The Making of the Lamb Page 35

  Viktrica

  Viktrica tried not to be too obvious as she glanced at the outlander sitting serenely on the mat next to hers, waiting for the class to begin. This Jesus bar Joseph fellow from Nazareth, a town she’d never heard of on the far side of the Roman Empire, was quite the enigma. He had been with the class now for nine nights. It was odd how he insisted on devoting himself to his prayers every seventh day, when everyone knew there were nine days in a week.

  And why would his people blindly obey a single god? Jesus himself had told the class about how this god had left his people to suffer captivity and slavery many times at the hands of the Egyptians, the Babylonians, and others. He tried to make the point that this one true god of his had actually redeemed his people, even parting the sea for them, but what kind of people would follow a god who made them suffer across so many generations? In the druid pantheon, no god would ever abandon for so long the people who sought his protection, lest they turn to another patron deity.

  Whatever the quirks of his religion, this Jesus was certainly handsome. He would be past the day of his aimsir togu¸ the seventeenth name day when a boy became a man; but he was the hero of Rumps, already the subject of tales from the lyres of bards from far and wide. Such heroic youths needed no rite of passage.

  Viktrica was a few years older than Jesus, but that did not stop her mind from wandering to thoughts of sharing the intimacy of her body in his bed. Would he be the virile stallion or the gentle lamb? Either way, she meant to have him.

  Viktrica looked up. Elsigar was looking right at her as he called the class to order. I am finished if he reads the thoughts in my mind. Can a druid with his powers really do that? She sighed with relief as he turned his attention to the class.

  Elsigar began to talk about Gargantua, the druid deity known to the Celts as the father of all. “Julius Caesar called him the Jupiter god, but Jupiter was no Gargantua,” he said. Elsigar did not pause to review Gargantua’s mighty deeds, which everyone knew. Instead he asked about his true nature. “Who was Gargantua’s mother?”

  Viktrica raised her hand. “That would have been Gargamelle.”

  Elsigar called on another student. “And what does that name, and even the name of her son, suggest to you?”

  “The names are based upon the word gargam.”

  “Curved thigh?” Jesus asked.

  The other student explained, “Both Gargantua and his mother are lame.”

  “Excellent,” Elsigar responded. “And yet, in tale after tale we find that Gargantua is the most powerful of the gods. He swings a club that kills with one end, even as he can use it to restore life with the other. His magic harp, which he alone can play, has within it all the melodies of the world, and he can use it to slay men even as he plays its music for the wonderment of all. He is the fiercest of warriors, even among the gods. Just the sight of his virile member, standing forth long and erect, brings fear to the hearts of his enemies and unbounded pleasures to women.”

  Another student raised his hand to comment. “Gargantua’s powers are a striking contrast to the deformity of his legs, but he is not alone among the gods in possessing strength through weakness and deformity. The all-seeing Odin has only one eye. Nuada, the god who distributes plenty, has only one arm.”

  Elsigar asked, “Is there a lesson in this for mortals?”

  The class fell silent.

  Even Jesus looked perplexed.

  Then Genofi, the youngest student in the class, raised his hand. Though little more than a boy, he was something of a prodigy, advanced far beyond his years. “I think there can be strength in weakness. Perhaps those weak in the flesh can be strong in the spirit, and those strongest in the flesh might be weakest in the spirit.”

  “The ultimate weakness of men lies in death,” Jesus said. “You surely would not suggest that we kill ourselves to become strong.”

  “Not at all,” Elsigar answered, “but Genofi speaks truth.” He looked from face to face, making sure he had every student’s full attention. “You are now ready to share in a secret of the druids. You must not share it with anyone until the world is ready.”

  “But Jesus bar Joseph is an outlander,” a student cried out. “He does not believe in our gods. How can you share such a secret with him?”

  “I have known Jesus since he came to our shores,” said Elsigar. “Since he was just a boy. There is no deceit in him. If he promises to keep the secret, it can be revealed to him.”

  All it took was a nod from Jesus for Elsigar to continue. “When the world was young and new in its formation, there lived a king. He taught the Tuatha Dé Danann even before they left the middle of the earth for the isles of the north. He was blind in both eyes, and yet he could see all: the past, the present, and the future. Every day, when the Tuatha Dé Danann came to him for their instruction, he would be casting his line into the stream to catch fish, so that is how he came to be known as the Fisher King.

  “He taught the Tuatha Dé Danann many secrets about the foundation of the world. To this day, most of them are shared only among the archdruids, but you are now ready to learn one of those secrets concerning life and death. It is obvious that death springs forth from life, but it is not so obvious that life in the spirit springs forth from death. Consider the case of a seed. It brings forth new life, but to do so it must die in its first life and rot in the ground. In the same way, we can be born in the spirit.”

  Viktrica saw Jesus weeping beside her.

  Elsigar looked at him. “What’s wrong?”

  Jesus sniffled. “I’m reminded of Fedwig, my best friend…who died at Rumps.”

  Without thinking, Viktrica extended her hand and wiped away the tears. “Do not let your heart be troubled,” she said. “The death of your friend is nothing but a veil, a passage to a new life in the Otherworld. Rejoice for the time that was given to you to share with him, and know that he had a good heroic death and is happy now in the life of the spirit beyond its veil.” For a moment they looked into each other’s eyes, and time stood still. Viktrica shared that moment with Jesus in a way that satisfied her to the depths of her womanhood, for in that moment each of them cared for the other more than themselves. But as the moment passed, she experienced a gentle sadness. Unlike other men, Jesus bar Joseph had no lust for her in his flesh.

  Elsigar was going on about rebirth in the life of the spirit. “The Fisher King left the Tuatha Dé Danann with many prophecies, some yet unfulfilled. The Celtic people of Britain have yet to experience many troubles and waves of invasion.”

  Jesus nodded. That was the story he told of the Jews, too.

  “But there is hope,” Elsigar said, “for the Fisher King prophesied that in the midst of the oncoming troubles, Bran’s cauldron will be transformed into a vessel of rebirth. The Fisher King promised it would be restored to a righteous warrior.”

  Jesus

  The next day, the whole school assembled for the crossing of the Afon Menai to Ynys Môn. The ferry was several miles from the school, where the strait was at its narrowest. From the school grounds, the waterway had looked like a river, but Viktrica said it was a strait of the sea. “The currents are treacherous and often unpredictable,” she said, “driven by winds and tides flowing in from both ends at different times. The Swellies—”

  Jesus laughed. “The what?”

  “The Swellies—the currents. They create whirlpools and whitecaps, but the shortness of the distance gives us the greatest chance of making it across during a short period of slack water.”

  Elsigar’s teaching continued in the open air as they waited to make the ferry crossing. Jesus wasn’t able to join Arvigarus, because they were still in separate groups, but he waved a greeting. Jesus was not happy to see Pirro waiting with the servants. He had been spared the sight of him since their arrival at Bangor.

  The hours wore on until the ferrymen announced that the time had arrived for the crossing. Then it was all a rush as the ferrymen made their best speed across the water an
d back, taking as many at a time as they dared while the slack water lasted.

  Finally, they were all gathered on the other side just as whitecaps and whirlpools reappeared in the water.

  The island was quite flat and mostly covered by open fields, unlike the hilly mainland with the Snowden Mountains in the background. Somewhere through the fields and small wooded glens on the island lay the omphallos, the sacred and spiritual center of all British druidism, but that would have to wait.

  Now was the time for Jesus to take his leave of the school for a while. He had discussed the matter with Elsigar upon his arrival. His mission would take him to the other side of Ynys Môn. He would take Pirro to help him make his way to Holyhead Island, but Jesus remembered his Father’s instruction. The last crossing to Ynys Lawd would be the most perilous, and he had to do it alone.

  “I’ll return,” Jesus promised his classmates, “in time for your rite of passage.”

  “You must see us promoted into the ranks of the ollamh,” Viktrica said.

  “Even the chosen,” Elsigar said, “have years more training in their respective specializations yet to go.”

  Viktrica nodded humbly.

  “Until then, our classes will focus upon magic, divination, and sorcery.” Elsigar eyed Jesus. “Just as well you have your own business to attend to.”

  Jesus understood his reluctance to share these secrets with an outlander. For his part, he now understood why his Father had sent him to learn something of the druids’ philosophy and beliefs, but it would be sinful to join them in their pagan rituals and practices.

  Peering into the distance, Elsigar drew Jesus aside and lowered his voice. “I have heard of the mysterious hermit who came to live on Ynys Lawd. If your god has sent you there, now is the time to go.”

  Chapter 13

  The Chosen

  Joseph

  Joseph’s thirst was overwhelming. His tongue was swollen, and the back of his throat hurt too much to swallow. The sail was limp, useless except to provide a little shade from the glaring sun. It was no longer a question of whether they were going to die soon, but whether it would be from exposure or drowning. The last of the fresh water was gone, and the bindings that held the raft together were unraveling. Even with no wind, they could feel the raft coming apart in the ocean swells.

  As he lay on the raft alongside the others, Joseph wondered which would be the better way to die. If the raft gave out, he would drown quickly. The water would be salty, but perhaps it would feel refreshing at first, at least until he started choking on it. But if thirst was fated to be the instrument of his end, madness was not far off. Perhaps madness would mask the pain.

  But then Joseph felt…something. At first it was just a slight sensation of coolness on his shoulder. He was too weak to move or try to say anything to Kendrick. The captain was in no better condition. He might even be dead already.

  They were in the middle of the sea, far from land, far from any trade route that might offer some hope of rescue. A rising wind would only hasten the breakup of the raft. So, perhaps it was now more likely that death would come by drowning.

  Or maybe the hint of refreshing breeze was just his imagination.

  Then he felt the coolness again. The air was definitely moving, wicking the moisture from the sweat that drenched his body. Joseph willed movement to his torso and his limbs, not that it would do any good. Curious to see if this was just a localized zephyr, he raised his head. Was that a sail in the distance? God almighty be praised! He looked once more, but hope was dashed again. He wasn’t hallucinating; it was indeed a sail, but it was carrying the ship away from him. It was too far off to hail.

  Joseph woke with a start. He gathered his thoughts. He looked around him and began to make sense of what had happened after the despair from that memory of the vanishing sail. He was now in the hold of a ship.

  The Armorican vessel had spotted the raft adrift in the sea. It had only seemed to be sailing away until it came about in the wind. Joseph tested the tightness of his throat. He, Kendrick, and Kendrick’s sons had been up and about for several days now, but it still felt good to swallow without daggers of pain in his throat.

  He smiled as he ventured up to the deck. The ship moved along in a perfect breeze. The dawn was breaking. The lookout gave a shout. Joseph saw telltale clouds in the distance. They had spotted the shore of Armorica.

  By late afternoon the ship had docked. Joseph was now impatient to get ashore. His first order of business would be to get a portion of the coin that he had deposited with his agents. He would not withdraw the payment for a new ship today. That would wait until he found a vessel and had it under contract. But their rescuers had been most kind, and Joseph was intent on offering them a considerable reward. The rescuers were stopping at Nantes only to drop off him and his party, so Joseph was in a hurry to get the money.

  The port master seemed unusually officious, demanding to identify everyone aboard before he would allow anyone to disembark. A cohort of Roman soldiers marched to the dockside. The port master waved them onto the ship and pointed to Joseph.

  “Are you Joseph bar Jacob of Arimathea?”

  Joseph nodded.

  “I arrest you in the name of the emperor, for complicity in the false enslavement of Pirro of Delphi, a citizen under the protection of Rome!”

  Jesus

  At least, for a change, Pirro was not complaining.

  Jesus looked at him once the two of them had settled beside the campfire for the night. The druids at the school must have worked Pirro some, but had treated him well. He didn’t bear any sign of a beating, and he had gained weight. They had walked together for two days, saying little, and Pirro was actually making himself useful. Not only was he willingly carrying his share of the load, but he also displayed a little skill when they constructed a rope bridge over the strait between Ynys Môn and Holyhead.

  “I am going to have to find a farmer to take you for a while,” Jesus said. “I will tell him you are not to be worked overly hard. God told me to make the final crossing to Ynys Lawd by myself. Otherwise, I would take you with me. I cannot leave you alone because the Celts will put you to death, if you have no one to vouch for you.”

  Pirro shrugged in response, sullen but accepting.

  “You did well today, particularly with building the rope bridge at the crossing. It would have taken far longer to do it by myself.”

  Pirro just looked back at him blankly.

  The next morning, at a settlement on the north side of Holyhead, Jesus arranged to leave Pirro with a farmer. He would have to pay toward food and lodging if Pirro was not to be worked as hard as the farmer wanted.

  “What do you know of the hermit on Ynys Lawd?” Jesus asked.

  “Scarcely anything,” the farmer replied. “We never cross over there. We’ve a block and tackle arrangement to send bucketfuls of supplies over to him. He always has a bit of money to pay for food, and that’s good enough for us.”

  “Has he always been alone?”

  The farmer shook his head. “There were three who came to live on the island, more than fifteen years ago. Two of them died. And we haven’t seen this last one in more than a week. He didn’t appear for his provisions last time. Perhaps he’s dead, too.”

  The next morning, Jesus surveyed the scene from the seaside cliff. He stood about forty feet above the water. Now the name of the island made sense. Ynys Lawd meant island of sows in heat in the Celtic tongue. The churning currents below indeed sounded just like a group of frenzied pigs, as the waves broke this way and that against the cliffs on either side, crashing first against the small island and then on the Holyhead side. The island had a small Celtic hut, but no smoke rose through the opening in the thatched roof. Jesus stood at the upper end of the bucket-lift the farmer had described. Jesus tried shouting—if the hermit heard him he could pass the end of a stronger rope that would support his weight—but there was no response. The distance to the island was not far, maybe fifty feet
, but without someone on the island to secure the other end of a thicker rope, the bucket-lift was useless to him.

  He waited the rest of the day. Perhaps the current would go slack at some point, the way it did at the Afon Menai. But no. He watched the tide rise and fall, mentally marking the water level against the cliffside, but the current driving the churning waves did not wane.

  Shouting remained unsuccessful. If someone was alive, why was there no fire in the hut? Still, the Father had sent him all this way for a reason.

  Late in the afternoon, the narrow passage seemed just as impassible. He tossed chunks of wood into the churning waves. Time after time, a wave took the stick and shattered it against the rock. No doubt the force of the wave would do the same to his bones, if he was so foolhardy as to jump in.

  Then the waves pulled one piece of wood away from the cliff to a smooth patch of water. If he could make it to that patch, he might make it the rest of the way across to a small beach. From there he might climb the opposite cliffside. He cut more sticks and experimented some more. It took time to see the pattern. Every seventh wave, usually the biggest one in the set, would take the stick out to the smooth patch of water if he tossed the stick in just after the wave crashed against the cliffside.

  Jesus returned to the farmhouse to spend the night. He made arrangements for the farmer to pass provisions and a large rope to him once he made it to Ynys Lawd. The Father had said he must reach the island on his own but had said nothing about how he was to make it back.

  The next morning Jesus loaded the bucket with some cooked lamb, barley, and fresh water, and he lowered it to the island. He didn’t know how to swim, but he had fashioned a floating vest from pieces of wood. He cinched it up, hoping it would keep him afloat. He tested the wave pattern one more time with some sticks. He was going to have one chance, and there was no room for error if he was to avoid being crushed in the seething cauldron below. He prayed for help from his Father, and then he leaped from the cliff.