Open up for Easter reading Goodies
Author Alison Lloyd's Scroll newsletter #52
Just before you slip away on holidays, here’s an Easter story for you. From me, historical fiction fresh out of the oven, to go with your hot cross buns.
If you’re not into hot cross buns, that’s ok, because the story is not sweet and fluffy. I love realistic historical dramatizations. This is my take on how the first Easter was a moment of truth for Simon Peter, likeable and impetuous follower of Jesus. (No graphic violence I promise.)
Sorry there’s no audio newsletter this month — I have a cold 😞. If you miss the audio let me know, because I’m not sure how many people actually listen.
Your comments and likes are very encouraging — I notice them all. I enjoyed the replies to last month’s post about lace. Especially the reader who told me about her love for lace saris. I didn’t know they existed!
Here’s the story:
Smoke in My Eyes
A short story based on the Gospel of Mark, Chapter 14
When your words come back to bite you, it hurts.
I told him I’d never leave. I meant it completely. I’d never had a friend like him. The kind of man who could make you believe in something bigger than yourself. A guy you’d follow into battle. The sort you’d die for.
He filled our ears with hope and possibilities. But don’t get me wrong — he was a rocky ride. If you talked big, said something stupid or selfish, even something sincere, he hardly opened his mouth but you knew you got it wrong. Where do you go to find someone who always tells the truth? There’s nowhere else. I knew that.
Supper that night felt like there was a storm brewing — the weather about to change, far off flickers of lightning, the hairs on your arms rising. If I’d been out fishing I’d row to shore like my backside was about to be whipped.
We all knew something was up, him most of all. The way he broke the bread, poured out the wine, it was solemn as a temple sacrifice. But the thing about him, always, is this rock-bottom peace. He’s always certain that there’s a Big Plan, like a secret the universe has been waiting to drop, and he wants you to see how good it is. So he has time for people whatever’s going down.
Yes, I know I’m talking about him in the present tense. So would you, if you’d seen what I’ve seen.
After the meal we went out into the night, up the Mount of Olives. Staying indoors seemed a better idea to me. As we were pulling up our hoods, he told us they were about to get him, and we would all scatter. He didn’t say we should scatter. Just that we would. Like he knew us better than we knew ourselves.
I didn’t agree. I didn’t think I was a coward. I knew what I cared about, and I cared about him. He was my best friend. We’d stick with him. Band of brothers and the hero stuff. That’s a powerful drug, and I had more of it sloshing inside than red wine.
I contradicted him. ‘No way. Even if everyone else runs,’ I said, ‘I won’t. Ever.’
He raked up his next words from somewhere deep. ‘By the time the rooster crows, you’ll disown me three times.’
He was right that they were coming for him. I was muzzy with sleep by the time the chief priests’ guard arrived on the Mount. That’s my excuse for not standing with him when they dragged him off. But I pulled myself together and followed. At a distance, not too close. I told myself it was better that way, that I could run off and get help, or help him escape, if I was still free. I didn’t ask myself get help from whom. Because who in all that Rome-infested city was going to save him?
The other eleven had disappeared – Judas forever, God have mercy. I followed down to the courtyard of the High Priest’s place. There were messengers going out, and priests coming in, and hangers-on milling about cursing the cold. So I sidled through the gates as if I was somebody’s servant, rubbing my hands and blowing on my fingers.
A fire was burning in the courtyard, the smoke twisting sideways, burning my eyes. A cute little servant girl was stoking it from a pile of thorn branches, flirting with the soldiers.
‘Come over here, handsome,’ she said to me. ‘Warm yourself up.’
‘Thanks.’
I joined the soldiers by the fire. I felt the warmth on my hands and my face, watched the flames gnaw on the bones of the thorn bushes.
‘I think I know you,’ the girl said, watching me. I sat back from the light of the fire but the damage was done. ‘You were with him, the Nazarene in there.’
‘Don’t know what you’re talking about.’ My eyes prickled from the smoke. I got up and moved closer to door of the house.
It was a big meeting inside, a roll call of Jerusalem heavies. The door was ajar for fresh air, and I could hear the ruckus they were making. The priests were accusing him of things he’d never done — the case against him was crap, pardon the language, but it was. I could have told the high priest that. But I didn’t.
‘Hey,’ the girl said, pointing at me. ‘That fellow was one of them — part of the Nazarene’s group.’
I shook my head as if I didn’t have the foggiest. I wished she would shut up.
Inside, the hearing went on through the small hours. Mostly, Jesus kept his mouth shut and didn’t argue with the stuff they tried to pin on him. He didn’t need to – it was a heap of contradictions and a pack of lies, anyone could hear that. I said as much to another guy standing nearby.
But when the High Priest straight out asked him, ‘Are you the Christ, the Son of the Blessed One?’ he couldn’t help himself.
‘I am.’
Honest to the bitter end.
That caused a barney. They won’t let him go now, I thought.
The guy next to me nudged my elbow. ‘He’s got the same accent as you. You’re a Galilean too. She’s right, isn’t she – you’re one of his?’
‘No way,’ I said. ‘Not me – I wouldn’t. Ever.’ The words took over my tongue, rolling off it like a runaway cart, ploughing downhill. ‘God strike me dead if I’m not telling the truth.’
For a second, I expected He would. The fire hissed and collapsed as a branch burnt through. Then, a messenger swung the door open, and I saw inside. Jesus looked at me, like he knew.
The smoke cleared. Bravado, good intentions, high ideals – I had them by the bucketful and they weren’t enough. I’d sold him out to save my skin. By a lie, like the toadies in the high priest’s house.
Sometimes, since then, people say I shouldn’t be too hard on myself. What did my words matter if he’d been stitched up anyway? They mattered — they were another nail in his coffin. If truth doesn’t matter, what have we got left? Only shouting in the dark and the smoke choking us all.
A rooster crowed. In case of any doubt, it crowed again.
My eyes burned. It was not the smoke.
Where’s the happy ending?
I’m kind of sorry to leave you there. That’s not the finish of the Easter story, of course! If you’ve ever broken a promise, or chickened out of being honest (me, definitely), there’s a happy ending you ought to read. You can read the rest here, including the reconciliation of Peter with Jesus. Or in any New Testament.
If you’d like more Easter reading, I wrote a semi humorous poem last year:
And here’s a look at Victorian Easter customs:
Have a very happy Easter/Passover/holiday!
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I hope the main character in this story has a plan for behaving better next time.
I enjoyed your story. I just finished The Book of Longing by Sue monk Kidd, n imagining about the wife of Jesus. She also gives an historical fiction account of Jesus’ last day. It’s very moving.