The Claw of the Dove

The Claw of the Dove

John Roth

THE CLAW OF THE DOVE

by John Roth

Published 2018 by John Roth

Copyright ©2017 John Roth

Illustrations by David Khale

Illustration copyright 2017 David Khale

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced without written permission, except for brief quotations to books and critical reviews. This story is a work of fiction. Characters and events are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

Contents

Acknowledgments

1. Resurrection

2. The Sparrow

3. The Sin-Eater

4. The Claw of the Dove

5. Suburbia

About the Author

Also by the Author

Acknowledgments

The conversations between Satan and Job in Chapter 2 were adapted from the King James Bible version of the Book of Job and the Book of Psalms. The conversations between Satan, the Virgin Mary and Jesus in Chapter 2 were adapted from the Gospels of the King James Bible. The Holy Bible: Authorized King James Version. The World Publishing Company, Cleveland, Ohio, n.d.

I will speak in the anguish of my spirit. – Job 7:11

Chapter One

Resurrection

Iopened my eyes. I had heard a voice call to me. I thought I had heard a voice. I was blinded by a circle of golden light, an almost perfect circle surrounded by a fiery light. A moment before all had been void, all had been nothingness. Before, there had been no before. When I reached for a thought, I realized there was none. It was as if I were newly made, created and formed in that instant. When I looked more closely, I saw the mouth of a cavern edged with bright sunlight. I had words, but how can the dust have words? How marvelous that words and their ideas flowed together and leapt into my mind. Then my nostrils were assaulted by an unbearable stench. I had only smelled it around carrion and the bodies of those who had lain about too long unburied, victims that Roman executioners had forbidden burial. But the reek came from me! I tried to remember, but I had no memories. I had lost even my name. I began to tremble. I felt an unpleasant slimy wetness against my skin that gathered in the loose folds of my flesh. I raised my linen wrapped hands. I stared at them in uncomprehending wonder, apparitions floating in the air. I was a darkness with hands. They were covered with strips of cloth, winding wraps for the dead. Had I been buried alive? I felt an instant of fear wash across me. I was a collection of fragments. I had been broken into pieces. But I saw a golden circle of fiery light before me. I heard an astonished murmur of voices, and then one voice, louder than the rest was raised above the murmuring.Lazarus! The voice commanded. Come out!

I saw the dark outline of a man move into the circle of light, ringed in fire. I knew his voice, but could not say whom it belonged to. I felt a longing, a tenderness, a fear and trembling ran through me. I saw a hand, small but calloused and lined with thick green-blue veins, thrust down into this dark place. I wanted to rise up. The voice commanded me and I ached to obey. Pain! Pain radiated through my body. But this pain was new. Everything was new, dreamlike. I wanted to call. I could not find my voice. I wanted to be held, comforted. I felt sensations, I knew things, but had no memories. It is horror to be born conscious but without understanding. I was a man and a newly born child at the same moment. I was alone and afraid in the darkness.

Lazarus! The voice called again, but this time gently. Fear not my friend. Come out!

Master! I finally managed a whimper. I reached out with my arms. My whole body felt slack, loose. Then he touched me. I felt an arc of fire pass over me, unbearable yet I bore it. I wept. I feared the gentle voice calling down into the darkness, raising me back up into the pain of light, back into the dreadful burden of life.

Flies buzzed in the cavern, alighting on me then flying away. A maggot wriggled out from beneath one of the folds of linen wrapped around my hand. It fell away into darkness. The hand reached out to me, grasped my own slack hand. He squeezed my hand. I felt my bones and flesh flaccid like soft dough. A stronger touch would have crushed my hand. I felt the arc of fire surge through me again. I sat up. I saw other faces peering down at me from behind him. Those other faces were astonished, but slowly I saw them become afraid. I saw anger and fear grow in their eyes. He who had touched me, he who had called me ‘friend,’ he who had pulled me upright, he protected me. And I was raised up. My legs were weak, wet and wobbly. Again, the horrible rottenness assaulted my nostrils. Slowly, unsteadily, I left the cavern. I looked down. I was wrapped in white linen rolls from head to foot. The wrappings had sagged down from my eyes, just enough to allow me to see: my legs and arms, my torso, all wrapped in linen. The cloth was stained green and red and yellow and brown, all wet, all fetid, all horrible. I looked up and saw him clearly for the first time. I raised a hand to touch his face. My wet linen wrapped fingers stained the tan skin of his cheek and the ragged edge of his beard. He gazed back at me, blinking away tears.

Rabbi, a frightened voice in the crowd whispered, what have you done?

Jesus wept.

I tried to speak. I could only make a low groaning sound, horrible even to my muffled ears. My mouth was filled with rottenness. My senses only increased my torment. I shuddered and wept as I watched Jesus weep. I tried to reach out to him, to comfort him. I staggered, stumbled, and he caught me before I fell. What must I have looked like to the men gathered here? My memory was slowly returning, like a landscape emerging from a fog. The men of Bethany, I saw the faces of all those whom I had known since I was a child. They retreated from me in fear. Several made the forked finger sign to ward off evil as I staggered in a clumsy aimless groaning circle. Friends, help me! I wanted to cry out to them. It is Lazarus, your friend, your neighbor, your brother! Only a horrible gurgling groan escaped my lips. Desolate and moaning, I staggered toward the nearest group of men. I stretched out my arms to them, begged for comfort. They reached down to pick up stones. They would have killed me then in their crazed fear at seeing a dead man rise. They would have let me fall a second time down into the bottomless dreadful darkness. The followers of Jesus stepped between me and the men of Bethany.

Beware of the dead! I heard a voice hiss. It is blasphemy that Lazarus rises!

Dead! I had been dead! Yes, suddenly I remembered. Everything came back in an instant. So foolish how I had died. I had stepped on a thorn, foolish. I pulled it out but part had broken off and festered in the wound. One of the local men who had some skill and knowledge of healing came. He cut open the flesh and removed the tip of the thorn. I had seen it done a thousand times, and never any harm. But the wound had not healed. Day by day, it had festered and refused to close. Before long, an angry streak of red began to move up my leg beneath my skin. First, there had been pain, then fever, then finally the pain faded into a soft delirium. Mary and Martha, my sisters, had sat near my bed, to comfort and to care for me.

We have sent for the Rabbi. Mary wept. Jesus is coming. He will heal you. He will save you.

Jesus? The name puzzled me. I knew the name of Jesus. But already my thoughts were unclear. Martha raised me up, held a cup of cool water to my lips, but I could not make my mouth work to swallow. A cool wetness trickled down my chin and neck, then came the last fading sound of a woman’s voice raised in mourning. I heard the droning buzz of a fly. As vision faded into darkness, the last sight I beheld was that of a black fly, bloated, droning, buzzing, horrible, that came between the light and me. I remembered no more. Until a voice commanded me, ‘Lazarus, come out!’

I heard a woman cry. I turned to the sound of her voice. My sister Mary lay prostrate on the ground. Martha, my other sister, bent over her in tears. Jesus commanded my sisters to get clean water and take it to our home. Peter and John, his disciples, held me up, their faces wrinkled into masks of disgust at my smell. They shuddered as my slimy wetness dripped onto their skin. Jesus walked before them and the other disciples followed behind. A wide circle of watchers gathered, but not too close. Curiosity made them watch. My carrion smell kept them at a distance. When we came to the house, Jesus bade his disciples to keep watch so that none would disturb him. He led me inside, Mary and Martha had filled a large basin with water. Jesus unwound my burial wraps. He helped me to sit then poured water over my head and down across my body. He washed away the rottenness of death from me. The water was cool against my flesh, but where Jesus touched me, I felt a cleansing fire pass over and through me. I felt sick to my stomach and retched but nothing came from my mouth. After he bathed me, Jesus dressed me in a clean robe of white linen.

Father, Jesus prayed over me, You have always heard me. But I thank You for hearing my plea to raise up this man whom I love. But when he had spoken those words, he said no more. Tears began to trickle down his cheeks. I did not understand the expression on his face. He looked both aggrieved and astonished.

Jesus, I touched him, Rabbi, why do you weep? I have no words to thank you for the gift you have given me, returning me to life from the nothingness of death. Why do you weep?

I weep for you, Lazarus, my friend. I weep because of what I have done to you. He embraced me. And I knew he loved me then, for my body still oozed and smelled of the grave and he did not shudder with disgust. Through me, my Father has performed a great miracle and raised a dead man back to life. You are the first harvest of the great resurrection to come. You should be a sign to others to make them believe that the Kingdom of God is at hand. But they will not believe. That is why I weep. Because I have raised you up to immortality to suffer once more the pain of love and the countless griefs of life in a world where all other things must die.

I did not understand then why Jesus was so distraught. Though I have had time enough in later years to learn the depths of despair and confusion that he foresaw for me that day. He had raised me up just at the beginning of the feast of Passover. He went up to Jerusalem from Bethany, which was only a short distance, to celebrate the great feast. I would have gone up to Jerusalem as well, to offer my sacrifice at the Temple. But I was weak, and even though the distance was short, I could not yet make that journey. I will not recount the story of all that happened to Jesus in the days that followed, his triumphant entry into Jerusalem, the last supper, the agony in the garden, his death on the cross and his resurrection. It is a story known to all, but not fully known. For I witnessed a thing that was never written down afterward for a remembrance in a book.

When Mary, Martha and I heard of Jesus’ death, we were wrapped in a grief so deep that it was without tears. On the third day after his crucifixion, one of the women who followed Jesus came to speak with my sisters. She was breathless, frightened and kept looking around herself. She watched the windows of our house. She feared the soldiers of the Romans and the temple guards of Caiaphas, the high priest. In Jerusalem, the Pharisees and the Romans sought to kill the followers of Jesus. The Temple priests feared a rebellion of the zealots led by the disciples that the Romans would put down with blood and fire. That the nation of Israel would die was the greatest of their fears. And the Romans, as always, sought to crush any who they thought might oppose their rule. The twelve were in hiding and all the other disciples, like my sisters and me, feared for our lives. Now that I had been born again, the fear of another death was strong upon me. I still had much to learn.

I have seen him. The woman hissed out the words. I have seen Jesus.

So, too, have we. I answered her. Only a few days ago, he was here in Bethany with us.

No, no, she whispered, today, I saw him.

How did you open his grave? I gasped.

I did not open it. She hissed. I went with Veronica and Magdalene to see the place of his burial, to see that none had disturbed the grave. When we got there, the Roman soldiers were asleep; the stone had been rolled away. We were afraid that someone had drugged the soldiers wine and then stolen his body. Or worse, desecrated him. I was afraid and wanted to run away. But Magdalene made us go into the tomb. On the ground were his burial robes. His body was gone. We began to weep. Then I felt someone watching us. I turned. A young man stood in the mouth of the cave. ‘Woman,’ he said to me, ‘why are you weeping?’ I told him, ‘Jesus is gone.’ And the young man said, ‘He has been raised up. You will not find him in the grave.’ Then he was gone.

Gone? Martha asked. He ran away?

No, the woman hissed, he was just gone. He disappeared. First, he was there, then he was not.

An angel? Mary asked.

I do not know. The woman turned to me. But he sent for you!

I have been called by an angel? I was puzzled.

Lazarus, be still! She stamped her foot angrily. Listen! We dared not stay. If the Roman soldiers had awakened and found us there, we would have been brought before the high priest or Pilate, the Roman governor. We fled and returned to Jerusalem. I returned to my own house. I was alone. I barred the door. I shuttered the windows. Then when I turned around, he was there before me.

Who? I still did not understand.

Jesus! She cried.

Jesus is dead. I answered bitterly.

No, Lazarus. Our guest chided me. You are wrong. He lives. He stood before me. What a sight I must have been. He laughed at me. Jesus laughed at me. ‘Do I look so strange to you?’ He laughed. I began to weep. ‘But Rabbi, we saw you die. The Romans crucified you. I saw the spear enter your side.’ He reached out and took my hand. ‘I have died. Now the Father has raised me up. Do you believe?’ ‘Yes, Lord,’ I answered him. But I was afraid. ‘Rabbi, why have you come to me?’ Then Jesus said: ‘You must go to the village of Bethany, to the house of Mary and Martha. Tell Lazarus their brother what you have seen. Tell Lazarus that Jesus wishes to see his friend. Bring him to the olive grove on the edge of Bethany.’ Then he was gone. I ran here all the way from Jerusalem.

You must go to him. Mary said. When you were sick, we sent for Jesus to come to save you. And he raised you back to life. The Rabbi needs you. He has sent for you.

Surely, you will not refuse his call? Martha added.

No, I will go. But I am afraid.

I turned to speak to the woman, but she was gone. Not walking out of our house, but simply gone. I understood in an instant. She was an angel. She had spoken words that we would understand and believe. It occurred to me that I had never seen her face before. Nor could I put a name to her face. But when she spoke, I would have sworn that she was one who followed Jesus.

So I walked down the road to the olive grove. When I reached the outskirts of the village, I saw a man standing in the shadows of the grove. He raised a hand and greeted me with the sign of peace. I did not answer him. I feared a stranger. He could have been a spy of the high priest or of the Romans seeking to entrap an unwary follower of Jesus. When I did not answer, he said, Lazarus, do you not recognize your friend, Jesus?

Master! Suddenly I knew him. Jesus seemed the same as before and yet he was different. I cannot now, even after so many years have passed, describe what the change had been. He was the same, and yet he was different. It was as if I saw him for the first time.

Jesus motioned to the cool dark beneath the trees.

We walked away into the grove and sat down in the shade of a large olive tree. It must have been immensely old, or what I thought of as immensely old in those long departed days. Jesus sat down and motioned for me to sit beside him. He drew his knees up to his chest and rested his chin on his knees. It was a strangely human gesture. He gazed forward and did not look at me.

How strange all of this seems to me now. Jesus began. Since my Father raised me up, all the world seems so familiar and yet so strange. How beautiful are the infinite colors of the light.

What was it like, Rabbi? I asked him. I mean, when you were . . . in the grave? For me, all was darkness until you raised me up. What did you see? Did you see anything? Did you lose yourself, as I did?

Of that, I am not yet permitted to speak, even to you, Lazarus. Jesus looked at me, smiled sadly.

He turned his face away from me, rested his forehead on his knees. I saw that tears had begun to trickle down his cheeks. He held out a hand to me. I hesitated at first to take it, because it bore the open wound inflicted by a nail. Then I grasped his hand tightly. It felt strange, his wounded hand in my hand. We sat together in silence, the only two who had ever been resurrected.

It was not supposed to be this way. Jesus’ voice was quiet as the wind.

I held his hand but said nothing.

He turned to look at me, his face twisted by anger.

It was not supposed to be this way, Lazarus. You were not meant to be the first to be resurrected.

But . . . I started to speak.

No! Jesus hissed. Say nothing! Hear me, Lazarus. I mean you no ill will. You should not have been the first to be resurrected. That time is not yet. Why did I ask my Father to raise you up? You are the first, but you will be alone for so long. You have no idea what I have done to you. I did not understand when I made my prayer for you. I was wretched with grief over your death. I prayed without thinking, an outpouring, an overflowing of my grief for you, of my love for you. I do not understand this, Lazarus. Surely, my Father in heaven must have known what this would mean. How could He, how could I, have allowed this thing to come to you, who are innocent?

But all men sin, Rabbi. I tried to comfort Jesus. Perhaps this was done because of some failing of my own.

Life is not a sin, Lazarus. The gift of life is never given in vengeance.

Jesus, I asked,