The Rabble Man, a short story

Crucifixion

This happened when I was twelve. I was there and I saw it with my own eyes. I have kept my silence since, and to this day, not to shame my parents. For I ask you: Who on earth would have believed me? Who will believe me? My parents would have thought me deranged and I would have shamed them had I spoken sooner. You too will think me deranged, I am sure.

I disobeyed my father. That too has silenced me. He told me to stay inside that day, in the house, do not to go anywhere, he said. He felt trouble coming. Nothing for children’s eyes. He was a stern man, my father. He did not tolerate disobedience, whenever and for whatever reason. He would not have forgiven mine. I remember him saying that he felt trouble coming and he told me to stay. It was a command. Not to be ignored or contravened. That too begged my silence. How could I have told him I was there?

Now they are gone. Father this Friday last and I am now back from laying him to rest. Mother has been dead longer. Almost three years now. I have no brothers. There is no one left to shame. And now that there is only myself to shame, I need to tell. For shame means nothing to me now, dwarfed by the burden of seeing.

He was a short man. I remember thinking he must not be fully grown for he was not much taller than me, and I was of a height normal for my age, perhaps I was just a little taller. But he wore a full beard and I remember wondering how could a boy have such a beard when I realized he was a man. A boy with a beard I thought at first. A bearded boy. How strange! Then I realized he was a short man. Not a boy at all.

Mother had left for the country that same morning. The early sky had promised heat and she took not well to our dusty sun. She and Naomi, her cousin, both left shortly after breakfast, mother saying it would be a very hot day. I think it likely that Father commanded her to go. If he did, I did not hear it, but it is likely. Father himself left shortly thereafter for the guards. But not before he told me to stay inside and told Aaron, my uncle who lived with us then, to make sure I stayed inside the house. There could be trouble, he said. I remember it clearly, him telling Aaron there could be trouble that day. Father knew these things for he was an officer of the guards and I remember him telling Aaron that day that he thought there would be trouble.

They had talked about him at the table the night before, Father, Mother and uncle Aaron, Father doing most of the talking, while chewing his food like he always did. His words were hard to make out, as his tongue was working at two tasks. His lips and teeth, too. He told us there had been a disturbance, only a small one, he added. Father never had big disturbances. This one was in the afternoon when the man had entered the city on a donkey and many people had gathered to greet him.

“Rabble,” said Mother. “Nothing but rabble.”

She spoke clearly, for she never spoke while chewing. She was a one task at a time woman. I remember her saying he was nothing but some rabble from the country.

Aaron said so too, “Just rabble.” He said it without looking up, his big watery eyes intent on his food. But then he always agreed with mother, being mother’s brother and having no money of his own.

“He is a trouble maker,” said Father. “We’ve had our eyes on him him for some time. He’s been careful not to break the laws so far, but now he’s angered Pilate and we will nail him to wood tomorrow.”

“Good,” said Mother.

“Good,” said Aaron.

Father’s glance at her may have told her to go to the country, but he never told her such things so I could hear. Father’s glance at Aaron told him to find work, but Aaron didn’t notice, still watching and working his food.

I listened to their conversation and thought that Father has an important job, but I thought no more about the man that evening. There were so many trouble makers those days. Same as now. There was always some trouble maker that Father had to see to and mother always said they came from the country and were rabble and should not be allowed in the city or that they should be nailed to wood.

After breakfast that morning, mother and Naomi left for the country. Father then told Aaron to make sure I stayed inside. Quite loudly. To make sure I too heard, I think. Then he left as well. I went up onto the roof. I looked up at the sky. It was going to be a hot day. There was not a cloud about and the sun baked our roof ledge at first blooming, barely looking over the neighboring roof tops.

Yes, I thought, mother was right. It was going to be a hot day.

I looked down on the street. There were no signs of Mother and Naomi. But I could see Father exit our house and enter the street. I saw him and followed him with my eyes as he was greeted by two of his men and disappeared with them into the city. I remember thinking it was going to be a hot day that day as I saw them hurry for the city. Father first, taller and darker than his two officers. I also thought again that he has an important job. I’m proud to be his son, I thought.

Then they rounded a corner and were gone.

I went back down into the house which was still cool. Then I did not think about Father or mother or rabble men or trouble or heat for a while. Instead I read some. Then I worked oil into my new sandals. This was the fourth time I had oiled into them, and the leather was now growing soft and smooth.

Then I played with our secret cat. She was no longer a secret, but I still thought of her as our secret cat. When Father brought her home he said she was a gift but that we had to keep her a secret. Aaron said Father had bought her from a Greek smuggler that is why she was a secret. The secret cat did not keep itself a secret long for no matter how hard Father told us never to let it out, it let itself out whenever it pleased and stopped being a secret pretty soon.

She liked to chase things. So for a while I ran around and around our garden fountain with a string trailing from my hand as she ran after it. She’d chase it for a while then stop and take a few steps back. I remember thinking she must think it’s a mouse or a rat. Doesn’t she know it’s me pulling the string? Can’t she see? Apparently not. Her tail would beat up a small cloud of dust as she backed off with eyes fixed without a blink on the end of the string. I’d stop too and she’d crouch motionless but for a ripple or two in her front legs, just about to charge. Any second now. I could tell because her tail would beat just a little harder, the dust just a little dustier, then her rear legs would ripple too and then she’d charge. Sometimes I let her catch the string with her claws and she would hold on as I pulled. She’d feel heavy at the end of the string dragging on the ground before she let go. Lie there in the dust for a while, then stand up, looking for all the world as if she wasn’t in the least interested in the string. As if it in fact had been some other cat looking just like her that had been stupid enough to charge the end of a stupid string. Then she’d charged again and we played like this for a while.

Aaron offered me a cool drink, which he always did when he wanted one himself. Then he offered me another.

The day was growing very hot and Aaron asked why I was still sitting outside in the garden, why didn’t I get out of the sun? Yes, it was getting very hot, but he clay cup felt cool in my hand and the cool juice smelled fresh and I remember saying this is not so hot. I remember trying to ignore the heat. It’s not good to let others know what you feel or that you cannot sit in the sun. Father would never admit to being hot, especially not to Aaron, that’s what I remember thinking.

Around noon I no longer cared what Aaron might think, I could no longer take the heat. The day had turned very warm now. Our secret cat was nowhere to be seen. She was not as stupid as me and didn’t care one bit what Aaron or anyone else for that matter thought and had left for shadier parts a long time ago.

I went inside to read some more.

The sun had begun sinking but by its angle would still shine for a few more hours when I first heard them. I remember thinking it sounded like the ocean.

When I was younger, we used to travel to Ashkelon when the summer grew its hottest. This was before Father became an officer of the guards. We used to travel there and I remember lying awake for a long time the first few nights, before falling asleep, listening to the waves and thinking that it sounded like many hands clapping. Many, many hands clapping me to sleep. But after a few days my ears would grow accustomed to the waves and they’d clap no more. I would simply fell asleep with the sea in my nostrils and my muscles tired from swimming. But for a moment that afternoon I thought I was back at Ashkelon falling asleep before I realized I had fallen asleep in the hot house in Jerusalem and it was some other murmur that I heard, not the waves at Ashkelon clapping. It was coming from outside.

I was curious, of course, especially since Father had said there might be trouble. So, despite the heat, I rushed up onto our roof and looked out over the chest-high ledge in the direction of the approaching sound. The murmur grew and I soon knew it to be many people coming this way.

I remember clearly the murmur and the ledge and the sun and the hot clay of the roof burning my soles. The murmur grew even stronger as my soles burned badly on the baking clay. I wanted to see what was coming but my feet were burning more than I could bear. I thought about my sandals, then about Father who had told me, not to wear them until I had oiled them seven times. That was three times away. But I wanted to see what was coming, and my soles burned so badly that I ran down to get them. That was my first act of disobedience that day.

When I returned to the roof, my feet sandaled and relieved, the crowd was closer still and I could hear shrill, angry individual voices. Then I saw them. They rounded the hide-maker’s shop and spilled onto our street like a huge worm with three crosses for a head.

Two of these crosses were carried by soldiers. The third was carried by what I thought at first was a boy with a beard. I remember thinking, how strange, a boy with a beard. Then I realized that it was a short man. He looked angry. He must have been very strong though for he carried the cross all by himself. Well, not carried, really. It was too heavy for even a very strong man to carry, but he dragged it along all by himself. He looked tired from this. But mostly, I thought, he looked angry.

My mother had called him rabble from the country. Aaron too, of course. My father had called him a trouble maker. He’s been called a lot more since. A heretic, a savior, a messiah. Many called him country scum. Me, I saw a short man with long hair and a beard which at first I thought was a boy my age, perhaps a little taller.

Then I saw my father. He was telling the guards to keep the people from throwing things and then I knew that this was indeed the promised trouble.

They passed directly below where I stood and the noise grew hard to endure. He was called names. Mostly bad ones. Some good. Lord, by some. Savior, by some. But mostly bad names. He didn’t look around much. The cross must have been very heavy, for he mostly looked down. But he did look up now and then and looking up again, he looked directly at me. It was as if he asked me what I was looking at? He looked very angry, and especially angry at me for being up on our roof looking down at him.

Of course, that’s me filling in my feelings when I think back on them, but that’s what I thought. I remember thinking I was glad I was up on the roof and that he was down there in the street and that Father was nearby because this rabble man scared me.

Then he looked down again and shifted the cross slightly on his shoulder and kept moving. It looked very heavy and must have hurt him terribly. They have said since, the heretics, that he was the leader of the meek. But he was nothing like meek at all. He was strong and furious, that’s what I think. Short, strong and furious.

I stood back and even crouched a bit to make sure Father couldn’t see me. Then the worm moved on past the water-house and was gone except for a few men who didn’t go further but stopped to talk and then slipped into the shade of the teahouse. The worm took its murmur with it, loud still, then fainter and fainter.

I decided to follow. Well, not right away. I wondered for a moment who he was, that angry boy with the beard, the rabble man. Then, as all voices were returned to pebbles clapping by the shore, I slipped over the side of the house and climbed down the southern wall where the foothold was good and where Aaron could not see me. That was my second act of disobedience that day.

The truth was, I did not like him, he scared me, and I wanted to see him nailed to wood.

They said later that there were many people there to see him die but there were not. In fact, I had to hide for fear my father would see me, there were not even enough people for me to go unnoticed, even though I was only a child. I remember hiding well, for Father was there and he must not see me. I did not count them, but there were not many, twenty or so. Perhaps not even that. I did not count them. But I remember thinking how the worm must have gotten bored or too warm and left for dinners in the shade. Just a few now. Perhaps twenty. I remember that clearly, for I had to hide so Father would not see me.

I slipped in among the rocks and crevices until I found a place close enough to see the nailing but where Father could not see me, no matter how vigilant.

I had never seen a nailing before. I had seen a binding, but not a nailing.

The other two prisoners were bound. Strapped to their crosses with strong, wet leather thongs that would shrink as they dried. I saw their faces wince and grimace. I remember thinking how it must hurt and then the soldiers were done strapping and raised those crosses and stood them in their holes. Some jeered at the prisoners who jeered right back. One of them tried to spit at the soldiers or into the faces below. I cannot tell which as he missed everything but the ground and they jeered some more.

As Father had promised they did not bind the short man to his cross. Two soldiers held him back down against the wood. Two more held his arm and hand while yet another placed a large iron spike into his wrist. I thought I had wanted to see this but once I saw the soldier raise his arm and mallet I had to look away. That did not stop me from hearing.

He screamed. It was from the pain of course. But it was also in anger. He roared. I heard the wood of the mallet hit the metal of the spikes and him screaming. And then they hammered no more and he stopped screaming and I looked up.

He was nailed to the wooden cross through wrists and feet. Blood pulsed out around the spikes and onto the wood and onto the ground. Red, then darker, then nearly black in three small puddles.

The soldiers brought him upright then and stood his cross too in its hole and made sure it would not fall over. Other soldiers shored up the cross to the left which had started to sag and looked like it would soon fall. Father came up to them and pointed at the foot of the cross, telling them, I’m sure, how to fill in the hole properly so the cross would not fall over. Some soldiers are so dumb they wouldn’t even serve as firewood is what Father used to say. They looked at him like firewood and down at the foot of the sagging cross and then did what Father told them to. After a while the cross stood upright again.

Father went over to each of the other two crosses and inspected their feet and holes and seemed satisfied that they too would remain standing. Then he stepped away and with him his soldiers. The three crosses with their tenants were left apart from the faces below and the crucifixion was done.

I looked at the small man’s face in the half light. He looked out at the little gathering below. He had stopped screaming by now and his mouth was closed. Then he looked up at the sky. Then over at the setting sun. Then up again, as if looking for something.

I was getting ready to sneak back the way I had come and return home before Father would get there and notice me missing. I had seen what I had come to see. Some of the people below would wait to see him die. I just wanted to see the nailing.

Father called these people that wait to see people death vultures. Mother called them vultures too. Aaron called them vultures as well. Vultures are patient people. It could take days for the crucified to die.

“A week once,” Father told us one night at the table. “The fat ones last forever. They moan and cuss and beg water and food before they finally die.” Then he looked over at Aaron and smiled and said those crosses are hell to keep upright, at least before they shed some of their weight. Father was in a good mood that night, he never smiled at Aaron normally.

I had to go. I could still see Father across the few people with his guards but he would soon be leaving.

That is when it happened.

I have thought about this ever since, and to be sure I have not thought about much else. How could I possibly? And I have wondered why it was I could see when no one else did and the only thing I can think about is that I must have been shielded somehow by the rock. I was spared the light by the rock.

For I had turned, if just barely, to leave my hiding place. I was crouching to sneak away when everything in the world, above and around and seemingly below me, went white. Just for an instant, for less than a breath. I didn’t see the light with my eyes, and perhaps that is what left me awake, but I saw the rock turn to shimmer beneath me and saw with my shoulders and neck and back the light that was heat and all upon me. I though for an instant that the sun must have fallen down on us. I remember thinking, too, that it could not have. For if it had fallen, it would not have been upon us but into the sea where it was already headed. But the light was that of the sun falling down, hot and over everything and I remember thinking first that the sun must have fallen down on us.

Next I thought that I must have died. That God had decided that I had lived long enough, and that I had disobeyed Father twice that day, and now He had thrown open His doors to me. The light was streaming out to fetch me and I remember how I, for a moment not longer than a twitch, felt empty and bad that mother was not here to say goodbye to me.

But the light did not last. Perhaps a heart beat, that is all. If that. The rock turn black first then gray and brown again as it returned out of light then darkness for my eyes to see. I had meant to creep away but now I was too stunned to move. I stayed where I was, crouched and blinking. After several long breaths I raised my head slowly and peaked over the top of the rock. They were all still there. The people. The prisoners. The rabble man.

At first, I thought everything had returned to the way things should be, but then I noticed the stillness. It was nearly absolute. No one moved. I remember thinking I must be looking at a painting, it was all so still. No one moved, except for the rabble man who was looking up at the sky, looking up at something that was falling down on us. It was a small sun, growing and growing as it fell on us. Then it fell all the way and I crouched again to shield myself from the impact but there was none. Only the sound of strong wind, like a strong exhaling. I looked up again and saw it fall all the way to the ground. Not like a rock but as a feather falls onto the floor without a sound and remains all feather after the fall.

But it was not a feather. It was a house. It was a low, shiny house made from metal that had fallen from the sky onto the earth. It was God’s house that landed like a feather upon the earth although it did rouse dust all around it. A door appeared on the shiny side of the house and a man with large, dark eyes which seemed to cover his real eyes stepped out of the house and down on the ground. He walked up the cross where the rabble man hung and said something to him that I did not recognize as language. Others came out too. They had brought a ladder which they raised against the rabble man’s cross and they pulled the spikes out of his wrists and feet with metal tools and then lifted him down.

They laid him on a blanket on the ground. One of the people from God’s house, dressed all in white, took a small bottle out of a gray bag that he carried over his shoulder. Crouching he then poured a white liquid onto the wrists and feet of the rabble man and shone a small red light at them.

This made him heal. I saw this with my own eyes. His wrists and his feet healed and then he stood up and I still thought about how short he was to have a beard.

They took the ladder down and folded it like a blanket and it grew much smaller and one of the men brought it back to the house.

The rabble man asked for something. The man with dark eyes covering his eyes like sooted windows brought out a small box and from it gave him a short white straw. The rabble man put one end of it in his mouth and the man with dark eyes covering his eyes brought fire out of his hand and lit the other end of the straw. The rabble man took a deep breath then coughed out a cloud gray cloud, coughed some more and said something, and it also sounded like he was laughing.

I did not mean to move but I must have moved and they noticed. The rabble man spun around and our eyes met. He did not recognize me. Two tall men in black were at my side in a beat of my heart and they held me by both arms as they walked me out.

The rabble man said something to me which I did not understand.

The man with the dark glass eyes covering his eyes said something too in that same strange tongue.

They both looked at me, then over at the other people, including my father, still frozen to the ground, eyes mostly open but blank and unseeing.

The man to my right increased his grip on my arm and brought out a metal stick which he put to my temple. It felt cool and hard. He said something that sounded like a question.

The rabble man laughed and looked at me and shook his head. Then he smiled but it was not a nice smile. I have wondered about that smile since. A lot. And I believe I know what the smile said.

The two men let go of my arms and I almost fell down. They said something to each other, then to the rabble man who answered and laughed again. Then he looked back at me with that same smile.

Then they all turned toward the shiny house and entered. The rabble man last. He did not look back before the opening vanished.

The silver house roused a lot of dust again then rose into the air and grew smaller, into a small sun, into a star, into a smaller star and then away into nothing. I was left with the smile.

The first to move was the prisoner to the right of the empty cross. He coughed. Then one of the spectators, who really did look like a vulture, shuffled a foot in the dirt. I looked over at Father, but he was still immobile and unseeing and I darted back behind cover lest he wake up and see me. From there I crept away into the night and away from Golgotha, for home to reach there before Father did.

I remember wondering what he had meant by his smile as I hurried through darkening streets, shortcutting my way home through alleys and back yards. I have thought about little else since, and have now grown certain. He was right, the rabble man was right, for what I think his smile said was, “Who on earth would believe him?”

Thoughts? I'd like to hear them.
Ulf Wolf

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