Filthy Circus

E. Larson Gunness 2 Hope Court Barrington, RI 02806 401-433-2938 [email protected]

Approx. Word Count = 3250

A Circus of the Filthy Duct Tape Press, 12/1/00 www.ducttapepress.com

“Tell out, my soul,” said Mary to Elizabeth when the two women met in the uplands of Judah. Elizabeth, the elder, felt the baby within her stir as though leaping for joy at being so close to the Son of Godi. She rejoiced as their two pregnant bellies, taught and filled with life, were pressed against one another. This was a grand encounter: these unlikely women – one barren, the other pure – who had both been selected, touched by the Divine. Through them, two men would come who would each begin a great movement – movements grounded in peace, whose followers would make war. But I had never heard of their meeting as I dragged my rotting flesh down from the foothills and into Gethsemaneii. I had walked with an old woman whose name I do not know. No fruitfulness had blessed her as she walked to her death. I had once walked this same road, with my sweet brother Jacobiii. We walked through the heat of the high mid-day sun, daring each other to make the trip without stopping for water. And when we reached Gethsemane, we sat in the shade and drank from our leather and ate what food we had with us. We talked of our strength, and of women, and of adventure. 1

But that time is done. Jacob is now dead. I watched his blood foul the sand at the hands of the Samaritaniv. I tried to keep it from happening, tried to stop that black blade as it was jammed into Jacob’s body three, four, five times; but I couldn’t get to them in time, my efforts were futile. And once it has been done, it has been done forever. Jacob vomited his precious blood into the unquenchable desert. I swung my fists at the Samaritan. But someone I did not see, struck me in the mouth, smashing my teeth and tearing my tongue. They left me stunned and crawling on the dry earth, crying for my brother and choking on my own gore. In the year following his death, as I watched my family’s sorrow, I became afflicted with the local disease, a sentence of death. At first I tried to hide it, from my family, from myself. But, it made its cruel way up my neck, into my hair, and then finally across my face. And the people knew when they saw it. One by one, they shut me out. On the day that my parents learned, they disowned me at once, before it was dawn, before the first crow of the cockv. I will carry with me forever the feeling of my mother’s broom as she beat me across the shoulders to drive me into the street. She hit me hard, as passersby laughed. When it was day, I tried to return. My home was now foreign. My mother appeared before the house, she had lit the broom on fire. She cast it into the street. It turned black and began to curl. In the bright sun, I watched it burn, I couldn’t see the flame. I walked back toward her. I only wanted to see her face. I wanted to see traces of the same grief that she had shown for Jacob. But she looked upon me as I stood, as though she was looking upon a beast. There was no sign of compassion, no hint that she knew me. She was a sad lonely woman with a sun-hardened face. Then something within her stirred, she stooped and reached down, and she picked up a rock and she threw it at my feet. It didn’t hit me, it didn’t have to. Others saw what she had

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done, and they began to throw stones at me, and throw garbage as well. For a time, I fought back. Everyone was afraid of what I threw – as if it was contaminated, as if it would give them my slow death. So I threw stones at their houses, trying to throw in through their doors. I wanted to make them fear their own homes, I wanted to hurt them, and all that they still had. But I only made them angrier. They banded together. The townspeople hurled abuse: they wagged their heads and cried out against mevi. Their stones hit me hard, as though they were trying to kill. So I fled, as fast as I could, though it was difficult to get away. Each step that I took was hindered by their pelting. They drove me from town to the wilderness beyond. I walked out to the plain and lay down in a thicket. I was wounded from the stones. I was sick and alone. I began to live like a stray dog, scavenging for scraps and begging on the streets. Water, once so simple, was much harder to find. No one would let me near the supplies that they had at their homes. And when I’d go to the river, the women and children would scream and would drive me away. I had to wait until dark before I could go there and drink and bathe my now unfamiliar body in the chill of the night. Out of spite, I would sometimes roll on the ground and touch the rocks where the people had been sitting. This would prove, at least to myself, that I wasn’t as they all had said. There was a population of others who lived, cast off, in the wild. There were lepers, so far along that I would run from them out of fright. There were madmen who stumbled through the world, some of whom seemed happy: a version of joy. And there were cripples who were like demented monkeys as they dragged themselves about, leaving tracks in the sand. We were the dangerous, evil men that society could not abide, the ones who families lock their doors against when they lay down for the night.

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All the while, my affliction grew steadily worse. For some ungodly reason, it spread quickly up my body, and only inched its way down. As a result, it wasn’t long until my head was a burning stinking thing. My skull felt soft to the touch. My hair came out in clumps. Then, the skin on my arms swelled and sagged to my hands. Eventually my legs turned, down to the soles of my feet, and walking became agony, each step was pain. Oddly, my belly was left completely unaffected. It was a patch of beautiful pure skin, as smooth and hairless as a child’s. I would never dare touch it, but I would look at it and wish that it might convince its neighboring regions to reverse their decline. It was almost too much to bear whenever I had to move my bowels. I’d squat when I could hold it no longer, bracing myself against some berm, and I would sputter my waste through the folds of my backside. I had fallen as far as any human can fall.

The first talk I heard of the savior was from a limping, emaciated man who had just returned from town. While he had been begging, someone had told him of a prophet, a healer who was working with the people of Gethsemane. The beggar was so excited that he was trembling and almost dancing about. His voice became high-pitched and hoarse as he told me about what he had heard. “A savior arrived in Gethsemane. He arrived on foot, just like any common man. Only this man is not common. When he calls the people to him, he speaks to them with kindness and he speaks as though he is their king. “All who meet this holy man are touched by him, as though he can see into their hearts. Even the Romans, who keep watch, are calmed by what the savior has to say.” He told stories of

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great miracles that the savior had performed: that he could heal the sick by simply touching them with his hands. I watched in disgust as this beggar turned giddy. He laughed and chattered on about how this man would straighten his little curled legs. How silly his crippled legs looked as he tried to step lightly. He bid me to come join him in his trek to Gethsemane. But I cursed him and said I would not go about chasing after mere myths. He was undaunted by my contempt. He turned and said farewell. Then he set off for the foothills that lie between our town and his dream. I watched him leave, this simpering beggar. I did not believe him, I thought him a sad fool. Let him follow his absurd fancy all the way to Gethsemane. If the walk didn’t kill him, he’d starve when he got there. No one there cares for beggars, they’d sooner see them dead. And how could his tale possibly be real? No man could heal, not by the laying of his hands. It was just village superstition – another travelling magician, going from town to town, swindling the needy and then disappearing into the night. I had seen it all before, been beaten too low to be fooled by some cheat who roams the countryside peddling falsehoods.

More days passed by, as I lived my desperate life. One night, I stole a pot of soup from a group of drunken shepherds. I had heard their loud talk for hours and smelled the dinner they had cooked. When they had finally fallen into stupor, I stole the pot from their fire. It scalded my hands as I walked away. But I didn’t care, I needed to be fed. I gorged myself on my prize, dipping my hand into their bowlvii. I hadn’t had warm food to eat since I had been driven away by my mother. I then slept like a lamb, my first restful night in months. When I awoke, the sun was already hot, and I was curled around the bowl. There were many flies about me – drawn by the smell of soup and by my rancid flesh. My throat was so

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parched that I could not even swallow. But I couldn’t go to the river at this, the most popular time of the day. So I began to walk to a small hill that overlooked the watering area. There was a place I could sit and be unnoticed as I waited. On my way, I saw a group of men engrossed in violence and in anger. I recognized that it was the shepherds that had been drunk the night before. They had surrounded a small man – a Cyrene – and they accused him of stealing their dinnerviii. They were beating him to make him confess. I did not try to intervene. They were all but through with him as I drew near. They seemed convinced by his bleating that he in fact was guilty after all. So they left him to his wounds and walked in my direction. I turned and braced my shoulder against them, but they walked right on by. It was like they didn’t see me. The Cyrene arose and ran away stiffly.

So I left to find the savior. There was no longer anything for me here. I had sunken below the dignity of beggars in this lonely barren place. Like a bellowing ox, I crashed into the river and drank before my journey. The women and children screamed at me in disgust and they scattered like sheepix. Full of loathing and confusion, I left my home village forever. And as I walked, my sweat seeped from me. I smelled myself, I smelled my clothes. I was a filthy, blighted man, in search of a whim, leaving behind me disgrace. And also, I was dying. I would soon leave this unhappy earth. I thought of the Cyrenean, who had just been beaten because of me. The sound of the dull blows as they struck his small body resonated within me, reminding me, haunting me. Then the face of the giddy beggar, who had preceded me on this same road, swelled into my mind, as if to taunt and to badger me. In the first day of walking, I barely made it to the hills. Throughout the day, the hills lay before me, blue wavering swells on the edge of the desert. After ages I realized that I had begun

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to ascend. The sun was now low, behind the rise ahead. I dragged my swollen feet – rough, rotten melons – off of the road, and I lay down to sleep. I fell asleep at once, and slept until late in the night. When I awoke it was cold. The stars spread across the sky. They were impossibly far away. They were wonderfully beautiful. I was in pain in many places from my long walk and my bed of gravel. I knew I’d sleep no more, so I lifted my sorry bag of flesh. I was able to just see the trail: it was a darker smudge on the frosted earth. As I walked in the hour before the graying of morning, I felt a sweet longing quite distinct from my usual despair. I realized that what I was longing for was the chance to meet this leader. I wanted to know a man who was doing such godly good work. In this land so dominated by cruelty and sorrow, a man spreading peace was something of a miracle. There was power and beauty in itx, if indeed it were true, beyond the abilities of the wretched lost masses. And the chance to find a way out of the pattern of my life was a thought almost too good, too wonderful to contemplate. I had never fully accepted that I could have no reprieve. I wouldn’t believe that I was doomed to my current vulgar state. Until now, my faith had been cast in my own brand of superstition. It was a sort of idle yearning, with no larger truth in which I could invest my soul. Until now. Somehow the notion of the healer began to strike me as different. In the clear cool of the brightening sky, I could see no reason why he should not exist. Trust began to swell within me. And when the sun’s first rays shot from the horizon to my rear, I was no longer walking away from the unhappiness of my home, but toward the wondrous opportunity presented by the savior. As dawn turned to morning, other travelers appeared on the road. We were each making the same trip. We were each pursuing the same wish. Some people passed me by – their legs

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were still strong. Others were slowly moving their exhausted, wounded bodies. But we were all of us brethren in our quest to meet this man of God. A spirit of expectation seemed almost to sing in the air. It made everything joyous, made everyone kind. One man poured water into my trembling hands, another placed figs and portions of bread on rocks for me to eat. With each traveler, each small group, there was a great disease or psychosis or deformity. We were the infirm, unclean of the land, and we were each of us fortified by hope for deliverance. We were a foolish circus of the filthy, made merry among one another. There was much talk of the great healer that we soon were to meet. And for the first time in many months, I began to feel surprised by joyxi. There was talk of the power that had been invested in this man by God. It was the power to do good works, to help the plight of poorest. We all began to work together as the slope before us grew steeper. If we reached the highest point, it would be downhill all the way to Gethsemane. As I made for the apex, my legs felt almost strong. I stepped around another traveler who was moving slowly up the hill. It was an old woman – she had leprosy and she was very far gone. Her gray hair was thinned, and in patches she was bald. She walked a few inches each step, not lifting her feet, but pushing them stiffly. She was walking so slowly, it seemed preposterous to think that she’d make it. But something within her compelled her forward. She had somehow not yet collapsed. Through my swollen sloppy lips, I tried to offer her my help. She did not respond. She did not look up. She just continued to slide her bleeding feet forward. I put my arm about her frail waste, and with my other hand, I held her elbow. Without speaking, we walked uphill. I could smell the stink of her disease. But it smelled no worse than mine did, only different. At first, she walked as though unaware of my assistance. But before long she took the support and

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she leaned into me, yielding slightly. I knew that from then on, the two of us would walk together. She’d be unable to walk without my assistance. She had been on the verge of foundering for so long. I didn’t dare loosen my grip. I would see to it that she reached the Man of God, and this commitment made my heart warm. Without fanfare, we reached the road’s highest point, and began the gradual descent. I could see Gethsemane shimmering on the plain down below. It looked close, completely attainable. The other travelers had become quiet as we all made our way down. The truth or disappointment that awaited us would soon be made clear. I walked on with my gentle cargo to search for the savior. And if we did not find him, or if he could not help us, then we were walking to the town where we would both surely die. The woman, my charge, pulled from me and sat down. Despite the proximity to our salvation, she was unable to go on. She sat as though she had been completely emptied of her vitality. It was as though she had reached her end and had decided she should go no further. I bent over and tried to lift her, but my effort was in vain. I could feel the enervating power of my sickness as our bodies were pressed together. My body was declining, hers had failed. I set her back on the ground. A small group of other travelers had gathered around us, interrupting their progress toward town. The woman laid her cheek on the road, and breathed her last breath into the dust. I said to her, “Sit here while I go over there to pray.” But the group that had gathered thought that I was speaking to them. I walked off the road, away; I was overcome by anguish and dismay. I said, as though to the group, “My heart is ready to break with grief. Stop here and stay awake with me.” I went a little away and fell on my face in prayer. I would have given away anything if this cup could have passed me by. xii

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Those of us who had stopped stacked stones upon this woman and searched for words to say before her desolate grave. None of us knew her name, nor knew where she was from. Then we left her and walked together to Gethsemane.

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Footnotes:

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i

Luke 1: 40 – 47. Elizabeth, elderly, was pregnant with John the Baptist. Mary was pregnant with Jesus. The two women, kinswomen, meet and embrace. It is a powerful moment as John is first drawn near to Jesus. ii Matthew 26:36. This is the town Jesus is in before he is captured and led to his crucifixion. It is also where he has great sadness, almost apprehension, because he knows he will soon be killed. iii Matthew 1:16. Jacob is the same name as Joseph’s father – an awkward coincidence. iv Reference to the parable of the Good Samaritan. Samaritans, to the Jews of this period, were often seen as the ultimate outsiders, the ultimate “other.” That it was a Samaritan that is helpful to the wounded man in the ancient parable gives it much of its power. v Mark 14: 30 Jesus says this to Peter during the final supper. vi Matthew 27:39-40. This is a paraphrasing of the time when Jesus was dying on the cross. The protagonist in my story is no Jesus, but he is treated much the same here. vii Matthew 26:20. This is the language Jesus uses when prophesying that one of his disciples will betray him. viii Luke 22:26. A Cyrene, named Simon, was the man roughly chosen to carry Jesus’ cross on the way to Golgotha. ix Mark 14:29 x Goethe. Famous quote about the power of embarking upon things hoped for. xi “Surprised by Joy” is the title of a book by CS Lewis. It is an autobiographical story about the development of his faith and Christianity. xii Matthew 26:37-39 Jesus is confronting the fact that he soon will be crucified. He is with Peter, the one who will disown him three times.