the ballad of judas iscariot

You begin on the sea.

There is only you on this boat, you and another. By your feet, cold, wet fish flop helplessly, as their life leaves them. The air itself is salty, sticky on your skin, and warm. The boat moves back and forth in the rhythm of this sea, the water gently hitting the wood of the boat, it is a give and take, give and take that you have known since before you could walk, that is in your very blood.

nothing can ever separate us...

The sun is setting, an explosion of blood red and orange light pours out across Galilee and the whole world is swallowed up. The other one with you is not looking at the horizon, or the fish, or the water, or the shore; he is looking at you. 

I knew you... 

It is a look you've seen before, your father watching your mother prepare his favorite meal, her kneading the dough, smiling back at him in a cloud of flour. When your brother was born and your father held him and learned the baby by heart and opened the window to let the sun warm the baby and you watched it and thought this was how it happened when you came too. When it was you and Father on the boat and he handed you the net and showed you where to catch the best fish and you learned the sea-rhythm together.

All of this, a whole lifetime, in those eyes.


Now you're in a garden. It's silent, the deafening kind, and only a cold wind accompanies you. The olive leaves are rattling in the trees and somewhere you think you hear someone laughing.

Where were you? 


You close your eyes and stick your hands out; you can remember where all the bodies stood, the sounds of metal clinking, sweat dripping, hands gripping, eyes unblinking - the olive eyes, bright eyes on an open face, an easy face, you could trace its lines in the air though you've never touched it - can feel its warmth on your lips from the one time you kissed it.

Father... 

You rub the brittle dirt between your fingers, the dirt from underneath the sandals - here, this is where he stood. There, that's where I stood.

The unfriendly wind carries the smell of fire, of burning wood, and the vague distant muffled sounds of voices. You know that if you look you will see light, torches, people gathered and pushing and moving and screaming to watch them take him away.

But he is looking past them, over their heads, and you are back on that boat in Galilee, just you and him, and it's those eyes looking at you again and your skin can't contain what you find there.

You scream into the ground until you run out of air. Until you just run out. You hit the ground, hard, to see if it will open for you.

Father, why have you abandoned me? 


You can still taste the bitter wine, the blood red wine, he'd held out to you, in a cup, he'd looked right at you, right through you, right into you, down into the marrow of your bones, and back out again, when he'd smiled, you realized, he knew. He knew. Why did he come?


You press your cheek into the cold cold dirt, colder even than your lifeless skin, and before you close your eyes, before it is finished, the last thing you smell is Galilee, salty-sweet, and the last thing you see a single white dove.

Father, forgive them.