The Coming

Yes, I was at the meeting when young Ben Maxwell read that epoch-making paper, telling how he’d been able to put a definite date on the crucifixion of Jesus. (“Young Ben” we called him. And of course now he’s forever young, isn’t he?) Old sceptics like me went along all prepared to scoff or ask awkward questions, but the paper he gave was brilliant and the evidence couldn’t be faulted. All those papyrus records had turned up in excavations in Palestine, like the Dead Sea scrolls only more detailed, and the team had spent years piecing them altogether; until there it was; a clear date: something that neither the Gospels or St. Paul had bothered to give us. It was stunning; that’s the only word for it.

   Of course, all sorts of weird groups tried to cash in on it, and they’re still at it. Do you remember that bunch who tried to prove Jesus was black? I ask you!

As for Ben Maxwell, it transformed his life. He was a very modest young man; shy, even. He turned down the offer of a C.B.E. for his achievement, though of course it wasn’t made public at the time. He was quite right, in my opinion: it’s the sort of award that’s given to retired sportsmen, and to people who’ve made donations to party funds. But he couldn’t so well turn down invitations to speak at academic conferences, and before he knew where he was, there were television interviews in the States, and then all over the world; and he started to find he enjoyed it. That’s what did for him in the end, of course: that dreadful plane crash. At least, that’s what they think it must have been, though no trace was ever found. Naturally, sabotage was suspected by the conspiracy-merchants, and others put it down to divine intervention. Was it just a fluke that the plane sank in one of the deepest ocean depths in the entire world, off the coast of Japan, or was something being covered up? And if so, by whom, and why? Assorted nutcases have claimed to see him alive, of course; but as far as I’m concerned, he’s gone; and so he’ll always be young Ben Maxwell, the genius who put a date on the most famous event of all time.

   The college thought of naming a building after him, but they were afraid of annoying the Moslems, or the Jews, or for all I know the voodoo priests as well, so all we got is one of those blue plaques. But he won’t be forgotten, ever.

Anyway, thanks to his work, we have a date for the crucifixion, and this year it’s the two-thousandth anniversary. All sorts of crazies out there are expecting the Second Coming at any moment, and the fact that they’ve always been disappointed in the past never makes any difference: they’re saying it’s got to be this Easter. But I’m not expecting anything, are you? When you look out at the stars on a night like this, millions of light-years away, it makes you realize how insignificant we are here. What grounds do we have for imagining things on this earth matter at all, as far as the universe is concerned?

Hang on; what’s happening out there? The stars ……       

LIGHT!  

The Sleeping King

Eight men sat round the table, lit by a strange radiance that appeared to pervade the whole cave. The boy crawled out from the narrow passage through which he had entered, but for the moment remained on his knees, amazed and awestruck. For some little time Michael, for that was his name, continued in that position, until he was able to nerve himself to examine the scene more closely.

          Facing him was a king, for he wore a crown, beneath which his hair was like the mane of a lion, though his long beard was streaked with grey. His hands, heavy with many rings, rested on the table before him, and between them lay the hilt of a great sword. His eyes were deep and piercing, and they bore down straight at Michael, with such intensity that he could scarcely dare to return their gaze for more than a fleeting moment. It was therefore with downcast eyes that he slowly walked round the table. Of the other seven men, some were in armour, and some in courtly robes. Their eyes too were open, but did not move, and their gaze remained fixed on the king.

          Michael knew who they were, for many times he had heard of them in legend and story, and now he had found them. They were the great king, the emperor, and his seven counsellors; not dead, but asleep beneath the mountain, awaiting the moment of their country’s greatest peril, when they would rise from slumber to save it. Now he, Michael and found them. Was it now his task to awaken them? Was indeed his country in mortal danger? How was he to know: he was only ten years old.

          He tiptoes further towards the king, and every time he dared to glance upwards, he sensed the king’s eyes following him. The strange light, which at first he thought came from the roof, he now realised radiated out from the king himself, illuminating the whole gathering. At last he stood at the king’s side, and hesitated, unsure of what to do; until, suddenly making up his mind, he reached out and laid his hand upon the hilt of the great sword.

          Abruptly, and horribly, everything began to change. First, the sword crumbled to rust beneath his hand. Then the table creaked and groaned as its massive timbers rotted and split. Like a creeping tide the infection spread to the assembled lords. Garments fell in shreds and armour collapsed. The very flesh on their faces blackened and shrivelled, exposing the bones beneath.  The radiance flashed violently, and stones crashed down from the roof. Last of all the disease reached even to the king, until his eyes blazed out as through a monstrous lichen, and the look in those eyes was of unforgiving hatred and despair.

          Then Michael awoke. The window of his bedroom was rattling in the violent wind, and outside lightning and thunder were raging. Guilt and anguish filled his heart. He knew it had been a dream, but nonetheless he felt that somehow the universe had been diminished by his actions. 

Waiting Room

It was a large room, more like a wide corridor, with various doors with name-cards leading off it. Doctors in white coats strode purposefully from one door to another, and every so often nurses appeared with clip-boards, summoning names for consultation. A few of the patients thumbed in a desultory fashion through the magazines on offer, but most sat passively waiting. I passed the time observing the couple sitting opposite.

                Judging by the remains of a teddy-boy haircut adorning his head, I thought he must be in his late sixties. His white shirt too had seen better days, and was now too tight for him, so that every button strained. But even so, he looked in far better shape than his wife sitting next to him. She was wearing a long coat, and a brown beret on her grey hair. Her hands were clasped in her lap, and her eyes gazed blankly ahead. Her spectacles hung around her neck on a chain. Her husband spoke to her, gently and continually, and too quietly for me to hear a single word. Not once did she respond, or even turn towards him. I only saw her move when she decided to put her glasses on, but this simple action defeated her, and he had to come to her assistance.

                Finally a nurse came and summoned her. She showed no sign of recognition, but her husband arose. With the greatest gentleness he helped her to her feet, and then took her elbow and led her away, following the nurse. My name was called soon afterwards, and I never saw them again. But still I was touched by this tragic yet beautiful picture of love.