His hand reaches out. She bows her head and his fingers alight upon her.

The small children watch with large eyes.

Though the house is small, they are welcomed to stay. They eat a supper of salted fish and bread. Martha names her children for them, Philip the eldest, and Mary and Ruth, and to them the mute boy makes faces until they laugh.

'If it please you, tell me of my father,' Martha asks.

And John does. His brow wrinkles momentarily. Whether the act of recall is painful or it is the substance of the memory, briefly his face is knotted. Then he touches his tongue to his pale lips and says, 'When Jesus was passing, he stopped and saw Philip and said, "Follow me."'

He pauses on that cusp of action, in his mind the entire drama brought to this essence, this absolute. Jesus gives no explanation. There is no precursor, no expansion nor reasoning, no rhetoric. The dynamic is in the mystery. Why should Philip follow? Why should he walk out of his life on just those words?

John blinks his blind eyes, as if the sun-bright scene is again before him.

' "Follow me," Jesus said. And Philip did,' he tells.

And Philip did. It is the simplest of tales, the two words themselves potent and revelatory, in gentleness and command both. Follow me. John does not have to paint the scene for them to picture it. He does not have to relate the shy and sober character of Philip or tell what forces might have struggled in him on that instant of beckoning. Nor does he need to narrate for Martha the lifetime of consequence that followed, the sacrifice and hardship, first the witnessing and then the wandering, the endless road of bringing the Word that was still, even to his death, a continuing obedience to that first bidding. Of Philip, John tells her, 'He was my brother and I did love him in the truth, and not I only, but all who have known the truth.' He says, 'Little children, listen.' He tells of a day when Philip said to Jesus, 'Lord, show us the Father and it is enough for us.' And that Jesus replied to him, 'He that sees me, sees also the Father.'John leans forward and holds the hands of Martha. 'Philip saw,' he says. 'Philip saw and knew the truth. And knew it thereafter always.'

From Martha's eyes tears flow. Her children are about her. Her son, Philip, touches the tears, streaks them on his own cheeks.

After, the disciples are shown a square room where, under the watch of the children, they lay the thin mats of their bedding close together. For the Apostle they pile the blankets that Martha gives them. Though the sun is gone down, the room is warm from the day's heat. They sit in quiet with their thoughts, humbled by welcome. They are arrived on the threshold of triumph, of themselves as proof of enduring belief, but in the dark hours of night questions worm up to each from the clay floor.

What lies ahead? Danil wonders, turning his thorny knuckles over and back in the cup of his hand. What is it that is to be done? And how?

How in this city do we begin, is the question of Meletios, when everywhere there are believers in a pagan god? What will they say of us? Will they listen? How will I have strength? I am not strong.

Will there be followers? Lemuel asks. If I ring the bell will they come? Will they throw stones?

I miss the island, Eli thinks. Why do I miss the cool air and the sea whispering? How are Simon and Ioseph tonight?

In the summer dark Papias sits holding his knees, his head lowered. The mute boy is already asleep by his side.

In the morning we will go about in the city. But the Master is frail and should not risk the crowds. Do we say who he is that is among us? Do we proclaim him? What then if some turn against us? What if they seek to harm him?

Papias must divert himself from fear. Wounds in his back suddenly itch furiously. Sitting, he rocks slightly, then pats both feet against the floor as if beating a rhythm to make the questions retreat.

We are come out of exile for the glory of the Lord.

We are come out of exile for the glory of the Lord.

We are come out of exile for the glory of the Lord.

The hour is at hand.

26

'They are in the house of Martha,' Auster tells.

'Indeed. How many?'

'Five I saw with the Ancient.'

'Five only?'

'Yes.'

'Papias?'

'He led him on his arm.'

Matthias's dark eye pulses; he presses a palm against it. 'Leave me,' he says.

The footsteps retreat.

So it is, he thinks. In silence the world awaits a battle for souls.

Before daybreak the disciples are all awake. Their sleep, curdled with dream, leaves them uneasy. In separate dark the disciples lie and think of the city they have awoken in. Within it they have no presence as yet; there is no sense of belonging as there was on the island. Rather, there is a feeling of displacement, of being not only in the wrong place but in the wrong time. They feel alien. Other. Motionless, awake on their bed mats, they wrestle demons. What they must believe is twofold: first that their actions are designed, that the Apostle is guided by the Lord and that Ephesus is where they are to be, that it is so ordained, and what awaits is what is intended. This belief is not difficult. It is the bedrock, the tried and proven constant in their spirits, made to shine crystalline in the years of exile. The second is what taxes them most, for they must believe in humanity. They must believe in others, that when they go about the city they will find first an audience and then followers. They must put aside the ingrained hurt of previous experience of man, dismiss the jeers, the mockery, the insults, the beatings, stone throwings, all style of assault. It is not that they must wipe free the entire chronicle of grievances, being driven from the synagogue, the bitterness and hatred, but harder still, they must remember and yet still believe. Theirs was a history of contempt and rejection, so now how difficult to wake and believe the world transformed, to believe the very heart of humanity turned around and ready for the message of love. How difficult to forgive absolutely.

They are not fools. They know what they go to meet may not at first be welcoming. If it were, belief would be unnecessary. Instead, as they lie on their bed mats before the sun rises, they must anticipate rough beginnings and be not dismayed. Their faith must be stronger than the evidence, and they must be armed with this, their very souls like shields of tempered metal.

Lemuel rises first, and the others stir at once.

The Apostle, too, has not been sleeping. His head is propped upright against the wall, his face becalmed.

Does he know what is to come? In the boundless dark of his blindness, does he see? Or is his faith such that he abides without seeing or knowing and draws breath after breath in the certitude of love, of being loved, and that moment by moment the divine source draws closer?

In the crowded room they pray.

Then John tells them they will stay in this house a few days only. Danil is to go to seek quarters for them elsewhere in the city. Martha has told that there are others who have kept the faith, but they are not many. Lemuel is sent to bring the news of their return to one such, the house of Gaius. Meletios will go to one Demetrios, Eli to Josiah, and Papias to Diotrophes. They are to go as heralds to the coming time, to announce that they are come out of exile in Patmos and to begin to gather to them the new community of Christians here in Ephesus. They are to prepare the way and bring the news that the time is turned, the Lord comes.

The mute boy watches their discourse. He cannot tell his name and by John is given 'Kester' and made by Papias to understand. The Apostle is moved by his presence among them. He tells Papias to care for him, to teach as best he can the character of their faith.