The Habitation of the Blessed - Catherynne M. Valente [108]
‘But he never mentioned you,’ she murmured, and held me close.
You know much of this tale, I know. He was a great man—everyone listened when he spoke, and so did I. He took on students, and we were a family of thirteen, all of us together, so excited by the nearness of God, by the fire that burned in Yeshua, in all his words and deeds. And then came the fishes. And then the wine, and the boy who was dead but lived. And we all fell silent, because when young men dream together they do not really imagine that things like that will start happening. Yeshua was as surprised as anyone, but he did not show it to the others. In the night, at home, he would open and close his hands and shake, for he did not understand what was happening to him.
I understood. My brother was perfect, that was all. Had it ever been any different? Whatever he desired appeared. It was a law of the universe.
Once, I came upon him in a garden full of pomegranate trees, and date trees as well. The air smelled rich and bitter all at once. Yeshua was speaking in low tones to a tall man under the shade of a pomegranate. Red fruit hung all around them. The tall man had very long, very black hair, and upon his shoulders sat a kind of light that was not light. I tried to look at it, but it was like looking at something through the flames of a fire: the air wriggled like oil, and I could not keep my eyes on it, for they burned. Finally my brother finished his business with the man and left the garden by the far gate. I stood where I stood, and the tall man saw me. He looked startled for a moment, then slightly furtive, as though caught out.
‘Hello, Thomas,’ he said to me, and my ears ached, though he did not speak loudly.
‘Hello. What business have you with my brother?’
‘Much business,’ he said softly. ‘And grave.’
I looked the man in the eye, and we held one another’s gaze. ‘You are an angel,’ I said, and I knew it to be true before I said it. An angel bends your bones apart, to make room for its voice inside you.
‘Yes.’
‘You came for my brother.’
‘Yes.’
‘You are the same angel that came to my mother?’
‘Yes.’
‘Because my brother is special.’
‘Your brother is the Son of God.’
The sun beat down upon me. I did not doubt it. I doubted nothing of my brother. Not then. ‘What about me?’ I said softly.
‘You were… left over,’ the angel sighed. ‘The Word of God displaces mass. Something of Him was left over. Which is to say: The Lord God conceived Yeshua. Maryam conceived you.’ The angel shrugged apologetically. ‘These things are unpredictable.’
‘God could not predict it?’
‘God enjoys surprises. Incarnation is… complex. It is not a straight path.’ The angel paused abruptly and joined his hands together. His fingers were very long. ‘You love your brother.’
‘Yes.’
‘Perhaps that was what was left over. It’s all love, Thomas. That’s all. Just love, and death, and the striving toward one or the other.’ He turned away from me, and I called out:
‘If he is a man, but has within him the Word of God, like a bone or a heart… do I?’
The angel smiled, so slightly that I almost thought he frowned. His black eyes blazed like iron. ‘I don’t know, Thomas. Do you?’
And he left the garden. The rich and bitter smell vanished with him, and I was left alone.
When Yeshua died, I held our mother while she vomited and clawed her cheeks. Her eyes were empty; she had forgotten who she was. We felt as though a great weight had suddenly fallen between all of us, and we all stood staring at the hole it made, we who were now only twelve, twelve and Maryam, which I suppose made thirteen again. Nothing would be the same. He had been the weight, and where he fell he distorted the fabric of the world, before and behind, so that nothing could run smooth again.
And then, one day, his friend Maryam,