Waves dashed against Shimon's form, tumbling him back under water. His lungs burned as he thrashed about, starved for air. Up! Which way was up? He whipped his head back. Blessed Adonai! He could see a form above him as if through a long tunnel, standing on the sea like it was solid ground. He stretched out his hands and opened his mouth to cry for help, but salt water rushed down his throat. His leg was yanked from below, and he sank even as he flailed, desperate to grasp the hand reaching out for him…

Shimon gasped, coming awake. A shadow had fallen over his mat, shaking him out of his nightmare. Every time he'd attempted a wink of sleep, the result had been the same—dreams of the past three years, memories twisted to torment him, this time when his rabbi had walked on water.

Shimon groaned, covering his eyes with his arm. "No food, Milcah. I've told you a hundred times. Get out."

"Of all the places to hide."

Shimon lowered his arm to behold a masculine figure backlit by glaring sunlight instead of the woman he'd expected. "You get out, too," he grumbled, rolling onto his side and drawing his cloak over his head. A rustle of cloth indicated the interloper sat down next to him instead.

Neither spoke for a time, and Shimon fought the desire either to grab the man and force him off the roof or pop up and outrun him into the streets below. But the soreness in his body and a dull headache warned he'd not get far before being snagged round the neck.

"Andraus is beside himself with worry," the man began.

"Tell him you found me and I'm fine."

"He'll want to see you himself."

"Tell him I'll be gone by the time he gets here."

"Kepha—"

"It's just Shimon, and go."

A long sigh escaping the man's lips preceded another drawn out silence. The man didn't budge. Shimon hadn't really expected him to. Yohanan wasn't the kind to abandon a friend in distress. He'd even followed Yehoshua to the end.

A stinging pain rippled up Shimon's neck at the thought of his rabbi. He yanked the cloak off his head and massaged the back of his neck. "Say what you want, then please get out."

Yohanan turned his head to the side, running a thoughtful eye over him. "Do you remember Devorah, when we were children?"

Shimon raised a surprised eyebrow. "There were several Devorahs in Bethsaida."

"Lame Devorah."

"I suppose I remember."

"Bullies taunted her over her twisted leg one time, poking her with sticks. You beat them."

Shimon's chest tightened in recollection of the rage that had exploded within. He'd lashed out and knocked the three older boys into the dust. Not too unlike the way he'd punched Andraus a day ago.

"No one could find you after, not even your parents or Andraus."

"You did," Shimon said.

Yohanan nodded. "I thought, 'Where would Shimon go that Andraus wouldn't find him?' Andraus hated the stink of the fish shack. And there you were, crouching behind a pile of rotting, discarded entrails."

Shimon kept quiet, but he recalled in his mind's eye Yohanan not more than six, peering over the disgusting refuse and exclaiming, "Found you," like they were playing a casual game of hide-and-seek.

"You hid because you thought you'd be punished."

"I was punished."

Yohanan grunted. "Gutting more fish than usual isn't much of a punishment. You thought your abba would whip you. But when you went home, he slapped you proudly on the back. You weren't punished for beating the bullies, just for hiding away so long."

Shimon felt like he was listening to one of Yehoshua's stories again, one that led to a meaning in the end. "Get to the point. I need sleep."

"You don't have to be afraid to come home," Yohanan finished softly.

Shimon pushed himself up but wobbled and grasped at his head. Yohanan reached out to steady him at his elbow. "I need a drink."

Yohanan held out a waterskin.

"Not that," Shimon said, pushing the skin away.

"I told the woman below not to give you any more wine. I also paid your debt."

Shimon snatched the waterskin out of Yohanan's hands. "I have money."

"Not enough for all she served you, I'd wager."

Shimon un-stoppered the waterskin and sloshed water down a dry throat.

"I found you the same way I did back then. Thought where Andraus wouldn't go. He wouldn't be caught dead in a prostitute's house."

Shimon lowered the skin. "She's not a prostitute."

"If you ask around in the right places she is."

Shimon sighed. "Don't make trouble for her."

"Why would I? Yehoshua cared about people like her. I brought this, too." Yohanan unwrapped a cloth to reveal bread, olives, and cheese. "When she said a man paid to sleep on her roof and had only stayed up here drinking wine, I figured I'd found you."

Shimon's stomach rumbled and he accepted the cloth. He popped a few olives into his mouth, then tore a piece of bread. "I didn't do anything with her," he mumbled while chewing.

"I didn't think you would." Yohanan leaned back against the roof's edge.

Shimon munched for a while. The food tasted good and he picked up the pace. He hadn't realized how hungry he really was. When the last of the cheese went down, he crumpled up the cloth and handed it back to Yohanan with a "Thanks," then leaned back next to him. He closed his eyes with his face turned into the sun's warmth.

"We all feel ashamed, you know," Yohanan said quietly.

Shimon guffawed and rubbed at his eyelids with a thumb and forefinger.

"You're not the only one who left him."

The food Shimon had devoured turned to acid in his stomach, and he feared he'd lose what he'd just gotten down.

"No one's going to be angry with you. We need you. We look up to you."

Shimon opened his eyes and rolled them to Yohanan. "I did worse than all of you."

"You did not…"

Shimon leaped to his feet. "I denied him!" he confessed, throwing a hand into the air to count out his transgressions. "Not one time. Not twice. Three times. They asked me in the courtyard if I knew him and I swore I never did." Shimon waited for Yohanan to yell or censure or at the very least lecture, but his friend of old simply stared at him, unmoved. "Well say something."

"What is there to say?"

"Then here," Shimon said, snapping up the sword he'd laid beside his sleeping mat and shoving it at Yohanan. "Take it and put me out of my misery because I haven't been able to!"

Yohanan reached out and took the blade, studying it at eye level. He let out a hissing breath. "You've always been an impulsive one." He placed the sword in front of him, then stepped on it, firmly securing it under a sandal.

"How can you not want to kill me?" Shimon asked incredulously.

"Yehudah is dead."

"What?"

"He hanged himself."

Shimon ground his teeth. He'd been robbed. Just last night he'd formulated a plan in his inebriated dreams to track down the traitor and stick him through the gut for Yehoshua's sake.

"We're already eleven. We don't need to lose any more."

"Ah. So you simply don't want to lessen our numbers."

"That and…" Yohanan ran a finger across his lips as was his habit when he thought too much.

"And what?"

"At his last meal with us, he said you'd deny him."

"I remember," Shimon spat, dragging a distressed hand through his hair. He'd heard the rabbi's words screaming in his brain right after that cursed rooster had crowed.

"If he said you would, why should I be angry when you did it? He said Satan wanted to sift you, but he also said you'd strengthen us all when it was over."

"Strengthen you?" Shimon blurted. "My strength? You're the strong one sitting here and explaining Yehoshua's words like he didn't just die nailed to a cross!" Shimon flung a hand in the air. "Do you truly care?"

Yohanan's eyes flashed with anger, and he chewed vigorously at his lip a moment before looking away. "I watched him weaken every minute. I heard him speak and cry. When he took his last breath…" Yohanan covered his eyes, but tears escaped his control anyway. "I felt my life end, too."

Heat burned up the back of Shimon's neck. Yehoshua's words rang in his ears once more: Shimon, I've prayed for you, that your faith won't fail. And when you have turned back, strengthen your brothers.

Yohanan swiped his hand over his eyes and dabbed at his cheeks. "He told me to take care of Mother Miryam. I think she hurts more than all of us. She needs someone to be strong for her. I can't weaken."

Shimon brushed his own hand across his eyes before sitting back down and laying an arm across Yohanan's shoulders. Strengthen your brothers. "He picked the right man to care for her. You were so close to him."

"You were, too."

Shimon breathed out. "We all were. Yohanan, forgive me."

Yohanan waved a dismissive hand. "You're grieving."

"That doesn't give me a right to say you didn't care for him."

Yohanan's shoulders tensed under Shimon's arm. "I've been thinking," he spoke with a hushed voice. "Our last meal with him. He told us to drink the cup and eat the bread. He said it was his blood and body given for us." Yohanan turned his tearful gaze back to Shimon. "He said he'd be rejected by the teachers and killed. He told us. We didn't believe him."

Shimon pulled his arm back and settled both hands in his lap, wringing them. He remembered the way Yehoshua had spoken, but the rabbi was always veiling truth within stories and symbols. He'd thought Yehoshua's mention of his death meant the religious leaders dearly wished to stop him permanently, might search for an opportunity to disrupt his teaching. Then Shimon and the other disciples would defend Yehoshua by scaring away the threat. But it hadn't happened publicly like that. Instead, the religious leaders sent their lackeys in the dead of night and nothing happened the way it was supposed to.

"I think this was supposed to happen," Yohanan whispered so lowly Shimon barely heard.

"You think he meant to die? To leave us?"

"Maybe it was his purpose."

"His purpose was to be nailed through and tortured?"

"There has to be a reason Adonai let this happen."

"Adonai abandoned him," Shimon snapped, his chest rising and falling, his hands balling into fists.

Yohanan pressed his lips closed and stood. He gripped Shimon's arm. "Just come back with me."

"And what do I tell them?"

"You don't have to tell them anything. Just be with us."

Shimon stared at Yohanan's pleading expression, then sighed and reached down to retrieve his cloak.

"Lord, you're washing my feet?

"You won't understand what I'm doing now, but you will understand later."

"You'll never wash my feet!"

"If I don't wash you, you have no part of me."

"Then don't just wash my feet. Wash my hands, too, and my head!"

"A man who has bathed only needs to wash his feet and is completely clean. You are clean…"

Shimon's eyelids snapped open, and he sucked in several deep breaths for a minute, staring up at the ceiling of a dim room. Their Passover host had been gracious enough to let them stay, even in light of the possible danger. They had draped the windows in heavy cloth, most of them still too afraid to let the sun in.

Quiet snoring drew Shimon's attention to Andraus who lay closest to him. His brother had been elated to see him when he'd returned, grasping him round the ribs and half-squeezing him to death. He was so relieved, he'd easily accepted Shimon's apology for punching him. And Yohanan had been right. None of the others cared where he had been and felt as shamed as he they'd run away from their rabbi.

Shimon counted them. Yohanan was missing. Probably with Mother Miryam. He had found her and the other women a place close by with a sympathetic soul who had believed the Messiah had arrived. Shimon closed his eyes. Yehoshua knelt before him once again, washing his feet like he had at their last meal with him.

"Clean," Shimon muttered. "I'm not clean. I'm as dirty as I ever was. You said I'd understand. I don't." Memories had continued to plague him, images, but mostly Yehoshua's words. Bread broken and called his body. Wine shared and called his blood. Feet washed and called clean.

"You did know, didn't you?" Shimon addressed his dead rabbi. "You knew you were going to die. How could you leave us? None of this makes sense." Shimon pressed fingers into his eyelids, forcing back tears. He'd promised himself his grief would manifest no more. Yehoshua was dead, but Shimon could carry out his last personal command to the letter—Strengthen your brothers.

The door to the room creaked open. Shimon opened his eyes to behold Yohanan hurriedly picking his way through their sleeping friends.

"Shimon!" Yohanan whispered when he reached him. "You're awake. Come!"

Shimon grabbed his cloak and slipped the garment on as he followed Yohanan out the door. They descended to the lower part of the house where Miryam Magdala paced back and forth, hands clasped to her breast. When they appeared, she stopped, and Shimon perceived terrible distress in her expression.

"What is it?" Shimon asked. "What's happened now?"

"Tell him!" Yohanan encouraged.

Miryam's eyes filled with tears. "He's gone."

"Who?"

"The rabbi. We went to the tomb to cleanse his body, but it was empty. Someone's stolen him away!"

"What?" Shimon gasped. He looked at Yohanan whose eyes shone not with anxiety or fear, but something more akin to anticipation.

Yohanan clutched the sleeve of his cloak and tugged Shimon towards the street. "Let's go!"

"Wait—"

"I know where his tomb is," Yohanan said, and bolted out the door.

Shimon ran after him.

Shimon kept Yohanan's back in sight as they dodged down the streets. His friend had never outrun him, and yet here Shimon was, losing out to the man for the first time. Made sense, though. Yohanan must be as upset and shocked as he. Who would take the rabbi's body? Wasn't killing him enough? Had the religious leaders done this or the Romans?

Shimon's pounding footfalls faltered. He remembered a time Pharisees and scribes had come to watch Yehoshua, and the rabbi had replied in symbol again, speaking of Yonah's three days and three nights in the belly of the great fish. The statement had been strange, no doubt, but Shimon was used to Yehoshua's way by then. Now, though… Hadn't Yehoshua followed by saying he would rest in the earth that long? Would the religious leaders violate the tomb and claim his body to prove he was dead…and a liar?

Shimon cursed as he redoubled his pace to catch up to Yohanan who had just passed through a city gate. Soon Yohanan weaved into a garden, a place that had been kept green and alive out of respect for the honored dead. Yosef of Arimathea, who had retrieved their rabbi's body, had buried Yehoshua in his own austere tomb. Yohanan pulled up short several yards ahead and veered to the left. He vanished for a moment, obscured by greenery, then appeared once more, stumbling backwards and bending over, hands on his knees as he gulped in breaths. Shimon's gait slowed and his stomach dropped. He'd intended never to go near this tomb, never to confirm he'd lost the chance to confess his failures to the man he'd denied.

Shimon hesitated next to Yohanan, recovering his own breath a moment before glancing to his left. A gaping hole marred the rockface. The stone that should have covered the entrance had been rolled back.

Yohannan stuttered. "He's…He's…"

Shimon steadied Yohanan with a comforting hand on his back, blood pulsing in his ears. What if Miryam had seen the tomb open and just assumed the body was taken? What if the corpse was actually still inside? Shimon stepped into the darkness and blinked several times to clear his sight. He saw the shelf where his rabbi should lay…

Shimon pressed a hand to his chest, shielding his pattering heart. Footsteps staggered behind him and Yohanan pushed around him to stare at the shelf.

"He is gone," Yohanan breathed.

The linen cloth that had encircled the body lay without form, a deflated pile, but the head wrapping had been oddly separated and neatly rolled. Why would anyone unwrap the body if they meant to abscond with it, and even more, why so carefully arrange the head wrapping? Shimon's hands balled into fists as he imagined the religious leaders, or more likely their servants, toting away the bruised and battered body of his rabbi, naked and exposed.

"How'd they even roll the stone back?" Shimon growled. "Thought you said Romans were guarding this place."

Yohanan stepped up to the shelf and lightly fingered the wrappings like they were precious gold. "Shimon," he spoke quietly, "what if…what if…he's alive?" Yohanan's wild, excited eyes locked onto him.

"It's not possible," Shimon whispered.

"The little girl that came alive. The widow's son. And Lazarus. Being made alive isn't impossible."

Shimon mirrored Yohanan's quiet tone. "He raised the dead. He can't raise himself." Could he?

"I remember now. He said he'd rise."

"Those were just words."

Yohanan laughed shortly. "Words? Shimon, we walked with him and listened to him and watched him. At any time were his words just words?"

Shimon yanked a hand through his hair. "But why die? If he could stay alive, they wouldn't have killed him in the first place!"

Yohanan touched the rolled-up head wrapping. "His body given for us. His blood poured out for us. Like the Passover lamb. Dying for us. To cleanse us."

"That doesn't make any sense!"

"Doesn't it?" Yohanan jerked his head up, staring him straight in the eyes. "A final sacrifice and it's the Messiah. The Messiah, Shimon! He has the power of God. Certainly, he can conquer his own death."

Shimon stepped backwards towards the tomb's entrance. "Then where is he now?"

"I don't know. Maybe if we look for…"

Shimon turned and sprinted away, ignoring Yohanan calling after him. He ran through the garden and back to the road, not even pausing when he caught sight of Miryam Magdala returning to the tomb.

Shimon wandered, taking the longest route he could back to the house and racking his brain for every word Yehoshua had spoken about his death and resurrection. Their rabbi had made such statements, yes, but had he literally meant them? If so, he would certainly come to them soon, come to him soon, and then…

Shimon's feet dragged like lead down Iron Street. He reached the house. His hand trembled when he pushed open the front door. If Yehoshua was inside… A relieved breath gusted from Shimon's mouth. No one. The room was empty. Shimon sank down onto a stool set just inside the door. He leaned over, elbows on his knees, and closed his eyes, setting his head in his hands.

He yearned for Yehoshua to live but also didn't want to see him ever again. If Yehoshua truly had returned, he'd confront every one of Shimon's failures—his three denials, his sleeping in the garden and during the crucifixion, his punching Andraus, his hiding away from his brother disciples. Nothing would be the same even if Yehoshua was alive; he'd ruined everything. But if Yehoshua wasn't alive, he'd added another failure to the list—his inability to protect even his rabbi's body.

Footfalls entered the room. Yohanan most likely. Shimon didn't open his eyes. He had no desire to discuss Yohanan's hope. His friend couldn't understand. He'd been faithful. Shimon had been faithless.

Something made of clay thumped against the floor and Shimon's sandals were removed from his feet. "Leave me be," he whispered. Blasted Yohanan! Being so kind to loosen his tongue. If he wasn't careful, he'd start sobbing and embarrass himself all over again.

Shimon's feet were lifted and warm water welcomed them. Gentle hands began to scrub, washing away the grime from his trip to the tomb and back. Curse his friend. He could wash his own feet. This servitude reminded him too strongly of his rabbi audaciously kneeling in front of him, a sinful, horrible man.

Shimon opened his eyes, intending to push Yohanan away, but his sight had blurred. He stared through welling tears at the hands steadily going about their work. They didn't look like Yohanan's hands. Or Andraus'. Maybe their host's? The hands finished washing and set aside the bowl tainted with filth. His feet were covered with a towel and tenderly dried, then the towel joined the bowl.

"Kepha," a voice spoke softly.

Shimon's heart stuttered, his blood froze, time stilled. Slowly, he raised his head, blinking. Tears escaped onto his cheeks. Familiar eyes met his, eyes that pierced his soul, and on the mouth, not a frown or a reprimand, but a smile. Yehoshua nodded.

Shimon lost all strength, pitching forward, and Yehoshua caught him, ringing him with his arms. His grip was solid, as strong as it had ever been. Shimon's chin rested on his rabbi's shoulder, and he sobbed, forcing out words as he cried.

"I betrayed you… I denied you… I didn't believe."

"I know these things."

"I'm a sinner… I'm wicked."

"Kepha," Yehoshua whispered, slowly, calmly. "I've washed you clean."

"I'm not clean. I'm not."

Yehoshua's chest reverberated as he chuckled. "And who gets to decide if I've cleaned you or not. You?"

His rabbi's embrace loosened, and he firmly pushed Shimon back, meeting him eye to eye. "I chose you by the Sea of Galilee. I choose you now. You are my rock."

Shimon's lips quivered and residual tears sprang up. "I was weak."

"You have been. You will be no longer. You are my rock and you will be my rock. You will do much in my name and will honor me above all." Yehoshua stood. "I am safe in your hands."

"Rabbi!" Shimon stumbled to a stand. One of Yehoshua's scarred feet had already stepped outside the door.

"I will return. Tell the others you've seen me. Help them believe. They need your strength."

Yehoshua left the house. Shimon staggered out the door, peering up and down the lane, but the rabbi had disappeared. Shimon clutched his head with one hand. Had that been real? Or maybe a waking dream induced by his distress?

Tell the others. Tell them what? Something they'd never believe if they hadn't seen it themselves?

Shimon turned, his feet obeying Yehoshua's command even as his mind questioned. He climbed the steps to the upper room. Voices sounded within. He entered. Most of them were here, all except Ta'oma. Yohanan, who must have returned before him, stared at him quizzically, and Andraus, who stepped up to him, frowned when he perceived his brother had been weeping. Miryam Magdala stood in the center of the room, waving her hands about in agitation.

"It's true! I saw him and he is alive. He talked to me. He said my name. You think I wouldn't recognize him?"

"She's telling the truth!" Another woman defended Miryam, Shalomit, who had also tended their rabbi's body. "There were men at the tomb. Shining men. Angels."

"You've been grieving too much," Matityahu grumbled. "Go back to your home."

"How can you not believe?" Miryam cried. "Yohanan? Shimon? You saw he wasn't there!"

Yohanan opened his mouth, but Matityahu spoke first. "Because his body was taken. They want to desecrate it."

"I saw him," Shimon spoke lowly. His declaration was drowned out as several disciples had begun talking over each other at once, arguing with Miryam.

Andraus fixed him with wide eyes. "What?"

Shimon cleared his throat and stepped up beside Miryam. "I saw him!"

Silence descended. The other disciples stared at him with a mixture of confusion and shock, except Yohanan whose eyes hadn't lost the excitement they'd gained at the tomb.

Miryam grinned. "I told you!"

"Shimon?" Andraus prompted.

"Kepha," Shimon corrected his brother. "I'm Kepha. And I saw him. He's alive and he's coming back. We're forgiven. Everything is all right. And it's going to be even better than it ever was."