and lifted and lowered its wings mightily and swooped invisible down.
Now, here, at the entrance of the cave, it comes. Appears from within a great illumination, a thousand lamps large, dazzling to human sight. In accompaniment is a sound, sweet, melodic, music without playing. He folds to him his golden wings. He comes from the light and is clear and beautiful to behold, face becalmed, demeanour serene, as though journey from the ranks of seraphim in heaven to the place beneath is not arduous or lengthy.
'Prochorus,' the angel says.
The man bows low to the ground, then drops to his knees.
'Prochorus,' the angel says again.
The scribe cannot believe the angel knows his name. Then he believes it and believes his reward is at hand, believes when he rises that he will assume eternal form and begin his own ascent. His being is filled with gratitude and surrender. Upon his face is a look of transport.
Then he feels himself shaken. A hand touches his cheek.
'Prochorus!'
And he opens his eyes and sees Papias standing there.
'Wake, Prochorus, wake. Where is the Master?'
The angel is gone. There is only the looming face of the youth.
'Prochorus, the Master is not here.'
The scribe is curled on the floor. Chastened by the vanity of the dream, for some moments he cannot stir. It is as though, returned to earth, he is made of weightier stuff and will not be able to stand. But the look of Papias is wild and urgent, and Prochorus presses against the burden of disappointment and rises.
'How long have you been asleep?'
Prochorus does not answer. He crosses the cave with the lamp to where the Apostle had last been sitting. He looks into the empty space in puzzlement. Papias comes to his shoulder. Neither of them say what crosses in their minds. Neither say that perhaps the Apostle has been taken from them.
'Go, wake the others. Call his name. Quickly, quickly,' Prochorus says.
The dawn is near to breaking. There is a chill wind. Papias hurries away across the rocks, while Prochorus stands and cups his hands and calls after the Apostle. His voice travels nowhere. The sea sighs back at him and he feels unwell. He calls again, and again. He goes some way along the upper ledge of the scarp and stumbles and falls forwards, and fears then the blind apostle has plunged off the edge to death in the rocks below. The thought is as a sickness and he lets out a cry.
Across the darkness the other disciples come. Shades against the blued blackness of the predawn, they announce themselves like seabirds by calling. Their master's name is cried over and over. They assemble and disperse, assemble again. None admonishes Prochorus for sleeping when he was to be watching. The business of finding the Apostle is too urgent. Even the elder, Ioseph, is with them now, and with him the wheezing, anxious figure of Simon.
'Where might he be gone? This is not good. This is not good.' Simon wrings his hands.
Ioseph is swift and decisive. 'Two along the upper rocks,' he says, 'two to the eastern ledge. Linus and Prochorus go above to the meeting place, either side of the pathway. He may be fallen. Simon stay here. Papias and I to the foreshore.'
'I am more nimble, I will go with him.' It is Matthias, who appears out of the dark.
'Very well. Simon, remain here by the cave lest he come.'
'But why is he gone?' Papias asks.
'Go,' Ioseph says. 'Hurry.'
A dull daylight greys the island. The figures of the disciples clamber away, calling. They are like ones abandoned in the dark. Across the air no seabirds fly, and the bleak sky above the island seems lidded closed. Matthias moves quickly, his thin figure light. He stops calling. From the foreshore he considers the ledge above them, the fall that would be fatal. Papias is behind.
'Do you think he is perished?'
'Papias, are you unwell? Your face is pale.'
'I am . . . I may have taken ill in the night. Do you think he is perished?'
Matthias looks at him in the thin light. He does not answer. He thinks:
Now, here, at the entrance of the cave, it comes. Appears from within a great illumination, a thousand lamps large, dazzling to human sight. In accompaniment is a sound, sweet, melodic, music without playing. He folds to him his golden wings. He comes from the light and is clear and beautiful to behold, face becalmed, demeanour serene, as though journey from the ranks of seraphim in heaven to the place beneath is not arduous or lengthy.
'Prochorus,' the angel says.
The man bows low to the ground, then drops to his knees.
'Prochorus,' the angel says again.
The scribe cannot believe the angel knows his name. Then he believes it and believes his reward is at hand, believes when he rises that he will assume eternal form and begin his own ascent. His being is filled with gratitude and surrender. Upon his face is a look of transport.
Then he feels himself shaken. A hand touches his cheek.
'Prochorus!'
And he opens his eyes and sees Papias standing there.
'Wake, Prochorus, wake. Where is the Master?'
The angel is gone. There is only the looming face of the youth.
'Prochorus, the Master is not here.'
The scribe is curled on the floor. Chastened by the vanity of the dream, for some moments he cannot stir. It is as though, returned to earth, he is made of weightier stuff and will not be able to stand. But the look of Papias is wild and urgent, and Prochorus presses against the burden of disappointment and rises.
'How long have you been asleep?'
Prochorus does not answer. He crosses the cave with the lamp to where the Apostle had last been sitting. He looks into the empty space in puzzlement. Papias comes to his shoulder. Neither of them say what crosses in their minds. Neither say that perhaps the Apostle has been taken from them.
'Go, wake the others. Call his name. Quickly, quickly,' Prochorus says.
The dawn is near to breaking. There is a chill wind. Papias hurries away across the rocks, while Prochorus stands and cups his hands and calls after the Apostle. His voice travels nowhere. The sea sighs back at him and he feels unwell. He calls again, and again. He goes some way along the upper ledge of the scarp and stumbles and falls forwards, and fears then the blind apostle has plunged off the edge to death in the rocks below. The thought is as a sickness and he lets out a cry.
Across the darkness the other disciples come. Shades against the blued blackness of the predawn, they announce themselves like seabirds by calling. Their master's name is cried over and over. They assemble and disperse, assemble again. None admonishes Prochorus for sleeping when he was to be watching. The business of finding the Apostle is too urgent. Even the elder, Ioseph, is with them now, and with him the wheezing, anxious figure of Simon.
'Where might he be gone? This is not good. This is not good.' Simon wrings his hands.
Ioseph is swift and decisive. 'Two along the upper rocks,' he says, 'two to the eastern ledge. Linus and Prochorus go above to the meeting place, either side of the pathway. He may be fallen. Simon stay here. Papias and I to the foreshore.'
'I am more nimble, I will go with him.' It is Matthias, who appears out of the dark.
'Very well. Simon, remain here by the cave lest he come.'
'But why is he gone?' Papias asks.
'Go,' Ioseph says. 'Hurry.'
A dull daylight greys the island. The figures of the disciples clamber away, calling. They are like ones abandoned in the dark. Across the air no seabirds fly, and the bleak sky above the island seems lidded closed. Matthias moves quickly, his thin figure light. He stops calling. From the foreshore he considers the ledge above them, the fall that would be fatal. Papias is behind.
'Do you think he is perished?'
'Papias, are you unwell? Your face is pale.'
'I am . . . I may have taken ill in the night. Do you think he is perished?'
Matthias looks at him in the thin light. He does not answer. He thinks:
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