Title:
… and sit a while with me …
Author:
Mrs. Trabi
Timeframe:
1944 and 29 A.C.
Summary:
AU/Realization can be a hard thing and when it hits Hereweald Hrothgar, he's not too happy about it. Through an accident, he and his student, Jamie Novak, fall back to the year 29 A.C. to meet Jesus of Nazareth and His disciples – what will he, the dark and tough man from a different time learn from a man that knows him better than he knows himself? And what will the child learn from a man his parents have always said won't care about him because he has no worth?
Disclaimer:
Well … I do not own anything written in the Bible, neither the words nor the persons, places, or happenings – the words are God's words and any other things are the attests of witness from people who lived about two thousands of years ago, or rather the translations of their testimonies … I'm just borrowing things from that book, and even though I promise that I won't misuse anything written in the Bible, that I won't dishonour God, His name, His words or our belief in Him – I nevertheless do apologize for the chaos I might create in this story … I promise, I will bring it in as much order as is possible for a chaotically inclined writer … thanks for your understanding …
Rating:
M – Not suitable for children or teens below the age of 16
Author's Notes:
Here, I'd like to say that this story isn't meant to discredit the Bible, God, His word, Jesus, or anything we believe in. God is and remains our first and most important priority – or at least that it is what should be. I am writing this in the hope that I'll live up to the responsibility every author has even though I am aware that this here will be very difficult.
I will be trying to handle the subject as delicately and as seriously as possible, I promise, and I do hope that not only I won't be flamed for this, but that also I'll find one or another of my readers who'll gain a new view and understanding … and that you'll like this one as much as you do my other stories, even though this concerns a different – and in my opinion much more important – book … thanks …
Warning:
Story will contain bad language and swearing.
Don't ever use such, it's neither good manners nor proper use of language and never mind how 'cool' it might sound, it surely isn't a sign of intelligence. It won't get you anywhere and people will think less of you if you are unable articulating properly.
Story will contain references to child abuse.
Child abuse is a really, really serious and evil thing, and whenever you meet someone, child or adult, who shows any signs – whichever - of once having been abused, then try to help … there are too many people in our world who are or have been mistreated.
This does however not mean I am not as evil as I pretend to be …^.~ … believe me - I am …
Breåk· … ·~†~*~*~*~*~*~†~· … ·Łine
Previously in … and sit a while with me …
He'd filled the papers, hoping that they would never find out that the boy was not his son, knowing that he would be in a lot of trouble if they did, but they hadn't. Later, when they'd been out of the police department and out of sight, he'd just taken the boy at the front of his shirt, nearly shaking him.
"What the hell did you think, boy!" He'd growled darkly. "Why for Heaven's sake have you tried to steal the Sheriff's patrol car? Of all the bloody, damn cars out there? And then naming me as your father? Have you lost your senses?"
"I've needed it!" The boy had answered, large eyed.
"Whatever for!" He had demanded.
"For moving out of my parents' house." The bloody brat had said.
"And you couldn't have packed your things into any other car?" He had asked, shocked about the audacity the brat had shown. "You actually needed to steal the patrol car?"
"Sure." The boy had answered, shrugging his shoulders. "It's the only car in the town of which I know has a hitch and I've already loaded my dad's trailer."
Well, for a moment he hadn't known if he should laugh, if he should shake some sense into that boy's head, or if he should – well, he had simply brought the boy back home to his parents, he'd had a word with them without saying anything about where he'd picked the brat up but had made sure that the brat wasn't killed, and then he'd gone home, hoping that he would never ever hear anything of the brat – or the police.
It's been just a few days later that the very same brat had appeared and had – wordlessly – started weeding the beds in his garden, and that he had done for the remainder of the holidays.
… and sit a while with me …
Part two – of learning and doing
Chapter ten – come, and sit a while with me
Fall 29 A.C. about November – Jerusalem
"Wherefrom do you have these raisins?" Hereweald asked, darkly, his eyes narrowed at the boy who came back from a market stand, carrying a handful of raisins with him – not three or four raisins, no, an entire handful of raisins. Sure, the brat's small hands surely couldn't hold too many raisins, small as they were – but anyway, it was an entire fist full of them and he was holding them tightly in his little fist.
James had taken the boy with him to get the raisins while Jesus had led him to a stand with spicery and herbs – a stand he had liked, he had to admit that. Alone the scent of the spicery and the herbs, it had been breathtaking for a moment and he had realized how dead he had become, how dead his nerves had become – and most likely of all the people from the 20th century, because never before had he smelled the scent of spicery as intense as today.
And yes, he had at least started to accept that he was indeed someplace in the first century, because there was nothing, absolutely nothing akin to coffee – and he had looked.
However, all he got as an answer was a large eyed look from the brat who lifted his eyes up at him, startled, desperate, and scared – and a moment later the little snot made a move to hand over the bloody dried fruits, clearly knowing that throwing them away in his haste of being found stealing was a waste and was therefore as inacceptable as keeping them in his hand. As if he wanted the damn raisins! He didn't like raisins! He just wouldn't allow a little bother such as Novak to start stealing, hunger or not. If Novak wanted to eat raisins, then so be it, he would be the last person on this bloody earth who forbade him such – but surely he would not allow the brat to steal.
But again – or rather, still – the brat stood there, looking up at him large eyed and with his hand outstretched, wordlessly, and with another scowl he reminded himself that – the little bother was still unable to speak. Damn brat!
"And you!" He turned towards James after realizing that he wouldn't get an answer from the boy. "Can't you keep an eye on a child to keep him from stealing food? First century or not, but I thought I could expect more responsibility from an adult than that! Barely ten minutes I leave my eyes off the two of you, and already you allow thievery!"
"The lad has not stolen them." James answered, calmly, even though he could see that it was very difficult for the man to keep calm. "He got them from the stand with the dried fruits."
Taking a deep breath he cast a dark glare at James, and the brat too, before he turned to approach the next stand – just to get some distance between the brat – and James, who seemed to have grown some strange liking of his younger name-cousin.
"Come, and sit a while with me." He heard Jesus saying and turning he could look into the dark eyes of the man.
He had often seen men which were soft fools, weak-hearted and weak-minded idiots, simpletons who allowed others to use them – but looking into that man's dark eyes he suddenly realized that, as gentle and as soft as this man was, he was clearly neither weak-hearted nor weak-minded, because the kind gaze of his dark eyes, it was not a hard gaze, but a demanding gaze and he knew – there was no other way than him accompanying the man to the nearby market-valet he was, and invitingly so, pointing at.
"What!" He – demanded, the moment they came by the valet and Jesus sat down at the stone border.
"Why are you so angry?" The man asked and he took a deep breath. Was there no reason to being angry? His student and he were held prisoner in only Heaven knew what time and place, by a maniac who called himself Jesus of Nazareth and this guy's friends were teaching his student how to steal – as if he hadn't enough problems at his hands already – and that was no reason to being angry?
"Had James survived, then you would do all that was necessary to provide him with what he needs, would you not?" The guy asked and for a moment he held his breath while watching him, being unable to do anything else than that.
James had never been born.
James had been killed even before his birth.
His son had died together with Olivia, together with his wife – and no one, absolutely no one except of Hendric knew about it – and Hendric would never, absolutely never tell anyone, especially not for a prank such as this one being done. So, how in God's name, was it that this man knew of Olivia and his unborn son whose name would have indeed been James Hrothgar had he survived the attack? What twisted game was this guy trying to play with him? And for a moment he wanted nothing more than hitting his fist into the man's calm face.
But then – something kept him from doing this.
It wasn't that he did pity the guy, surely not. Because that man wasn't pitiful – he seemed strong and powerful despite his kindness – and he was, most likely as headstrong as was he, Hereweald. No – it was rather the man's calm kindness, a kindness that was so very strange to him, he suddenly knew exactly that this man was correct – he had not taken them captive, he was a guest of this man.
"Of course I would." He half growled, half huffed, not ready to give any more information, not ready to admit deeper to the subject.
"And as much as you would provide your son with everything he needs, in the same way God provides his children with what they need." Jesus said and he glared at him. "The little one was hungry, he has seen the raisins, but he has never before had some – nor had he ever learned how to ask for what he wanted, or needed – and our Father's ways of providing us with what we need are not always following the same pattern. Sometimes He provides us with food while He allows us money so that we can buy said food, sometimes He sends someone who gives us food, and sometimes He simply works His wonders. It is normal here, in Jerusalem of the first century, that our children get what they need and while the adults buy food, the children get a handful of raisins, of almonds, a slice of melon, or a piece of sweet bread, a few figs or grapes."
"Sure, spoil the little snots even more." He huffed.
"This child has had little enough in his life." Was the answer and for a moment he feared that there was nothing that guy didn't know. "Do you not think that a little bit of kindness will do him good? He is not a bad child, he is a good child."
"He is a little snot like all the other little snots out there." He growled.
"The children are the ones which are really innocent, Hereweald." Jesus said and he glared at the man for using his given name. No one used his given name, except of Hendric, and Elliot if they had been in privacy. But Elliot was dead, and Hendric wasn't here, maybe wasn't alive anymore too, he didn't know that.
"Your friend is alive, still." Jesus said and he turned, rapidly, glaring at the man angrily.
"I have told you to stay out of my mind." He hissed. "And I would really appreciate it if you did. Go and read the minds of others, but not mine. Not to mention that – Hendric isn't my friend!"
"Hmm." Jesus made – ignoring his last comment and he frowned.
"He really isn't." He growled, wondering why that guy wouldn't believe him, because if he could read his thoughts as much as he had read them so far, then he should know that Hendric really wasn't. "I do not have any friends, after all."
"Oh, but you do have." Jesus said, seriously, not grinning at him, not even smiling at him, just telling him that – he had, and he huffed, because he didn't, but he didn't say anything anymore.
That guy remembered him at the therapist Garcia had forced upon them once. It had been several years ago, and he remembered that it had been – except for him – a rather hard year due to a very hard twelfth grade class that had played havoc, barely any teacher having them under control. He hadn't had any trouble with them, he knew how to take a difficult class, after all, but three teachers had quit their job in that year, two teachers had committed suicide in that year, too, and two students had died – about six or seven other students had been handed over to the police and had ended up in prison.
Flashback
"Can you tell me about your worst experience with the twelfth grade students, Professor Hrothgar?" The idiot man asked and he sighed.
Brandon, the history teacher, had committed suicide just two days ago – and the Spanish teacher before him – and this guy now asked him about the worst experience he, Hrothgar, had with the idiot students?
He didn't have any problems with them, because they had learned soon enough to obey him. They hated him, yes, but they obeyed him because they had no other choice. He would have them not only in an every-day-detention if they didn't and they knew it. It were the fifth and sixth grade students, and even some of the seventh grade students, who got on his nerves most, even though most of the seventh grade students already had learned to stay out of his way if possible, and to stay silent if not being asked if they weren't possible staying out of his way – like in classes. And so it was the lower grades that gave him the worst experiences, not the twelfth grades and the other teachers only had trouble with them because they had never taught them respect from the beginning on.
"Billie-Joe kissed me." He answered, leaning back in his armchair and keeping his voice even and unimpressed. "But I'm sure that he only did, so that he can get my pen. It's a special pen, you know, it croaks while writing and the ink is purple. He always wanted a purple pen that makes frog sounds while writing."
"You do know that I'm not the enemy, Professor Hrothgar, don't you?" The Therapist said and he looked at him calmly.
"Sure." He answered, seriously, even though in his mind he thought differently.
End flashback
Of course he knew that this guy hadn't been able to read his mind, but he'd been as serious – and as strange in his answers, as was this guy here, always hitting the nail, even though with different students as he'd really had never had troubles with the older students, always only with the younger ones and he'd more than once managed the little snots to run off, crying, or to wetting their pants if he was angry with them. He was a lucky man that he had little to do with the little snots, that the younger grades had only one double lesson with him each week while the upper grades had two double lessons of chemistry per week – because he would rather commit suicide had he such little, small snots two times a week.
Breåk· … ·~†~*~*~*~*~*~†~· … ·Łine
He wasn't really sure what season it was, or what this season meant for this region. In his time – or world, whatever it was that had changed – it had been the beginning of September, but he was rather sure that here it was fall, maybe even the end of fall, if he was correct, but it was warm and dry anyway. There was no rain, no snow, and he guessed that it was about 20 degrees. Last night had been a bit cooler, but still he hadn't been freezing.
Still considering his situation he reached the cup with the tea to the boy – who didn't take it but looked at him with large eyes only – and he sighed.
"Let me guess, Mr. Novak, your father would not allow you to drink this tea – whatever reason for." He asked, it was not a question however, but rather a statement, and the boy gave no answer, his eyes darting between the cup and the Chemistry Professor's face and Hrothgar sighed again.
"Then allow me to explain a few things to you, Mr. Novak." Hrothgar said, taking a deep breath and forcing himself to stay calm. "In your family your father is the head of your house. Isn't he?" He asked.
Jamie considered this question for a moment and then he nodded, his eyes never leaving the older man.
"Good." Hrothgar said. "Then, if your father is the head of your house, you have to obey him. Haven't you?"
Again Jamie nodded – more quickly this time.
"Well, your father is not here. Is he?" Hrothgar asked, forming statement for statement and ending every single one with a question so the boy could concentrate onto each one, so he would have to answer each one with a simple shaking of his head or a simple nod. Only thus he could be sure the boy would understand everything he said. And this time he shook his head.
"Good. He is not here. Of course not. But I am here. And here I am the head of your house. Am I not?"
A nod – and Hrothgar clearly could see the fear in Novak's features rising as he began to compare him to his father. Well, he had expected this. The boy would have to learn that he was not his father. But he had to acknowledge him as his head of house. And then he had to learn that not every head of a house was abusive.
"So, if I am the head of your house, it would be only logical that I expect you to obey me. Correct?"
Again a nod, an even more fearful one this time.
"Good. Thus, I expect you to drink this tea, Mr. Novak – now!" Hrothgar simply said, again reaching the cup towards the trembling boy. And this time, the boy really took the still warm mug, carefully at first, but then pressing his thin fingers at the porcelain as if trying to absorb the warmth into his hands.
Damn, really! Yes, he wanted his students to fear him, to some extend at least. He wanted them to fear him, to keep his reputation up, to keep them in line and to make it clear to them that they better did not try any stupid stunts in his class. But not like this. Not this raw fear that was rather panic, and terror, than fear at all. He never wanted his students to fear him beating them or harming them in any other physical way. He'd give detention or he'd have them writing essays, maybe even lines. Once in a while he'd have a student standing in a corner, and he had to admit that he loved it hitting them with his sarcastic comments, but never in his life had he beaten a student and Novak would have to learn that!
Breåk· … ·~†~*~*~*~*~*~†~· … ·Łine
Nearly smiling he reached a mug of hot tea over to Hereweald when he handed out the drink to the others.
Thaddaeus, Bartholomew, James the son of Alphaeus, Andrew, Philip and Simon were on their way to Capernaum, now that the feast of tabernacles had ended. They had left after noon, shortly after they had come back from the market. Philip and Simon had something to settle in Capernaum and the other four were accompanying them.
"Anise, fennel, honey and raisins." The man said after having sniffed, carefully, before reaching the cup at the child – a precaution that was not necessary, but of course the teacher would take it.
"Come, and sit a while with me." He said, waving both, the man and the child, to follow him outside. "It is obvious that you are both, a biologist and a chemist."
"Wherefrom do you know that I'm a biochemist?" Hereweald asked, even though the man already had accepted the fact that he knew things he hadn't told him. He noticed the boy taking his backpack that had been laying in the corner beside the mat where he had put it when the child and the man had arrived first.
"I know that you do not believe me, Hereweald, but I am Jesus, the Son of God. Sit." He said, pointing at the large wooden table in the yard, one of the little furniture in the lower city. But well, he was a carpenter, and so of course he would do one or another furniture and a table in the yard, where all their friends could sit at, was the perfect thing in his opinion. "I do know many things and I see many things. You are a good man, Hereweald, even though you don't like it and I know that the child will be in good hands with you."
"Then why am I here?" The man asked. "And don't accuse me of being good – I am no such thing!" Hereweald added, growling at him angrily and he cast a thoughtful glance at him, for a moment considering the possibility of a discussion. But knowing that the man wasn't ready for that discussion, not yet, he dismissed it.
"You are here to learn." He simply answered while watching the child unpacking things from his backpack he had brought with him when they came here. "You are here to become my thirteenth disciple."
"That would change all history." Hereweald answered and he smiled at the thoughtfulness of the man. "And that is something that should never be done, because no one can know what that change would cause. One simple word of me could change everything if you allowed that."
"It could, but it won't." He answered. "You won't be my disciple here, in this time, you will be my disciple in your own time."
"That means you will send us back?" Hereweald asked, his eyes narrowed at him.
"My father will do that." He said, watching the child drawing a picture in a book with white empty pages. "You will have a mission, Hereweald Hrothgar, as will have the child."
"That brat will have enough trouble living a normal life without a mission that would make him an outsider." The man huffed at him and he lifted his eyebrow.
There wasn't hate anymore, not the same hate the man had felt towards the child a few days earlier, but still there was anger. Not really anger at this particular child, but anger at children in the first place. Yes, this man would suffer, had he only fifth or sixth grade students, but he would not commit suicide anyway, he knew that. Hereweald Hrothgar was a man that would do all to survive in any situation, never mind what, to keep the people around him alive too – and to make the best out of any situation he was in.
"What the …" Hereweald Hrothgar growled, leaning over towards the boy and he sighed at the anger and at the bad language that often escaped the man's lips, and that at other times nearly escaped the man's lips, because even though it was nearly only, it was nearly because he was thinking this way, and as long as he was thinking that way, he would be talking that way.
Flashback
"But I'm right." James said. "They are idiots! And I have only thought it anyway, I haven't accused them of being idiots openly, even if they are."
"If your thoughts are against men, if you think that the Pharisees are idiots, then you will one day say the words." He explained. "And if you just often enough say the words, then you will act your words and you will handle the Pharisees as if they were idiots."
"But they are!" The man tried to tell him.
"Actually, they are very intelligent." He shook his head. "They know the bible by word. There's clearly no one who knows what is written in the bible as well as do they. Their only problem is, that they have never learned to act the bible, nor do they understand the words they're reading."
"I've never said that they are not intelligent." James said. "Even though I think, that the inability of acting God's words doesn't show of much intelligence to begin with."
"And here you do think wrong already." He tried to make James see. "There are a lot of righteous men, men with knowledge, and intelligent men, men that know of how to respect their brothers and sisters, their elders, men that love their brothers and sisters, men that regard them as much as they regard themselves – men that believe in God and trust in him – without having read the bible once while at the same time there are the same righteous men that handle others with just as much respect, with as much love and regard. They have read the bible, but they have never understood its word in its entirety. You can read the bible and understand it now – and you can read it again in twenty years from now on and find completely new answers, find a completely new truth, not a different truth, but a new truth. Do not judge lightly, James. And do not allow your negative thoughts taking over your words and actions."
End flashback
The bad acting didn't come with Hereweald Hrothgar, however, even though he was playing the bad guy, and always so – but in his heart the man was a good man, and even with his coldness and with his harshness, with scaring the students, apparently handling them unfairly, he was nevertheless helping them.
Vision
"Detention, Vaughn." Professor Hrothgar said, hissed at the student angrily, leaning with both his hands onto the surface of the desk the student was sitting at, leaning close to the student threateningly and in the act scaring the child. "Tonight, after dinner, seven o'clock and I suggest you be – not – late!"
End Vision
He knew that the boy had done nothing than looking out of the window, that he had done nothing that would warrant detention in the first place, that in the eyes of the other students this detention was unjustified – like so many others Hereweald handed out, too, while on the other hand …
Vision
"I expect you to write an essay about what the difference is between adjectives, nouns, pronouns, verbs, adverbs and articles." The man said just two hours later in his classroom when the student arrived for his detention, and he smiled. "I expect you to write down what they do and how they are used, I expect you to give ten words as examples for each part of speech – if possible, and I expect you to mark each part of speech with a different colour. I do not care which, as long as you do. You have an hour, begin!"
End vision
Well, Hereweald had made sure that the boy would finally understand English grammar, that he would remember the colours he had connected with the words – and he also knew that the boy's marks in grammar had gone up after that. Hereweald was a man that did all in his power to make himself unpopular, and most people did buy the mask. Few were seeing the result of the man's actions, barely realizing that often it was not detention but remedial lessons – and Hereweald was happy about playing the bad part, would never call a remedial lesson other than detention, because as long as he was feared and hated, he had his peace. No one wanted anything of him, no one asked anything of him, and no one got on his nerves with telling him anything – no one viewed him as weak.
It wasn't that what Hereweald would have to change to become his disciple, what he would have to change was his negative thinking, because only then the man wouldn't be so negative anymore either, and only then could he trust in God completely, with all his heart, soul, body and mind.
Breåk· … ·~†~*~*~*~*~*~†~· … ·Łine
He'd just watched the brat looking at the pictures in the book about sign language he'd packed into the brat's backpack just before the explosion, just before they had arrived here, but then he'd concentrated onto the boy completely, ignoring Jesus' talking, and curiously he'd lowered his head to his left for a moment – watching the brat's eyes following the written explanations – until he understood the meaning of what he was witnessing.
"What the …" He growled, only thinking the last part of the exclamation in his mind, even though he knew that – most likely – Jesus had … kind of 'heard' the 'fuck!' he'd thought – and noticing the brat's startled face, the boy clearly being close to going back into a panic attack again, he gritted his teeth and forced himself to becoming calm again.
Out of the corner of his eyes he could watch James taking a deep breath, preparing for getting up and between him, Hereweald, and the brat – and for a split second his anger flared anew at the interference into his life – but then the man seemed to consider his actions, most likely being kept from doing anything by Jesus, and taking a deep breath to calm himself he concentrated back onto the boy in front of him.
"You can read." He said, his voice still surprised but low and – for once – gentle.
The boy nevertheless jumped and nearly dropped the book, watching the chemistry professor for a few seconds before he finally nodded, slowly and carefully.
"You can not write, but you can read." Hereweald once again stated and again the boy nodded. "You do realize that this is simplifying things, immensely, don't you?" He asked feeling relieved as he wouldn't have to start with teaching the brat how to read in the first place, or what letters were to begin with and how they were to be set together into words. The brat did know that already, he just had never had the chance to really learn how to write them himself, but this time he did not get an answer as Jamie Novak was already lost in the book again.
Flashback
Leaning back Hrothgar took the leather bound book from the backpack where he had put it hastily some days ago. "I know you cannot read, but I …"
For the second time this day he was not able to finish his sentence as the boy slowly reached a trembling hand towards the book, unsurely, watching him fearfully. He stopped midair, waited a few seconds before he reached further, as if questioning if he was allowed to touch the book and Hrothgar held the tome towards him, giving his allowance. Watching the boy close and with narrowed eyes he tried to ignore the bony fingers that reached out towards the book and thus towards him, and kept his eyes locked with the boy's black ones instead.
Jamie touched the book carefully, his eyes never leaving the dark eyes of the older man in front of him, and Hrothgar nearly could hear the wild heartbeat that drummed against the small chest. Jamie still held his gaze, even when his fingers run over the edges of the book he finally held it in his hands, pulled it towards him as slowly as he had extended his hands.
Hrothgar kept silent, just watching the boy in front of him, allowing him to make this move, daring him with his stillness to learn out of this, daring him to learn that – he was allowed to make a move, to reach out, to take something that was offered to him without being punished for it.
This had been the first approach the boy had made by himself, the first action he had given away rather than a reaction, and he slightly nodded his head, urging the boy to open the book and to have a look if he so wished.
And finally the boy lowered his eyes and cast a glance at the cover, slowly opening it after he had once more cast a quick and fearful gaze at Hrothgar.
End flashback
He hadn't thought about it this morning when he'd first given the book to the boy but had turned with a huff, leaving the hut – or the house, depending on the viewpoint of what people would consider a house. Had he stopped to watch the boy back then already, then he would have learned about the boy's reading abilities in the morning already, but he hadn't.
The next time he gazed into Novak's direction he could see two black eyes watching him warily and for a moment he had to think of – yet again – Olivia. For a moment he sat there, unmoving, just watching the boy, while he noticed how little he resembled his brother, Elliot, except for being a small and scrawny scarecrow … and yet, the brat did remind him of Olivia – the same soft chin, the same fine lips, and the pale skin, the same black hair, but most of all, the same black eyes that could go as large as saucers.
Olivia. The only person he ever had loved, Olivia who had died because of him.
"You have had no fault in her death." Jesus said, softly, and he glared at the man.
"Olivia would be alive still, had I not gone with her to search a nurse." He growled, angrily. "She would be alive still, as would be – you don't know what …"
"I do know, Hereweald." Jesus said, rather unimpressed by his angry tone. "And yet, I tell you that sometimes things are different from what we see. Do not believe in what you call your logic lightly, but allow your eyes to see, and your mind to accept, even though you have no logical explanation."
"And what exactly do you think …"
"'Esus, 'Esus! 'Ames!" Came a small voice from behind him and turning, looking back angrily at the disruption, he glared at a small boy jumping up and down behind the low stone wall that was set around the yard.
"Come here, Nathaniel." Jesus said, waving the little snot over and he lifted his eyebrow at the brat leaning over the stone wall with his upper body and then simply letting himself fall down to the ground at the other side of the wall before scrambling to his little feet and clumsily running over to the man. The boy stopped abruptly when seeing Novak, but then the small face lit up with a toothy smile that revealed three – no, four, tooth gaps. How lovely!
"You are early, little one." Jesus said, taking the boy and seating him on his lap – an action that made him rolling his eyes. "Where's your mother?"
"Mum said 'you run'." The little snot squealed and he grimaced. "She'll come too."
"Then I'm sure your mother will be here soon." Jesus said. "She needs to work tonight?" A nod from the brat. "Very well. We will watch over you. Look, child, this is Jamie. And Jamie, this is Nathaniel. Why don't you two go and play over there in the yard?"
There was a squeaky "'Amie, 'Amie!", and a moment later the boy had scrambled off Jesus' lap, had approached the boy, and had then started pulling him off the bench.
And he, Hereweald, was on his feet a moment later, knowing that the result could only be a panic attack caused by the little snot pulling at Novak – but it didn't come. Novak's eyes went large for a moment, but then he cast a questioning look at him, Hereweald, as if to ask for permission and sitting back down, he nodded at the brat – with a scowl that hopefully hid his worry he'd shown before – who closed the book and then scrambled off the bench himself, going with the boy called Nathaniel – who was wearing his shirt the wrong way 'round, he noticed.
"Jesus, James." Came a woman's voice from the same spot the boy had appeared just moments ago.
"Rebecca." Jesus greeted the woman – apparently the expected mother who would surely ask them to watch over the brat while she was working. "Come, and sit."
"I'm sorry, Jesus, really, but I can't." The woman said, really looking sorry, actually. "I need to go early today. There will be a feast tonight and I need to help with the preparations."
"Do not worry, woman." Jesus said, getting off the bench and approaching the woman. "We will watch over Nathaniel and we will bring him to bed."
"Thank you!" The woman said, giving Jesus a short embrace before turning and hurrying back to the neighbouring house, and he sighed.
"How very nice." He growled. "Another little snot to watch over for the night – couldn't you gather adults around you instead of little monsters?"
"Suffer the little children to come unto me." Jesus said and he frowned. "And forbid them not. For of such is the kingdom of God."
Bloody hell! That man did have a speech sometimes – who in heaven's name would use a word such as suffer instead of 'allow'?
Flashback
"I can't!" He quietly said, casting a hidden glance towards the girl.
"Sure you can." Hendric said, shrugging his shoulders – and not being quiet about it. "Just go over and ask her."
"Be quiet!" He hissed, casting a careful glance around to see who was listening.
"You're a sissy." Hendric rolled his eyes.
"I can't just ask her out." He whispered. "What if she says yes?"
"What a stupid question." Hendrik sighed. "That's the purpose of it, isn't it? That she's saying yes and you're going out with her."
"And what if she's saying no?" He asked, feeling desperate.
"Then you ask her out next week again." Hendric shook his head as if it were the most normal thing, asking a girl out.
"Hendric! Seriously!" He hissed, glaring at the other boy angrily.
"I am serious." His friend shrugged his shoulders.
"No, you're not! You're making fun of me." He accused.
"Hereweald, I'm not making fun of my best friend." Hendrik seriously said, looking at him with his blue eyes. "Just go and ask Olivia out for the dance this weekend."
"Seriously, Hendric, what am I to do if she says yes, then I go to this dance with her, and after that she's dropping me?" He asked, feeling like hitting his head at the tabletop. Damn! Why did he have to be the boy? Or rather why was it the boys who had to ask the girls out! Why not the other way round! Olivia – right now laughing with a few other girls, she was sitting together with – wouldn't have such troubles asking him.
But well, Olivia surely wouldn't ask him in the first place, because Olivia was playing in a different league than him, there were worlds between them. Olivia was the best looking girl at the college, she was the most intelligent girl, and she was definitely the nicest girl too, surely a creature sent down from heaven, an angel, whereas he, Hereweald – he wasn't good looking, and he wasn't intelligent either, and he was surely anything but nice.
He was too scrawny, his hair was too wild, his eye-colour might attract one girl or another, but he was always looking coldly and angrily, and so they stayed away from him. Not to mention that his chin was too angular – and he had no muscles like some of the other boys, like even Hendric. He wasn't weak, but people didn't see it because there was nothing on his bones and never mind what, he just couldn't change it.
Sure, he wasn't stupid – but he wasn't intelligent enough for Olivia who was studying traffic law, tenancy law and employment law. And considering Olivia being nice – he was a misanthrope. He hated people just because they were people, he hated people just because they looked at him, because they addressed him, stood in his way, because they were there, existed. How could a girl like Olivia want to go out with him? She would never, ever, ask him out if such a thing were the girl's part.
No, he would have to do that.
But what if she said no?
And what if she said yes?
"What God hath joined together, let not man put asunder – go and ask her." A voice beside him whispered and looking over, he could see Joshua Abd al-Yasu, the barkeeper, sitting beside him, passing him a glass with tea while looking at him seriously, and sniffing at the brew – knowing that you had to be careful with what Joshua was handing you – he rolled his eyes.
On the other hand, clearly the man had thought that he would need the shot of whiskey he could smell in the tea. But really – asunder? Who would speak like this these days except for Joshua?
End flashback
Yes, he had been in need of the shot of whiskey in the tea, and he would have been happy had Joshua put more of it in there, but Joshua never did, even though he was a barkeeper. That man handed over alcoholic drinks from time to time, sure, but never enough so that people got drunk and if they demanded more, then he just refused – and strangely, people had never made a scene because of it.
And yes, Joshua Abd al-Yasu had always displayed a very strange way of speaking, and considering this guy here, Jesus, he couldn't help thinking that Joshua had always given away very Jesus-like comments, but in the end … well, it had helped, because he had asked Olivia – and Olivia had said yes. She had been a bit perplexed, but then she'd said yes, and in front of all of her friends who sat with her at the table even! He'd been the happiest boy of the world.
After that dance it hadn't taken him much to ask Olivia to become his wife, and again, Olivia had said yes.
They had married, they had moved together, Olivia had become pregnant – and then …
"You are doing the same, Hereweald." Jesus said and he scowled at the man. "You are gathering children around you all year long to teach them, and to watch over them."
"Sure." He huffed, forcing the thoughts about Olivia away, even though he couldn't leave his eyes off Novak, realizing that this was twenty-five years ago, whereas Novak was barely seven years old. "But I'm getting paid for it. And the money I'm getting is a lot of money."
"The real salary you get for – giving your students detention, as you call it, is seeing the outcome of them having learned handling speech, numbers or other things – and I am sure that this is invaluable."
"Hmpf." He made, unable to say anything at all or he would have had to admit that Jesus was right. Damn, bloody man! And now he was even smiling at him!
With a growl he got off the bench to wander the yard and the closer environment – if he was to become a disciple …
God in heaven! Had they not gone with Jesus for three years?
Closing his eyes he took a deep breath. Surely he wouldn't have to stay here for three years! That would be – simply inacceptable!
On the other hand – for Novak it would be three perfect years.
For the first time since that particular afternoon a few days ago, the day they had left their – their timeline, their place, their reality, whatever it was they had left, or entered, for the first time since that day he realized that there had indeed something gone horribly wrong.
Elliot was dead, and his brother had seen him dying while being alone, locked up in a cellar. This child had not been the cause for Elliot's horrible home-life, because he'd had the very same horrible home-life himself.
"I haven't paid too much attention to it in the past." Elliot had said to him shortly before he had left for the holidays. "But each time I'm in that cellar at home, I find more things."
"What kind of things?" He had asked, not really understanding, because of course there were things in a cellar.
"Nothing much, and nothing important either." Elliot had then answered, slowly, thoughtfully. "At first it was just a paper here, and a pencil there, or a small picture book, a toy car. But then, in later years I've found a glass and then a plate, and last year there was a blanket laying in a corner – as if all the years before there had been someone cleaning up things but forgot small items, as if last year they hadn't cared about cleaning things away entirely. I don't know, but I don't feel good when I think of it now. I fear that something will happen, Hereweald. And something really bad. I'm worried, really."
Back then he'd thought that the boy would be worried about himself – now he knew that Elliot had not been worried about himself, but about his brother, Jamie. Elliot had known something, or at least he had guessed something, but he had still not trusted the adults around him enough to tell him of his suspicions – not even him, Hereweald.
Flashback
"Won't be enough." The boy softly said, his eyes still averted.
"I know." He sighed, knowing that he could do nothing. "I will be very worried until you are back here safely, boy." He then added, getting off the table and taking the bunny out of the boy's hands, placing the bloody thing at the shelf beside the sofa. "I'll keep an eye on Mr. Pyjama until then and now let's go for breakfast. I expect you to eat as much as possible and to take something to eat with you, too."
End flashback
Closing his eyes for a moment he realized that he, indeed, had loved the brat like a son. He had told him that he would be worried until he was back, and he had been worried – and now Elliot was dead. The boy was dead, had been killed like James had been killed even before his birth, shot like Osmond, his brother had been shot when he had been fourteen, killed like his other brother, Esmond, had been killed with fourteen, somewhere in the Southern States.
And all of them were people he had loved.
His unborn son he had loved already, as he had loved Olivia. His brothers he had loved – and he had loved Elliot like a son, even though he'd never before admitted to that, ever. And all of them were dead, had been killed, had been shot.
"And now you fear that this will be your destiny – to love and to lose people to murderers." Jesus' voice came from the side and he turned, scowling.
Breåk· … ·~†~*~*~*~*~*~†~· … ·Łine
He really couldn't understand that man.
How could someone be so angry like this one? And always so? And how could someone hate people so much? And children even? He just didn't understand. It was the entire opposite of what Jesus was teaching them.
Jesus was teaching them that all men were the same, that all men were the children of God, that all men were to be loved, even the sinners and those who got on your nerves. Jesus was teaching them that the children were the first to enter the kingdom of God – and now here was this man, so full of hate and anger.
Of course Hereweald Hrothgar wasn't the first man he met who was angry.
His father had been angry once in a while, and John too – and others, too, but not as angry as this one was. And they weren't always angry either. Alright, his father had been very angry when they had left him to follow Jesus, and he'd been angry for a while, but that was different, and he wasn't angry anymore either. They had visited him just a few weeks ago and Zebedee hadn't been angry anymore then. They'd had a rather good time and they'd made some fun, too.
Watching the man watching the child he sighed.
He didn't know why, but he liked the boy, and he liked him very much. Maybe it was like the teacher had accused him of – that he liked him because the boy was named Jamie, a nickname of James.
Nathaniel seemed to have less trouble. The lad seemed to be very happy to have Jamie with whom he could play, even though the boy didn't speak with him. It was 'Amie here and 'Amie there, and Nathaniel was showing him how to move pebbles by rolling other pebbles at them, how to eat figs when Peter brought some, and how to do finger-games. But well, children didn't have the same troubles amongst children as did adults have amongst themselves – or with children like in Hereweald's case.
On the other hand, Jamie was always looking over at Hereweald, questioningly, before trying to do what was shown to him, as if he was asking for the man's permission. And well, considering that Hereweald seemed to be the boy's teacher, it surely wasn't too strange a thing for him, to ask for his teacher's permission. He was at a strange place, after all, at a strange time, and with strange people.
For a moment he wondered why the boy seemed to accept his new surroundings so easily, but then he shrugged. Things seemed alright to him, and that was all that was important, wasn't it?
"y'know, Tamim wos so t'red, and then teach'r'ashid said, Tamin, y'know that y' can't sleep'n my class." He heard Nathaniel telling Jamie, as if he'd tell the other boy something he would know about, not caring about not getting an answer from the other boy but simply babbling on.
Well, it wasn't usual for five year old children to go to school, but as Mary was alone with the boy, he had been accepted in the primary classes at the school for the – not so rich people.
He was taught in reading and writing, in doing math, and in history – and in later years he would be taught in Greek and in other things.
"'n'then Tamin said, 'know, but maybe'f you were jus'a li'l quieter, then I could.'"
Smiling he shook his head – sure, that would be a thing for Tamin to do, falling asleep in Teacher Rashid's class and then telling the man that he should be a bit quieter so that he could sleep. Not that Tamin was the best company for Nathaniel, Tamin showing the younger boy all the things he shouldn't do, but on the other hand he hoped that Nathaniel would – with time – show Tamin a different way.
Every person, never mind if child or adult, never mind if man or woman, left an impression on others, and he knew that Nathaniel would leave an impression in Tamin as much as Tamin would leave an impression in Nathaniel – and seeing that Jesus was leaving an impression in Nathaniel, maybe that very same impression would be left in Tamin with time.
Frowning he realized that – maybe the impression Hereweald had on the boy would be important too. Jesus did chose his disciples with some care and wisdom, after all, and if he had chosen this man of all men, then there had to be a good reason – whatever reason that might be. For a moment he wondered what might become of the boy if there were no adult to take over from now. Hereweald Hrothgar might be many things, but he had by now realized that he wouldn't harm his student – even though he still thought that any other man would be more suitable to look after a child like Jamie.
"'Er'eld! 'Er'eld!" Came Nathaniel's call, the name Hereweald being very – deformed, and looking over he could see Nathaniel running towards the teacher, the lad having immediately realized that his new friend and the man seemed to belong together - and looking over at the boy, he held his breath for a moment when he could see him laying on the ground, unmoving.
Quickly he got off the bench, Jesus beside him doing the same, but it was the grumpy and uncaring teacher who beat them to it, and never before had he seen anyone moving as quickly as that man did in this moment.
Breåk· … ·~†~*~*~*~*~*~†~· … ·Łine
Heaven! What had that idiot little imbecile done now!
Hurrying over to the brat laying on the ground he already had horror visions in form of a dead student and his need to explain his death to not only the brat's parents – even though he was sure that they wouldn't bother too much – but to the police too, the moment they were back in their time and world, or whatever it was that was the difference between here and there – and he refused feeling the panic rising in his heart at alone the thought of the child dying, he refused feeling the tightening of his chest at alone the thought of the child dying like so many others in his life had died over the years.
Couldn't he have the brat playing with another child for at least five minutes while he didn't watch him? That brat would be his death!
Approaching the boy and searching for a pulse he quickly realized that at least he was alive still – and he took a deep breath, while the brat didn't. Turning him on his shoulders he looked around, trying to find any cause for the brat not breathing while the first thing that came to his mind was calling 911 – what wasn't possible here! He checked the brat's airway and opened his shirt, just in case – even though he already could say that it was an allergic reaction, considering the swollen tongue of the brat. Nice – the brat having stopped breathing, having an allergic reaction to only God knew what, while they were in a time and place of medical – antediluvian wilderness where no medics could be called and an antiallergenic was a foreign word for the next about two thousand years.
"Sure you'd do something like that!" He growled while preparing to give artificial respiration, but Jesus was quicker than him, the man kneeling beside the boy, running his hand over his face and telling him to breathe – and at the same time causing him, Hereweald, to roll his eyes, even though he wouldn't do such a thing normally.
As if that would help, telling the brat to breathe! He was having an allergic reaction to anything he'd eaten, and he wasn't getting any air into his lungs because his tongue and his throat were swollen. He'd need to ventilate the brat – even though he wasn't really sure if it would work with the swollen tongue in the first place. He'd need to find out what the brat had eaten and then he'd need to find an antiallergenic – and quickly so.
Damn idiot little bother! Couldn't he keep his fingers off things he didn't know? Had his parents not taught him to first ask for permission before eating things he didn't –
The boy taking a deep breath was the first thing he realized. And the idiot brat having asked for permission to eat the figs Peter had brought was the second thing he realized. And that it had been the figs the brat was allergic to, was the third thing he realized.
"Easy, brat." He growled when helping the idiot little bother to sit up. "That means no figs for you anymore, Mr. Novak." He then added, glaring at Peter who had brought the figs, even though he knew that it wasn't the man's fault in the first place.
He gave another glare towards Jesus, just in case, and just to tell him that he was not impressed, not at all, before pulling the brat to his feet and, after steadying him, leading him inside – and to bed. It was late anyway and he'd played long enough outside together with that other little snot who wasn't even able pronouncing any name correctly. It's been an entire day without school-work, without any learning and without homework either!
On the other hand –
Hadn't the brat learned that he could have breakfast, lunch and dinner? And hadn't the brat learned how to dunk bread into warm milk with honey? And hadn't the brat learned that at the market he could have raisins from the marketers? And most importantly, hadn't the idiot brat learned that he wouldn't be beaten here? Or by him? By them?
Alright, scratch that last thing, he thought while having the brat laying down at the mat and covering him with the blanket Jesus apparently had given him last night. They hadn't hurt the brat today, but that surely didn't mean that the little monster had learned anything out of it. Most likely he was right now still waiting for just that, for being beaten because of one thing or another he'd done. And most likely he'd get up tomorrow morning with the very same expectations, too.
But except of that – yes, the idiot little imbecile had indeed learned one thing or another during the day, including what raisins tasted like and that he was allergic to figs. Heaven! This brat would be the cause of his early death in form of a heart attack and he would be the cause for his hair becoming gray early, too! How did that little monster dare startling him thus!
He'd barely had any other student who'd been as strenuous as this one.
Except of Elliot, he couldn't help thinking.
There were a lot of students who grated on his nerves, but he was able to master them, whereas Novak was neither insolent nor rude or disrespectful in any way. Contrary to Foster, whom he had his first encounter already the day before yesterday – if he was correct in his calculation of the time in their own time.
Flashback
Walking along the corridor, quickly, he considered his next chemistry lesson with the sixth grade students next morning, knowing that it would be a horrifying lesson, knowing that the little snots would drive him completely mad until they had learned at least the basic rules – and terms – when it came to chemistry.
Last year, when he had done the very first verbal chemistry test for the class, when they had been fifth grade students still, he'd asked Brandon about the chemical formula for water – a questions that was standard for the fifth grade chemistry students and he'd not only told them, but he'd had them writing it down too. But what hat the idiot little bother answered? "H, I, J, K, L, M, N, O"! No fun, the idiot little snot had actually said "H, I, J, K, L, M, N, O"! And what had he given him as answer when he had asked him what the hell he was talking about? He'd said – "didn't you say it's H to O?"! Imagine! How dense could a fifth grade student be!
And so he knew that the idiot snots would drive him completely mad until they had learned at least the basic rules and terms without having his classroom in too much damage! And he also knew that they would then drive him partially mad until they had learned that they best kept out of his way and out of troubles, especially during his lessons, that they best did their homework and their tests to his expectations, and that they best kept themselves from exploding his classroom. And finally, he knew that they would annoy him to no end until they had become at least eight or nine grade students – and he knew that it would take them until tenth grade until they finally became acceptable.
Running children's feet from his left had him scowling and he stopped the moment he reached the corridor that crossed his way, just when one of the Frogman fifth grades came running along the corridor, Corey Foster.
"Ten minutes late." He growled at the brat who stopped, looking up at him large eyed.
"Yes." The brat nodded his head. "Me too." The boy had the audacity to add and he took a deep breath.
"That makes detention for you, Foster." He hissed at the little snot. "Seven o'clock, my private study – do not – be – late!"
End flashback
Well, there was no student who had managed driving him nuts as early as this one this school year, Foster having attracted his attention already on his very first day of school by running along the corridors, by glaring at him during lunch when he had watched Frogman's table, just so that he would know whom he would have to keep an eye on during the school year and he had immediately known that this one would cause trouble!
Well, the little snot had come to his detention – and luckily for him or he would have had the brat's hide had he missed detention – but when he'd told him to take out his chemistry book, the brat had just looked at him as if he didn't understand him – before shrugging his shoulders, the bloody little monster.
"Where is your chemistry book, Foster?" He had growled at the little bother.
"Uhm, in my dormitory." The idiot boy had said, trying to look at him innocently – what had made him just the angrier and he had leaned with both his hands unto the desk the little snot had sat at.
"And what, pray tell, Mr. Foster, is it doing there?" He had asked the brat, softly enough for his older students to know that they were in a lot of trouble – and should be careful.
"It's having a better time than me." Had been the brat's answer, looking at him daringly, nearly provocative.
For a moment he'd had trouble keeping his reflex to strangle the insolent little bother under control, but then he'd leaned closer to the brat, hissing into his ear while glaring at him dangerously.
"That will make detention for the reminder of the week, Foster." He had said, very softly and slowly. "We will begin with an essay about why it would be appropriate bringing your chemistry book with you if you had lessons or detention with your chemistry professor. Fifty inches, Foster, in readable and acceptable handwriting and without spelling mistakes. Begin – now!"
Fortunately the little monster had begun, apparently realizing that he was in real trouble on his first day of school already, and he'd had him sitting in his study until late night while he had all the time worried about his missing student, calling the travelling centre and trying to find one or another reason – and solution – to Elliot's missing.
And now the boy, Elliot, was dead.
He sighed once more. No, he would not allow his thoughts to stray into this direction right now. He had other problems at hand right now. Right now there was the boy lying on a bed, breathing evenly, although small coughs shook his body from time to time, and although the sleep was anything than restful and he scowled in annoyance at the thought that a restless sleep surely was the last thing the too small brat right now needed. Damn, hopefully it was really just an allergy and the boy would not catch a cold. An illness added to the starved state he was in, only would complicate the already difficult situation.
Of course he knew exactly what he had to do, how to handle Novak. And he knew that he would be able to do so. But he did not look forward to it. He knew that such a child did not need coddling and pampering, but that they needed a strong hand that led them to overstep their own limits they had set during the years as a protective shield. And he never was eager about being harsh and … 'cruel' … to an already abused and frightened child. And this child here … swearing silently he again ran his hand over his face before pushing down the confusing urge to run his fingers through the boy's hair, but just then he heard Jesus bustling around in the room and he quickly leaned back against the wall. Never mind how he just now felt towards the boy, he surely would not allow himself to show a soft spot in Jesus' presence by running his fingers through the boy's hair.
"You should go to bed and take some rest, Hereweald." Jesus' voice came from beside him and schooling his face into his usual scowl, he glared up at the man that had approached him.
"Later." He growled.
He had put the brat to bed and, worrying that the allergy might cause another fit, he had sat on the floor beside the mat the brat was laying at – and for no other reason than that, mind you! He'd never before sat beside the bed of a student, except for Elliot once in a while when the boy had cried himself to sleep, or when he'd been otherwise unwell – and sometimes even if the boy just said he was unwell so that he would sit with him – and he knew that the boy had done that, but he didn't mind. He'd never minded sitting with Elliot, talking with him sometimes even until he'd fallen asleep, or reading a book while sitting with him. The brat had had little attention from the adults around him enough so that it wouldn't harm if he paid a little more attention than would be necessary.
"You are not doing a favour to this child if you overestimate your own strength." Jesus said and his scowl deepened.
"Do you doubt my abilities to judge my own limits?" He asked, narrowing his eyes and allowing his anger to enter his voice but again. The other man, however, remained unimpressed by his anger.
"No, I do not." Was the answer. "But sometimes the worry over another person turns off our clear thinking – never mind if the worry stems from the love we feel over someone, or if it stems from the responsibility we feel over someone." The man then added just the moment when he started to state that he surely wouldn't worry over the brat as for worry there would affection be needed – what surely didn't apply in this case as he didn't feel affected by the brat – because he was affected by no one, he liked no one, and he loved no one.
Breåk· … ·~†~*~*~*~*~*~†~· … ·Łine
"Why do you so desperately refuse God's will?" Jesus asked, looking at the man calmly. He did realize that Hereweald was trying to provoke an angry reaction of him over and over again, and he also realized that the man didn't really like it that he didn't give away any kind of angry reaction.
"What will of God?" The man huffed at him, angrily, nearly disdainful, but he knew that it was – like everything else when it came to this man – a mask only. "That we should love our fellow men as much as we do love ourselves? I have no love for my own person – so, tell me, Son of God, why now, should I love anyone else?"
"You do love people, over and over again, Hereweald." He said. "And enough so, that you get hurt by them – or others – over and over again, too. But you do not love yourself. God has made you in his image, after his likeliness – do you not think that you should love that, what he has created with so much love?"
"Then he must have had a very bad day, the day he has made me." The teacher huffed, glaring at him. "Listen, Jesus – I don't deny that you are who you are." The man admitted with a heavy sigh. "I have talked to you, I have seen you, I have watched these environments … you have saved the brat's life. I even can feel that you are telling the truth. I can't explain it, but I know that you are who you say you are – whatever reason for your God might have brought me here. But never mind if you are Jesus, the Son of God, or if you are Edwards, Ryan or Sidney, the son of a drunk on the streets, it doesn't change the fact that your God has brought me here without avail."
"I am sure that it was not without avail." He said, sitting down on the earth too. "God has never done anything without avail. You are destined to do his will and to speak his words and that will happen."
"Say you." Hereweald growled, glaring at him and he sighed.
"If you do not trust in what God has said and done, and the witnesses thereof, then how can you expect, others such as atheists, to trust what you say about God, or the Scriptures." He gently said. He could understand the man, but he also knew that Hereweald was wrong. "If you don't trust in it, then they certainly won't."
"I have not asked for that!" Hereweald growled at him, darkly. "I was perfectly fine with doing my job. Why should I pull the wrath of my fellow men upon me by going against the tide? Men have no faith in God anymore, not in two thousand years from now on. The only thing they're doing is blaming God for the bad things that happen in their lives. That is all they are doing."
"Where is thy faith?" He asked, shaking his head. "Is it in what God says and does? Or in what someone else says about it? God has given you this task, Hereweald. God has chosen you to spread his word in two thousand years from now on."
"And what if I refuse?" Hereweald asked, his eyes narrowed challengingly at him and he smiled.
"There have always been men who were called by God." He calmly said, not answering the challenge, because there was none. "And there had always been men who had thought they could refuse His call. You know the new law, Hereweald. You know the new covenant between God and men." And this particular man looked at him for a moment, thoughtfully, frowning, but then he lifted his eyebrow at him challengingly again.
"The bible." Hereweald then answered, slowly nodding his head. "The new testament, actually. Am I correct? A book written by a few intelligent men who knew that mankind was doomed if they didn't come up with something that gave them a line and a few rules. Add God to it so that mankind had something they could fear if they didn't follow the rules, and then it was perfect. Yes, I have read the bible."
And he knew, Hereweald had really read it – many, many years ago when he had been a young child himself. And he had actually believed back then. Only years of harshness, and gruesome people around him had hardened his heart until it had become a stone.
"Yes, the bible." He answered, slowly nodding his head. "The new testament. Written by the witness of my working, written by the witness of God's working through me, and written by the Holy Spirit. You know that God is real, Hereweald, never mind how much you deny him, you know that he is there or you wouldn't have acknowledged me – or you wouldn't believe in him. Deny it as much as you like, but deep in your heart you know the truth."
"Hmpf." The man made, not ready to admit that yes, he was speaking the truth. "You have not answered my question though. What will God do if I refuse?"
"Has God forced Noah to build the arc?" He asked back. "Or Abraham to give his only son?"
Flashback
Chopping wood, Abraham didn't really understand, he knew, or the man wouldn't chop the wood himself to begin with. He could just as well have one of his farmhands doing this task, but he knew that right now, the man needed to do this work himself, needed to vent his desperation and his worries.
"How can I do this!" The man murmured, arranging a piece of wood in front of him before taking a wide stance and then swinging the axe over his head anew. "Lord, tell me how I can do this!" Letting the axe fall down on the wood Abraham cut it in two parts while his heart seemed to be cut in two also. And so, with a bleeding heart, he went on, and on, until he had enough wood for his task. He then saddled his donkey with two blankets, a few ropes, a large knife and with the wood – clearly ready to do a journey.
"Get up, Isaac." Abraham then called. "We'll go to do a sacrifice."
But, God in Heaven – how could he … no, Abraham shook his head, he couldn't tell the lad, and he couldn't tell Sarah either, knowing that she'd try to keep him from doing that – it was better to tell her everything later, when it was done, when he was back – and if he was lucky, together with the boy, even though he couldn't see how that could be. Because yes, God had told him that – "Abraham, take now thy son, thine only son whom thou lovest, and get thee into the land of Moriah. And offer him there for a burnt offering upon one of the mountains which I will tell thee of."
Abraham had been in shock when his Father had told him that, he'd sat upright in his bed, goose bumps all over his skin, shuddering – wondering if, did he really have to offer his son? That could only be a misunderstanding, couldn't it?
And he knew that Abraham had thought and thought, and then he'd started all over again with thinking over it, doubting, going over the words again and again, but then – "there's no other way." Abraham had finally said to himself, realizing that surely God would not demand anything of him He would not be ready doing for himself, not knowing how close to the truth Abraham was, actually, even though it would happen many, many generations later. "There's no other way than to believe that the lad will live, that the promise will live on in the boy." There was no other way than to believe in God and his love for all of his children. And so, trusting in God to one hundred percent, Abraham also trusted that his Lord would save the lad after death, one way or another.
"Do you have bread with you?" Abraham asked the two farmhands he would take with him while the lad was excitedly running around between their feet, happy to go on a big adventure. "And enough water for the way?"
"Oh, my dear boy." Abraham then sighed, when watching the child, not having the heart to tell the boy off for being in their feet. "If only you knew." And he knew, the man would never do this step if he wouldn't trust in God entirely.
"Hurry up, now." Abraham then said, urging the donkey on with a twig.
The journey of the four wasn't too adventurous, actually. There wasn't much to see and after each mount there was the next one coming – and Abraham wasn't too talkative either, understandably – but the boy had his fun anyway, everywhere seeing things that made him happy, simple things like grass, stones, pebbles to collect and play with in the evening, leaves and twigs – and he knew that on this journey Abraham realized how happy he could be with his son. The boy wasn't complaining, about walking all day long, about the long journey, about having nothing than bread and water for three days, about having no other child he could play with, but he was happy about the small things in his life.
And Abraham realized that – what a present the Lord had made him with giving him his son – if only he wouldn't take him away now. But well, the Lord gave, and the Lord took.
"On this mount over there we'll go to do the sacrifice." Abraham said after three days when God had shown him which mount he was to go. "Wait here, together with the donkey and the gear. We will be back when we have prayed." Abraham said to the farmhands – or rather more to himself than to the farmhands and with determined movements he put the wood on Isaac's shoulders and took the fire and the knife himself, ignoring the unsure gazes the men threw at him, surely not understanding what exactly Abraham was to do as not only the man was clearly beside himself, but as he was also leaving for the offering with the boy only but without a lamb.
"Be careful when you go up that mount." He told his son. "You need to watch where to place your feet. There are rolling stones, unexpected holes and loose earth."
"Father." The boy then asked when realizing that there was something missing. "You carry the fire and the knife, and I the wood, but where is the lamb we are to offer?"
There you are, Abraham thought, what to say now?
"The Lord will make sure that we have a lamb for the burnt offering." The man said and the boy smiled, went on climbing uphill, and he himself smiled too, knowing how deep Abraham's trust in his Father was.
Abraham panted, because he was old, and Isaac because he was carrying the wood – and then they were there.
He knew that this time each stone Abraham used to build the altar was twice as heavy as it would be normally, that he was stacking the wood as if being in a dream – and then … "Isaac, my son." The old man said, grieved by what he had to do. "God does want you."
He smiled when Isaac didn't react startled or scared, the boy having already understood – after all, wasn't he a child of God's promise? And he too, did trust in God, that he was safe with him. And so the rope slid around his arms, he was lifted up onto the rock – and only seconds later the knife flashed over his head – and then:
"Abraham." A voice called from heaven, just in time. "Abraham."
"Yes, Lord." The man said, his voice trembling, as did the hand still holding the knife.
"Lay not thine hand upon the lad." The voice then said. "Neither do thou any thing unto him, for now I know that thou lovest me, seeing that thou hast not withheld thine son, thine only son from me."
And slowly Abraham realized that he didn't have to offer his son. His arms relaxed, as did his mind, his heart, his entire being, and with still trembling hands he cut the rope, tears of relief running down his face and the first thing he did was folding the boy into his arms, unable to utter any word.
He was sure that soon it would become a very awkward moment for both of them, but then – close by, caught in a thicket by his horns, there was a ram – for Abraham and Isaac, it was a present from heaven.
End flashback
On the mount Moriah Abraham and Isaac had celebrated together with God, they had given their prayer, and together with the smoke of the fire their thankfulness had risen up to Heaven.
"Because thou hast done this thing, and hast not withheld thy son, thine only son, Abraham." God had said. "In blessing I will bless thee, and in multiplying I will multiply thy seed, as the stars of the heaven, and as the sand which is upon the sea shore. And in thy seed shall all the nations of the earth be blessed, because though hast obeyed my voice."
It had been a hard order for Abraham, offering his only son, but again, never had God expected anything he wouldn't do himself either, because God would offer him, Jesus, his only son, to the world, to mankind, to redeem them even though they would always remain sinners.
God had forced neither Noah, nor Abraham or any other of the true servants of God, and neither would he force Hereweald. That was not the way of God. His Father didn't force his children. He offered them ways and possibilities, he offered them one thing or another, he offered them a way to follow him, but if they didn't want – then he didn't force them but allowed them their own ways.
His Father welcomed home every child that turned to come back to him after men had to leave the garden of Eden so many generations before, and he didn't leave them but a few minutes for that decision, not even just a few hours or days, but years and years did his Father give men to turn and come back to him, their entire life they lived on Earth did he give them to consider following him, but if they turned never, then he let them go, then he didn't run after them, he didn't force them to follow his command.
And he knew, that Hereweald knew the very same – the man was just looking for any excuse he could find, for any way out he could find, like so many other faithful men before him, but in the end, he would follow his heart anyway. It was a question of time only, and time didn't play a role since Hereweald Hrothgar was out of his time anyway.
Breåk· … ·~†~*~*~*~*~*~†~· … ·Łine
To be continued
Next time in … and sit a while with me …
Still Jesus is trying to make Hereweald see that he is worth being his 13th disciple while at the same time Hereweald needs to show Jamie the same.
Added author's note
thank you for reading - and yes, I would appreciate it if you took the time to review this chapter too, thank you …