Wandering - A Short Fiction

WANDERING 

Art and Text By: C.M.V.R 

(MySoulToTake)

Part I

I made a mistake.

I pay for it every day of my life. And unfortunately, my life is quite long.

I was unfair to the Son. And I was forced to see my entire lineage grow and die. Countless times.

From me, hundreds of words were written. Fiction, nothing more. I was so often mistaken for someone else, but except for the fact that we both carry the same curse, we have nothing in common.

If you're reading what I write here, dear friend, this is for you, because despite the long conversations we've had, your story is unknown to me, and I imagine you want to keep it that way, for now.

Unfortunately, this will almost certainly be the last letter I write to you, my brother. However, I will confide in you in these lines, because you, of all the beings living in this world, understand the burden I carry upon me.

What words exist in this or any other world that describe the pain of seeing a child die? A daughter? The beloved woman?

And what about those who witnessed such events hundreds of times?

I no longer feel sorrow, hatred, or anger. I can no longer blame Him for this sad existence that has occupied my being.

I have no reason to, since the cause of my misfortunes was none other than myself...

I tried to ask for forgiveness. I prayed in all the holy places on this Earth, walked on my knees along the path of Fatima in Portugal, as well as that of Santiago de Compostela, among hundreds of others, countless times throughout my two thousand and eleven years of existence. It was all for nothing.

I continue to live. I continue to breathe, when so many other people, infinitely better than me, age, wither, and die.

Although I sought a cure for my ailment from renowned wizards, witches, alchemists, and others, none knew how to free me from this... life.

I am still immortal!

While, as you told me, you witnessed the many wars that mortals perpetuate, as if the sacrifice of the Son had been in vain, I traveled the world, not looking for someone like me who could enlighten me about His reasons, but for someone who could set me free.

For, like you, and yet different, I cannot remain in the same place for as long as I want. And every month, I am compelled by an uncontrollable desire to go to another distant place from where I am.

I found the one you spoke of. I proved the truth of your words by verifying that he carries a curse even more terrible than ours. He spoke only a few words to me, reserving his discourse for the Lord.

I understand the abominable crimes of which we are guilty.

He, for the well-known act of killing his brother out of envy, and I, for having refused to assist the Son when it was necessary.

As I contemplated him, I wondered, for how long will my sanity last? Will we become like him when we carry in our bodies the millennia that are his age?

I have been walking for so long now.

I feel tired.

Part II

In this land, no secret is unknown to me, no corner is strange to me. I lay down, and at night, hearing the beating of my heart makes me static, almost paralyzed with horror of what I am. Neither dead nor alive. An aberration, nothing more.

Surely, at some point in your life, you must have thought about suicide, however, the idea of dying becomes more distressing than the dawn of a new tomorrow. You may have felt anxious, even ashamed, that everyone around you, who holds affection or esteem for you, dies, and you, unable to do anything, just watch, always immutable.

The desire to die becomes an idea that corrupts and destroys you. The never-ending circle of destruction and hatred of the common Human made you ponder how many times, why God still allows them to breathe? Have you discovered that, despite all the evil, they can still love? And every act of compassion, however rare, shows you that not everything is bad, and perhaps the Divine Plan is correct?

As for me, I have stopped pondering these questions, brother. I feel nothing for them. Maybe my thinking is wrong. I cannot understand how they can give so little value to the life they have, being so short? They adore death and everything related to it. They are not sure that God exists, but they give Him names. They justify atrocious acts in His name.

I apologize for boring you with these trivial matters. You may have also pondered them. Forgive me for the repetition. I think it is just a problem of being immortal, repetition. And if it is as mortals say, that Hell is repetition, then those who do not die are already used to it. I think all of this is a preparation so that when the time comes to pay for our sins, the realms of Lucifer will not confuse us so much.

At this point, you may be wondering why I wrote to you if I was going to write about such banal matters as you have already read? As I mentioned at the beginning, I made a mistake, and I will tell you how it all happened.

Part III

Cartaphilus is my name, or was, and I was a cobbler in Armenia. Centuries have passed with different names, professions, and so many lies. Anyway...

I was forty years old when I saw him for the first time. Surrounded by people who idolized him. They called him the incarnate son. The Word. Jesus, son of Joseph and Mary, from Nazareth. The stories they tell about him fall far short of what reality was like at that time. The people lived in fear, without hope, always afraid of new wars. Hungry, both for food and joy, they tirelessly searched for something that would awaken joy in their fearful hearts.

Then, Jesus came with his words of love, light, and the promise of something better. I remember once commenting to my wife about all this and asking her if she believed his words that he was truly the son of God. Now, my wife did not usually comment on this or that, but she seemed uncomfortable with those questions, saying only that it was just foolishness, that he must be another vicar who wanted to take advantage of the weakness and ignorance of believers. And sooner or later, it would go wrong.

At that time, I did not know what to think, despite Jesus' words, many had already heard about his persecution as a child, and we feared that it would happen again. And there were also the priests who whispered in the corners, looking unfriendly while he spoke to the people.

As you may already know, in those times I was a shoemaker. And modesty aside, I was one of the best in my craft. Being wealthy, I could afford to not work for long periods of time. I decided to close my shop for a few days and follow closely the path of the one they called Christ, the Savior.

My late wife vehemently opposed the idea until she reluctantly agreed, but not before making me promise to come back safe and sound, no matter what. For months, I followed His journey, witnessing the events that were so poorly portrayed in what they call today the Bible.

I saw with my own eyes the miracles of the Son, and like the people, I was amazed by His beauty and divinity. However, it was not enough. My insecurity towards that person was, to admit it without shame or prejudice today, almost like stubbornness. I didn't want to believe that such a person could exist in this world - beautiful, pure.

From what I remember of our conversations, you also saw Him, albeit briefly. He passed through Cana, Galilee, the port of Capernaum, among many other places, spreading the Word.

I saw with my own eyes when He became angry in the temple of Jerusalem, driving out everyone who was there. It was the first time that both I and the others saw Him like that. He didn't seem the same.

To me, that act only confirmed my suspicions that Jesus was as human as any of us, vulnerable to positive or negative feelings, and that all the miraculous acts He had performed until then were just well-planned schemes by His accomplices. Like me, many others thought the same, doubting the word of this supposed Son of God.

With this in mind and determined to return home, I left. At that time, I pondered how much worry I had caused my wife by foolishly leaving home just to follow a man as common as any mortal. 

My arrival home was uneventful. I continued to work, occupying my mind and body with other matters. For a while, there was no news of Jesus. I even forgot that I had recently walked the same path as that man.

Then came the news: Jesus had been arrested on charges of heresy, blasphemy, and other crimes against the church and the Roman Empire. Pilate condemned Him to the martyrdom of thieves: to carry the cross where He would be crucified. 

A sentence only given to the scum of society was directed at the Son of God. The people, who until then seemed unaware of the existence of Jesus, gathered just to hear this sentence. Even the followers of the Son did not speak up when necessary about His innocence. 

I still wonder to this day, of all the people whom Jesus had performed His miracles on - the hungry, the poor, the needy - where were they when Pilate washed his hands? Where were they when Jesus, alone, was accused of crimes He did not commit? 

What was Jesus thinking when His friends, the disciples who walked beside Him, preaching His goodness and His divinity, turned their backs on Him, pretending not to know Him?

From the pronouncement of the sentence to its execution, it was only a few days.

Part IV

Millennia may pass, but the memory of that day will remain with me. I will find no rest, sleep or respite... I no longer ask for forgiveness. I was in front of my shop, talking to an old customer when he, seeming uninterested in what I was saying, made me turn my attention to the crowd of people coming down the street. The noise was deafening, maddening. Laughter, insults. The maddened crowd was throwing stones, rotten fruit, and anything else they could find. That was when I saw who the people were pursuing so relentlessly. Even though I was some distance away, I could see, in his face, weariness. Nothing else. Just the weariness of someone carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. Carrying his cross, he approached my door. My customer, with whom I had been talking for several hours until then, gave me a look of contempt. One second. Jesus stopped at my door, just for a second's rest, and without thinking twice, I chased him away with my foot, as if shooing a dog, saying to him, "Hurry up, Jesus! Hurry up! Why are you stopping?" When he looked at me, there was no hatred or resentment in his eyes. "I will rise and rest, but you will walk until the end of days." However, I did not understand the sentence, and with the people, I laughed at his misfortune. The man who carried on his shoulders, not the weight of the cross, but of all human sins, and I laughed heartily at such stupidity. It was only when he left my door that I realized his words, and overwhelmed by a desire to leave without knowing where, I set out on the road without even saying goodbye to my wife. I kept walking. I had already covered kilometers, and my feet hurt like never before when I tried to stop, but (as if moved by an invisible force), I kept walking. After endless days, I was allowed to stop. My feet were bleeding, raw flesh. With amazement and horror, I saw them, until recently unrecognizable, grow new flesh, and as if by magic, I felt the fatigue disappear, as if I had never felt it before. I thought I would be forced to walk until I died, that Jesus had somehow hypnotized me. At that time, I could not imagine what my greatest curse would be. Days, weeks, months, and years went by. Until a century passed, and I finally realized Jesus' words. I would not die. I wished, and how I wished. Two thousand years later, I still wish. I witnessed the death of the man who condemned Jesus, the man they called Pilate, and I cannot help but laugh at the irony that even he could embrace death. I saw empires rise and fall. I witnessed almost every war this world knows, and more. I got married, had children. I saw my children get married and have children. I saw them all die, time and time again. I was persecuted (many times by my own children), as a witch, accused of making pacts with the devil, among many other things. I was stoned, stabbed, shot, hanged, and once crucified... Thinking about it, it's really ironic, isn't it? After a long time, I returned to Armenia. I did not recognize anything from the streets where I used to play as a child, and where later, married, I walked with my wife. I should have felt sadness, nostalgia, but I felt absolutely nothing. 

I thought I was the only one carrying such weight until I met you, my friend.

I know the question that is on your mind.

Why did I do it?

Even today, I cannot give you a definite answer.

Was it fear? Shame? Anger because I believed in His words, and yet He was there, in a situation fit for a thief, an animal?

Did I feel deceived?

Can I excuse myself with the fact that in those times, everything was different? That if I had given him help, there would be one more to walk the path to Golgotha?

I saw him being stoned, mistreated, and I did nothing to stop the people.

But tell me, given the circumstances, what would you have done?

I regret ending this letter with a question, knowing I will never hear the answer.

So many centuries pondering this, and I no longer need an excuse or a reason.

The sleepless, dreamless nights do not matter.

What was done cannot be undone.

...Until the end of time.

End.