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Kislev 12
We brought John to the ancient rocky crypts, a dozen of us. Some of us wound scarves around our faces. Mother suspected that we were followed. She insisted on two to act as guards.
Simon was there... Matthew, Peter, Luke, Mark...they helped us lay John outside his crypt, helped us cut stone. A torch burned Mark’s arm; someone smashed our hammer. “Work fast,” someone was constantly urging. Peter got defiant: “Let the Romans come,” he shouted. “We have a right to bury our dead.” Luke had to calm him. It was dawn before we had the crypt sealed; we were cut and bruised. No torches.
As I sat among the cliff rocks I tried to obliterate the tragedy, tried to refute his death. Hard to breathe. Hard to utter the final prayer. Think of it...we had buried a headless man, friend, friend...
As we stole into town we met the Kittim officer, riding for Capernaum; he did not recognize me of course. What a stark figure! I wanted to talk to him about his son but Mother begged me: we must not trust him.
She railed against wickedness and power.
Luke left us, to care for a sick man.
As we walked, Mother leaned on a stick. Her wrinkled face made me aware that the star of long ago was not around.
At Matthew’s home we talked of John’s betrayal.