do? Every Galilean knew that vegetation was
the fruit of god's union with the earth. There was no vegetation
on these slopes. Perhaps there was no god either. Perhaps this
was the devil's realm. The stones were sinners. And the scree
was hell.
77
Jesus hung on with his naked hands and feet. He was ashamed.
His neighbours and his family were watching him. They were
his witnesses. 'Ah, yes,' they'd say. 'He's fallen now, down on
his knees. Look at him crawl.'
He had no choice. He hung his head over the precipice, and
looked from left to right, for a descending path, and any evidence
of caves. The light was poor, but he was lucky. He could not
see his cave, or any cave, but he could see a sloping rock similar
to the one which formed the front deck to his chosen sanctuary.
The perfect perch for eagles, and for angels, he had said. Except
there were no eagles nor any angels, just ravens and the falling
debris of the cliff.
One of the ravens landed close to Jesus, turned its head a dozen
times, inspecting him for food, and then flew off, calling out its
disappointment - tok-tok, tok-tok, tok-tok. Its voice was unmistakable, more like a carpenter's than a bird' s. He'd made the noise himself a thousand times - the impact of a tool on wood. But,
although he tried his best, Jesus could not take it as a sign that god
was calling him. He had expected signs all day, it's true. Some shaft
of sunshine, picking out a rock. Some burning bush. A distant
voice, perhaps, to tell him how he ought to reach his cave. A white
dove, yes; or the elated song of a warbler might carry messages
from god. But tok-tok-tok? God would be more eloquent than
that. Jesus had to wait for quite a while, clinging like an insect to
his slope, before a better sign was offered him. A steady flight of
storks, corning up from Egypt to the north - the Sea of Galilee,
perhaps - were passing overhead. A sign of spring. One dropped
below its companions and flew along the massive, sheer cliffs of
the valley. Its white shoulders and body were briefly highlighted
by the sun against the greys and browns. Then it shrank away so
far that it became a duck, a dove, a fading speck of white, a mote
of sawdust in the window light. The moment that it disappeared,
Jesus told himself, would be the moment that he moved.
78
So Jesus took his courage from the stork to edge along the
cliff on hands and knees, looking for a way down to his cave. It
was not difficult. It was not long before the ground grew rougher
underfoot and underhand. There was a rockfall, where the land
had split and slipped, like a broken crust of bread. Jesus started
to climb down. The marl was soft enough to crumble between
his fingers. There were struggling signs of god's creation, at last.
A few opportunist plants - morning star, hyssop, saltwood - had
taken root in the crevices and on the leeward side of rocks. They
lent their odour to the climb and left their muffled blessings on
his palms whenever he took hold of them. Hyssop was familiar,
a herb for eggs and fish, but now it was the smell of vertigo and
fear. When the rockfall steepened, Jesus descended on his thighs,
facing outwards. The ground was loose but firm enough to take
his weight. He did not trust his feet. They were already tom and
bleeding from the walk and now were further scratched and
battered by the earth. He tried to put as much weight as he could
on to his hands and thighs as he went down below the level of
the slope on to the precipice. He had to hurry. It was almost
dusk. The cliffs were facing east. The sunlight ended sharply.
He was climbing on the dark side of the world, his back pressed
hard against the earth.
He reached his lodgings for the night more easily than he had
expected. The route was steep but well provided with handholds
and platforms for his feet. His fear of heights and falling rocks
made him quick and nimble for a change. He was propelled. He
almost found the
the fruit of god's union with the earth. There was no vegetation
on these slopes. Perhaps there was no god either. Perhaps this
was the devil's realm. The stones were sinners. And the scree
was hell.
77
Jesus hung on with his naked hands and feet. He was ashamed.
His neighbours and his family were watching him. They were
his witnesses. 'Ah, yes,' they'd say. 'He's fallen now, down on
his knees. Look at him crawl.'
He had no choice. He hung his head over the precipice, and
looked from left to right, for a descending path, and any evidence
of caves. The light was poor, but he was lucky. He could not
see his cave, or any cave, but he could see a sloping rock similar
to the one which formed the front deck to his chosen sanctuary.
The perfect perch for eagles, and for angels, he had said. Except
there were no eagles nor any angels, just ravens and the falling
debris of the cliff.
One of the ravens landed close to Jesus, turned its head a dozen
times, inspecting him for food, and then flew off, calling out its
disappointment - tok-tok, tok-tok, tok-tok. Its voice was unmistakable, more like a carpenter's than a bird' s. He'd made the noise himself a thousand times - the impact of a tool on wood. But,
although he tried his best, Jesus could not take it as a sign that god
was calling him. He had expected signs all day, it's true. Some shaft
of sunshine, picking out a rock. Some burning bush. A distant
voice, perhaps, to tell him how he ought to reach his cave. A white
dove, yes; or the elated song of a warbler might carry messages
from god. But tok-tok-tok? God would be more eloquent than
that. Jesus had to wait for quite a while, clinging like an insect to
his slope, before a better sign was offered him. A steady flight of
storks, corning up from Egypt to the north - the Sea of Galilee,
perhaps - were passing overhead. A sign of spring. One dropped
below its companions and flew along the massive, sheer cliffs of
the valley. Its white shoulders and body were briefly highlighted
by the sun against the greys and browns. Then it shrank away so
far that it became a duck, a dove, a fading speck of white, a mote
of sawdust in the window light. The moment that it disappeared,
Jesus told himself, would be the moment that he moved.
78
So Jesus took his courage from the stork to edge along the
cliff on hands and knees, looking for a way down to his cave. It
was not difficult. It was not long before the ground grew rougher
underfoot and underhand. There was a rockfall, where the land
had split and slipped, like a broken crust of bread. Jesus started
to climb down. The marl was soft enough to crumble between
his fingers. There were struggling signs of god's creation, at last.
A few opportunist plants - morning star, hyssop, saltwood - had
taken root in the crevices and on the leeward side of rocks. They
lent their odour to the climb and left their muffled blessings on
his palms whenever he took hold of them. Hyssop was familiar,
a herb for eggs and fish, but now it was the smell of vertigo and
fear. When the rockfall steepened, Jesus descended on his thighs,
facing outwards. The ground was loose but firm enough to take
his weight. He did not trust his feet. They were already tom and
bleeding from the walk and now were further scratched and
battered by the earth. He tried to put as much weight as he could
on to his hands and thighs as he went down below the level of
the slope on to the precipice. He had to hurry. It was almost
dusk. The cliffs were facing east. The sunlight ended sharply.
He was climbing on the dark side of the world, his back pressed
hard against the earth.
He reached his lodgings for the night more easily than he had
expected. The route was steep but well provided with handholds
and platforms for his feet. His fear of heights and falling rocks
made him quick and nimble for a change. He was propelled. He
almost found the
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