John

And from what furthermost edge, from what dark or light, by chance or design, John returns.

Very slight, he moves his head to one side, speaks softly the disciple's name.

Meletios drops to his knees, takes the Apostle's right hand in both of his and presses his head to it. 'Master, Master.' He can say nothing more at first. He hears John draw a slender breath.

'You are cold, Master. I will bring you more blankets.'

'Meletios?'

'Yes, Master?'

'I am here.'

It is not a question, or is it? Is he confused?

'You are here, Master. Yes, in the house of Levi in Ephesus.'

'Yes. But. .' The Apostle raises his right hand, it floats trembling in midair, pale uncertain bird, and then moves across to where it alights upon his left shoulder. John pats his own shoulder, then the upper arm, and forearm.

'I cannot feel this side,' he says. There is no fright in his voice; he tells it because it is. 'My arm, my leg.' Then, in mild interrogative, 'They are there?'

'Yes.'

John lies still. His breaths are long between.

'I cannot move them,' he tells.

'It is tiredness, Master,' Meletios offers, lineaments of love in his face 'You have not your strength. Rest, rest now. We will pray for your well-being.'

John does not reply. He lies in the heart of the mystery while Meletios goes to alert the others.

I am here, he thinks. But I cannot see and cannot feel that I am. How then do I know?

It is as though he has been partly taken.

In the day that follows, he turns the question over: why is it so? Does the Lord speak to him by this language of dying? Does he near take him each time, in the sea, in the quake, and by this, too? Does he tell something by sickness? What message is untranslated here? Why does the Apostle near death and not die? To now John has supposed the reason: that he prepares the way, that he remains spreading the Word until he comes again. It is the Lord's love for him, and his for the Lord.

But in the blind, dark stillness of the bed when one half of himself he cannot feel, he thinks there is something other.

He is a sign that he himself does not understand.

Teach me, he prays. Where do I wrong? Teach me to live as you wish.

That night Lemuel lies on the floor by the Apostle's bed. He cannot tell if he sleeps or not. He listens for each breath. When he rises in the dawn, John is awake already.

'We must find Papias,' he says.

'We have searched, Master.'

'You must bear me to Matthias.'

'But you are weak, it is not prudent. The city is. .'

John raises his right hand. 'To Matthias, bear me there. We will find Papias.'

'Let Danil go, or I shall. There is no need for you. You are weak. .'

'There is need for me yet.'

'I did not mean. .'

'It is all right, Lemuel. I am to go. Will you bring me thither?'

He is borne from the house in the early morning on a litter lain with a blanket of sheep's wool. The disciples all go with him. The way is crowded and already filled with traffic of commerce. Seabirds are come ashore in forecast of storm; they pilfer and squawk. Criers already rend the air with prices. The Christians then are a quiet caravan, aloof, privately purposeful. They cross from the district of alleyways and crooked lanes into the broader thoroughfare. The key of season is turned; the sky blotched with cloud. Small gusts of salt wind blow. Watchful of the heavens, traders lay stones on their wares, lower their prices a fraction.

Ephesus has seen all the world, its oddity and grandeur both, and pays little attention to the litter-borne apostle. Those who take notice think only it is one being carried to a tomb.

There are as ever in the streets the proclaimers, the soothsayers, the testifiers, and the priest. The weather changing is apt topic, the storm approaches. Here one points to the sky with force and conviction, declares he sees the seam rendering; here another tells the talk of the wind. The Christians press on. But on the edge of the square they are blocked by a crowd gathered for the spectacle of the gospel seller. The others have seen him before, but have not told the Apostle. He is a bearded, long-haired crier who waves a clutch of scrolls.

'Here, here, come gather and listen! Here is told the bloody crucifixion of Jesus of Nazareth.'

For better market, he has a youth in loincloth and crown of thorn bush standing head-bowed alongside.

'Read, read the suffering of the carpenter's son!' he cries. And then commences by striking at the youth's bare back with a knotted lash.

An O from the crowd draws him on. He lashes again. The youth withers.

The seller knows his tale by heart. He knows what moves his audience, what vanity and righteousness make of man, and tells, 'Here, see he who thought himself a second God. Read what was his punishment. Read the words written by those who were witness. Read the gospel of Boas for each lash told. The gospel of Judas, who loved Jesus, here the very nails driven, look! A bargain. Truly. A reminder to all the sin of pride.'

What sorrow it is for John to hear cannot be imagined. Love is grief and anger.

The disciples call out to make way, and he is brought past and away. But already in the after-moments, in the strange bumped floating of the litter through the streets where John is borne like a last remnant of truth, something is happening. It happens with suffering. It happens as the sky clouds quicken and the light moves dark and bright and dark again. The wind from the east comes. The birds like torn things scatter and return. The air is made bitter. John says nothing. He lies in the first vision of new knowledge, in the place where it is first nothing but light without shape or form, a candescence that makes wince. He knows but does not know what yet. The thing that happens is whiteness only, is brilliance and illumination neither tender nor comforting but such as to cause pain. For in light is former darkness shown. There is something that happens. It is an inner blinding. But of it nothing can be spoken yet.

The litter is borne out from the city to the house of Matthias.

'Are you well, Master?' Melitios asks, for the Apostle has made no movement or sound. 'This is the place.'

'Tell we have come for Papias.'

Danil knocks. The disciples wait. A sinewy shaven-head figure with pale eyebrows that they do not at first recognise as Linus opens the door. He wears a blue robe to the ground; his hands he cups before his chest.

'We are come to talk with Papias.'

'Papias?' The name is like sourness in Linus's mouth. He tongue-tips his full lips. 'Papias is not here.'

He goes to close the door against them, but Danil stops him, seizes his arm. 'We have come to see him, where is he?'

Linus shrugs free, smoothes the fall of his robe. 'We are holy men here,' he says in distaste. 'None stay who do not wish it. Papias is not here. He went off. He is unclean.'

'Unclean? You who were one of us now call us. .'

'He is diseased. His flesh rots. You knew and sent him to us, Auster says. That you might strike at the Holy One.'

'He is. . you lie.'

'His skin falls off Linus presses forward his head to spit the phrase. 'He is dead now.'

Danil must keep himself from striking him.

'Bring us to Matthias,' John says.

Linus wets his lips. There is authority in the Apostle he fears yet.

'The Holy One is in the sanctum. He fasts. He is not to be disturbed.'

'Bring us there,' John says, and the disciples push past the remonstrations of the other and go through the building, opening doors, until they come to a place of candles and incense and a stone altar upon which lies Matthias. He remains perfectly still.