Jesus and the Robot

Cheeseburger Brown

CHAPTER 1

It was a sunny day in Galilee. Seabirds wheeled, ants crawled, clouds drifted.

A crown of dust hung over old Capernaum on the shores of Lake Gennesaret. It was the dust of commerce and freight, motion and work, missions and games -- the dust of life. Insects, too, hovered over the town: drawn by the rot-rich earth tilled by the farmers, by the dung of asses in the street, by the offal cast away by butchers.

It was the last market day of Sextilis, in the year Tiberius XIX.

The road from Bathsaida was clogged with travelers. There were plodding clots of merchants' carts interspersed with swifter strings of those moving on foot -- consumers and beggars, students and fools, thieves and pilgrims. They could see the dust over Capernaum, and it made them less weary to walk the final mile.

The sun was hot. The shadows were short. Some stumbled.

A void in the traffic surrounded a strange duo along the road. One sat upon the shoulders of the other, drooping with exhaustion over his ride's brow. The rider was sunburned and baby-faced, his bulbous, heavy body wrapped in rags. The one who served as his steed wore armour from head to toe, as colourless as the dust itself save for faint traces of burnished crimson showing through at the base of scuffs or at the edges of dents.

The armoured man stood straight. He did not lean or stagger under his burden. His chin was high, his eyes hidden.

Capernaum had neither walls nor a gate, for Rome kept the peace. Never the less a sort of informal border could be discerned that marked the transition from country to town: smaller mews ringing quaint courtyards flanked by flocks of olive trees replaced the rolling green fields; sheep wandering by the way became dogs; the smell of human oils overtook the smells of excrement and grass.

The armoured man and he who rode him went south upon the avenue. The passersby afforded them a wide margin. Word spread that strange men had come to town, and children pushed their faces at the windows in an effort to catch a glimpse.

"A warrior carries a fat man," went the whisper through the market's stalls.

"Where do they go?"

"Where do all pilgrims go today? To seek Mara Yeshua!"

The line outside the famous teacher's Yahad was long. Some in the queue shared water or biscuits. Some chatted. All cast fleeting glances at the silent armoured man and his sagging charge.

A Pharisee at the road's edge recited from the Tanakh in lilting, guttural Hebrew. His eyes were glazed and unfocused, like a Yogi. Those who passed close to him nodded reverently in acknowledgement or stooped to touch the hem of his robes. Most ignored him.

On the opposite side of the road a wiry ascetic in a ragged loincloth exhorted the pedestrians to repent, for the end of days was nigh. He spat and shouted, waved his arms and carried on. He sang about the death of Yohanan, a sign of the broken covenant between the sky and the world. He pled for righteousness to reign, before it was too late.

A baker gave him a crust of bread.

The afternoon waned and the pool of pilgrims shrank. At sunset a bearded man who called himself Yakob announced the end of admissions for the day and those still waiting murmured resignedly and shuffled away to find an inn or a stable or a length of grass for spending the night. In moments none remained but the armoured man, who neither swayed nor sighed but instead stood steadily in place, his tarnished masque expressionless.

Yakob hesitated, cleared his throat, then said, "Go find rest, pilgrims. Tomorrow you might see my brother."

The armoured man looked up. Where his eyes should have been were two black lenses, as inscrutable as stones. From behind the masque his voice issued tinny but bold, muffled but certain: "Sir, we must meet with Yeshua."

Yakob smiled uncertainly. "Even if not for the hour, we do not permit weapons within our walls, good pilgrim."

"Sir, I carry no weapons."

"You come in armour."

"I have no blade. This armour is my flesh, sir."

Yakob narrowed his eyes, uneasy. "That is not Roman armour...nor forged by any Greek or Persian craft I have ever seen. Where do you march from, pilgrim? What is your tribe?"

The armoured man paused. He exchanged a look with the man sitting on his shoulders, who shrugged. At last he carefully said, "I am Jeremiah. My companion is called Tim. We are in a desperate situation, stranded far from home."

"Where is your home, pilgrim?" persisted Yakob.

"Sir, we are castaways from a storm in time." He spread his metal-covered arms in an attitude of appeal. "Please, will you help us?"

CHAPTER 2

Two brown chickens roamed the courtyard, hunting and pecking for snacks between the cobblestones as they purred and groaned and clucked. The sky was amber. The sun had not yet cleared the hills.

"Jeez," said Tim, rubbing his cramped neck.

Through the doorless doorways of the basalt and clay houses surrounding the small courtyard came the sounds of breakfast -- the clinking of pots, the slosh of liquids, the phlegm-thick cough. The people sleeping in the courtyard began to stir, too. They sat up and knuckled their eyes or clutched their backs. The chickens scattered.

"Good morning, sir," said Jeremiah.

Tim nodded wearily. "How're we doing?"

Jeremiah reached into a crevice in his carapace and withdrew a dusty pocket watch. The lid popped open and the glowing face of the device was reflected in the robot's black eyes. "Less than a hundred hours, sir," he reported, snapping it closed.

Tim gulped. "Crap."

Jeremiah tilted his head. "Do you need to excrete waste at this time, sir?"

Tim rolled his eyes. "That's not what I meant." He paused, then scratched his nose. "Actually, yes. Pick me up, will you?"

"Sir," nodded Jeremiah, effortlessly hoisting the ample young man up over his head to rest upon his armoured shoulders. Jeremiah straightened and Tim grabbed at the robot's face to keep balance, his useless legs swinging freely.

Tim sniffed the air. "Thataway," he said, pointing.

When they got back Yakob was doling out scoops of hot fish soup to anyone with a bowl. Jeremiah removed the cup of armour over his left shoulder and handed it to Tim, then bent down to bring Tim and the bowl level with Yakob's ladle. Yakob's eyes were wide. He gave out a splash of soup with a shaking hand.

"And for yourself, pilgrim?" he said through a dry mouth, looking down at Jeremiah crouching before him.

"No thank you, sir," said Jeremiah.

"We have alternatives to meat and bean if you are Pythagorean."

"No thank you, sir," said Jeremiah again, tone and emphasis identical to the first time.

Yakob made a faltering attempt at a smile and then hurriedly pushed on past Jeremiah and Tim to serve the next group of hungry pilgrims. They immediately began whispering about the strange pair, pestering Yakob for answers. Yakob glanced over at Tim who looked away to pretend he wasn't looking.

"They're going to stone us," grumbled Tim, sipping fish soup from the dirty shoulder piece.

"I do not believe so, sir."

Tim made a face, staring accusatorily at the soup. "I'd kill for some bacon."

"The Judaean Galileans do not consume pork, sir."

"I know, I know. I'm just saying, is all."

The day turned hot. The people in the courtyard babbled. Some traded trinkets and many traded stories. Tim cocked his head to listen as the translator in his ear fought to decode the dialects and argot of a dozen kinds of Aramaic and Greek. He overheard that several of them had come to see Mara Yohanan but since he had been killed by the Romans they reckoned settling for the upstart Mara Yeshua was preferable to an altogether squandered spiritual pilgrimage.

The babble died. A party of bearded men in loose robes came into the courtyard. All eyes turned to them. The first men parted to admit a taller man whose robe was tied at the waist, his skin golden and his Far Eastern features beatifically placid. He moved purposefully across the yard in a direct line toward Jeremiah and Tim.

In a quavering voice Tim asked, "Um, are you the Lord?"

But the man did not reply or even turn to look at Tim. Instead, his widening eyes were fixed upon the robot. His mouth dropped open, worked silently for a spell, then at last he croaked in obvious amazement, "...Jeremiah?"

Jeremiah inclined his head. "Do you know me, sir?"

"This is impossible," muttered the man, a glaze of sweat breaking out on his brow. "How did you find me?" he asked desperately, and then lapsed into a gush of gibberish.

Tim's translator whispered helpfully in his ear: "Error."

Jeremiah shook his head. "Sir, I do not know your language."

The golden skinned man narrowed his eyes. In Aramaic he said, "You don't understand the Common Verbal Protocol? How can that be? This isn't right. This isn't right at all..." Cryptically he added, "You're not even supposed to be here yet."

Jeremiah's head snapped up. "Sir, have you been temporally displaced?"

The man paled. "You don't -- you don't even know, do you? Mother of love!"

"Sir?"

"I can't tell you! Don't you understand? If I say anything I could destroy it all!" He looked around wildly, gasped an incomprehensible oath, then turned on heel and ran out of the courtyard as fast as he could, leaving the pilgrims and his bearded companions alike staring dumbfounded after him.

Tim blinked. "Well," he said to the robot after an interval, "that was weird."

An instant later a quartet of young men with thick necks and grim expressions crossed the courtyard and arrayed themselves around the duo. One of them grunted in a clear tone of command to get moving. Jeremiah bowed his head slightly in acknowledgement and then, ringed by the serious young men, proceeded to walk toward the small west gate.

The squadron escorted them inside one of the larger houses, passing through several open doorways and moving further from the light of day. Tim was obliged to squeeze himself down over Jeremiah's head in order to clear the low thatch ceiling. The afterimages of the hot courtyard refused to clear from his murky sight.

"It's a stoning for sure," hissed Tim.

They were introduced into a small room with a single low table bearing a candle. The air was close and rife with various human perfumes.

The serious young men left. Tim coughed.

Yet another bearded man in loose robes appeared at the threshold, ducking his head to clear the timber jamb. He sat down on the floor on the far side of the table and bobbed his head to indicate that Jeremiah should do likewise. The robot folded neatly into place, then hefted Tim down next to him with exquisite care and tireless strength.

"Sir," said Jeremiah, "we implore you to help us attain an interview with Mara Yeshua."

The man clasped his hands together briefly in an attitude of respectful servitude. "It is already arranged, pilgrim."

"Sir, when shall we see him?"

"Good stranger," smiled the man, "you are seeing him now, as we speak." He spread his hands and shrugged, then dropped them in his lap.

Tim's eyes widened, and then he burst into a fit of hysterical giggling. Jeremiah and Yeshua looked at him.

"I'm sorry!" blurted Tim.

"Sir?"

"I'm sorry," he repeated, his round face flushed. "I just -- I don't know. Meeting him himself and everything. And he's real, I just can't stop myself..." Tim interrupted himself with another attack of shrill, nervous laughter.

"Is your friend alright?" Yeshua asked Jeremiah.

"Sir, he is experiencing an attack of social anxiety. It is not wholly unexpected."

Tim snorted, then blanched. "I can't believe I just snorted in front of Christ," he cried. "Holy crap."

Yeshua watched this exchange quietly, his brow furrowed in thought. At last he turned to the robot as Tim fought to muffle his snickering. "Tell me, pilgrim," said Yeshua, "how is it that your friend's mouth appears to move ahead of the words I hear?"

"His words are being translated, sir, as he has no Aramaic."

"And yet I do understand him."

"The translator knows Aramaic, sir. It suppresses the sound of Tim's voice in order to make its own words plain to the ear."

Yeshua rubbed the tip of his nose with his index finger. "Where is this translator you speak of?"

"Sir, the reception bead is embedded in Tim's skull. The register that widely sows the language streams is here, sir, above my left hip."

Yeshua frowned. "I am lost."

"I will endeavour to explain --" started Jeremiah.

Yeshua held up a hand. "No," he said firmly. "Patience, pilgrim. I will endeavour to see for myself. Be calm. Both of you, good strangers. Look to me now. Let me see."

Yeshua gazed at his guests.

Tim tried to look away but found himself drawn back into Yeshua's humble, every day brown eyes. Flecks in the irises glinted brassily in the guttering candlelight. Those eyes bore into him, wandered over him, seemed to reach out and touch him.

Tim felt seized inside. He clenched up but then almost instantly felt the tension melt away, lost in the pools of Yeshua's pupils. Tim took a deep, ragged breath.

Yeshua's mustache twitched. Quietly, almost silently, he breathed, "My child, the weight you carry...the depth of regret...keenest loathing for the self -- oh child, the sorrow."

Tim's heart started racing. He shut his eyes. "Don't," he squeaked.

"My child," repeated Yeshua, "what sin could you have committed to so rot your every hope?"

He reached out across the table and touched Tim's arm. Tim flung it back as if electrocuted, his face wild. "I want to get out of here!" he cried, leaning into Jeremiah. "Please, Jeremiah -- take me away. I can't breathe. The ceiling's sagging. Come on! Let's go! Please!"

Jeremiah wordlessly scooped Tim up into his armoured arms. Yeshua stepped out of the way to clear the door, then Jeremiah bowed his head and carried his charge into the narrow corridor. Tim clutched the robot and wheezed, his breath slowing only as they emerged back into the light. Jeremiah placed him down on a stone bench beside a fountain outside the courtyard where the other pilgrims waited.

Tim drank like a dog, eyes on the splashes.

The pilgrims in the courtyard noticed Yeshua in the open air and they began to press against the nearest wall, spreading and thickening like mud. Their talk died away as they fastened onto him with their hungry eyes. The teacher, meanwhile, continued to gaze down sadly at Tim.

"I can help him," said Yeshua, touching Jeremiah's shoulder.

"Sir, I suggest we let my companion recuperate for the time being. May we continue our conversation?"

Yeshua considered this as he took note of the eager pilgrims. He left off rubbing the tip of his nose pensively to give a curt nod. "Walk with me, Jeremiah."

They walked along the path between courtyards, the pilgrims they left behind watching jealously. Children played in the byways, singing rhyming songs. Yeshua put his hands behind his back and watched the little ones skip and tumble for a few moments as they sauntered along. As last he said, "Are you horribly burned?"

"No, sir."

"Why do you wear a masque? Why won't you unveil your eyes for me?"

"Sir, these are my eyes."

"I see only rounds of polished crystal."

"I posses no more than what you see, sir."

"But I see nothing behind them. I see no soul."

"I may have none, sir."

"Every man born of woman has a soul, pilgrim."

"That may be so, sir," agreed Jeremiah, "but I was not born of woman. I was grown, sir, by the tools of men. I am made of metal and crystal, as you say, sir. I have no meat."

Yeshua's pace faltered, and he turned to search Jeremiah's black, dust-coated lenses once again. He swallowed heavily. "You are a golem?"

Jeremiah paused, then nodded. "Sir, that is a reasonable description."

Yeshua scratched under his beard as he looked Jeremiah up and down. Then he resumed ambling along the path. "If this is true," he said slowly, "your creator must be a very holy man."

"Many say so, sir."

"I reason he must have dedicated you to a mission of great importance."

"Quite, sir," nodded the robot. "There have never been consequences so potentially dire."

"So," said Yeshua, stopping again and facing Jeremiah, "you are the golem of a holy man; you are possessed of incredible strength such that you can lift a corpulent man on your shoulders without strain; you can even make intelligible speech, and more than that you are capable of preternatural feats like putting speech inside the ears of others. Tell me, Jeremiah, I beg: what could I, a simple teacher, possibly do for a being so powerful as you?"

"I cannot alter the laws of the world, Mara Yeshua -- I must submit to clocks and weight. The clock is running out and the weight is too great: we require the assistance of many hands, sir, in order to rescue our apparatus."

"But why come to me?"

Jeremiah cocked his head. "Sir, the idea was Tim's. I cannot attempt to represent his precise reasoning, but what he said to me was, 'Jeremiah, when you're trapped in Roman Judaea and you need help bad, who else are you going to ask besides the world's most famous nice guy?'"

Yeshua blinked. "I have a reputation even in your distant country?"

Jeremiah nodded. "Yes sir, though it is an undiscovered country by your reckoning. Tim and I are victims of a great cataclysm that has destroyed the sun and opened a tear across time. We have been tossed from the very last days of Earth itself, and if we cannot restore our apparatus to operation within two days I fear all history will be unwound."

"Everything in your attitude tells me you are not mad," said Yeshua, "but what you say is difficult to fathom."

"Sir, I know what I describe is incredible. We do not bring this burden to you lightly. We simply have no one else to whom we can appeal. There are not enough explanations told and untold in the world to ever make the situation clear: all I can ask is that you believe our desperation is real."

Yeshua pressed his mouth together, eyes distant. A breeze rustled the olive trees. After a moment he carefully pronounced, "Pilgrim, what would you ask of me?"

Jeremiah raised his chin. "A day's work from sixty willing men, sir."

Yeshua nodded solemnly, looking Jeremiah in the eye. "For you, golem, I will arrange it," he promised. "Compassion does not require comprehension."

"Thank you," said the robot with a bow.

CHAPTER 3

They came from far and wide, and they made haste. Their dust coloured the horizon for an hour before the people themselves appeared. They arrived throughout the night and continued to amass in a makeshift camp on the outskirts of old Capernaum as the new day's sun bloomed.

Called by a platoon of the fastest runners crying out the news in every Hebrew hamlet around the Gennesaret, those who knew of Yeshua rode forth to raise their hands to the effort. They did not know what work they would do, but they knew Yeshua had asked them -- and that was enough.

The need has been for sixty; over two hundred answered.

Yakob and Yeshua stood on the roof of the house, sandals wedged between the gutter tiles for purchase. "Do you see, Yeshua?" prompted Yakob, shielding his eyes with his hand. "Did I not tell what you what numbers would be drawn? Do you still doubt?"

"No," agreed Yeshua quietly. "I no longer doubt, brother."

"We must go to Jerusalem. It is time. Galilee is too small, and our people roil. We must grow. We must bring the word and the way to the city."

Yeshua sighed. "I love Capernaum."

Yakob put a hand on his brother's shoulder. "And Capernaum loves you. But Jerusalem...Jerusalem, brother. In Jerusalem we shall find our true momentum."

After a pause Yeshua nodded. "You are right, Yakob. I cannot deny we now have the support we sought. I never thought so many would answer, but it is clearly so. There is nothing to be gained in delay. We will go to Jerusalem in time for Sukkot."

Yakob nodded in turn. "I will inform the households."

Yeshua shook his head. "No, brother. Instead, go now with the golem. Take the willing into the desert so that this work might be done."

"They'll be expecting you to accompany them."

"Tell them we will banquet together in Capernaum when the task is done. Tell them I will speak then, brother, and tend to their miseries."

Yakob unhitched his sandal from the tile's edge but did not climb down. He hovered fretfully. "I'm afraid of him, Yeshua. I'm afraid of that thing -- the golem. There's nothing behind his eyes, you said so yourself. He's...unnatural."

"I believe he is good."

This phrase hung between the men for a moment, pupils fixed on pupils. At last Yakob gave a slow, tentative nod. "Your assessment is all I need," he claimed. "I will go to him."

Yakob carefully clambered down the roof and let himself over the side, dropping into the courtyard with a grunt. Yeshua, for his part, sat down on a run of thatch and then propelled himself with his arms, sliding down the roof and flying free over its edge. He tumbled awkwardly to the dirt and rolled into the chicken coop.

"Being so careless you'll find your death," chided Yakob.

Yeshua stood up and brushed the dust from his robes. "You worry too much."

Yakob pursed his lips as he filled his flask at the fountain. He called for his two eldest sons and had them fetch him an ass from the stable, then furrowed his brow in private thought as he clucked and kicked the beast into reluctant motion. He had not experienced the same uncomfortable mixture of disquiet and elation since he had first heard the fantastic account of Simeon Qyn, who himself had fled in terror at the sight of the golem.

He tried to focus on Jerusalem. The thought gave him solace, now that he had reason to believe his brother's word would live forever.

While Yakob rode out of Capernaum to join Jeremiah, Yeshua walked back to the pilgrim's courtyard which was uncharacteristically empty, drained by volunteers to the golem's effort. The golem's fat companion, Tim, was semi-reclined in a bed of hay engaged in a lazy, interrogative conversation with a chicken. He asked his questions in a language neither Yeshua nor the chicken could fathom.

The chicken paused to peck at the ground. Yeshua cleared his throat. "You cannot walk," he said.

Tim looked up briefly, his face slack. "No," he agreed.

"Were you born afflicted?"

"I got hurt."

"How did it happen?"

"I don't really want to talk about it."

Tim's eyes roamed the dirt at Yeshua's feet. Yeshua sighed. "Tim, will you come to my house to be bathed and anointed?"

Tim's eyes flickered. "I don't want to impose or anything. I'm fine."

"Our ministrations may soothe your injury."

He looked up. "What, like physiotherapy?"

Yeshua blinked. "Yes," he decided.

Tim looked down again. "I couldn't ask you to lift me, um, sir."

Yeshua smiled as he cracked his knuckles. "If the golem can do it, so can I."

"You'll put your back out. History'll be all ruined." Tim scowled. "And it'll be all my fault...again." He sniffed. "Leave me alone, please. Like I said, I'm fine. Everybody should just leave me alone. I'm poison."

Yeshua bent down and scooped his arms under Tim's heavy body. Tim quivered and his eyes went wild but he didn't strike out. Yeshua took a deep breath, squinched his eyes closed, then hauled. His sandaled feet skittered further apart as he fought for balance. Finally, with a jerk of his arms he cradled the giant young man against his chest and began to stagger off toward the bath house.

Miriam filled the tub with steaming water fresh from the hearth whose manure bricks gave the place an earthy, mammalian smell. Tim's face was pinched tight, his eyes locked away at infinity. He did not resist as Miriam and Yeshua pulled his robes over his head and then heaved him as gracefully as they could into the hot bath.

He cringed as his testicles hit the surface, muttering "Christ!"

Then he started to cry.

They scrubbed his skin pink and the water turned grey. Tim shuddered as he tried to muffle his sobs, the rolls of his torso quaking. No one spoke. The water splashed and dripped. Yeshua and Miriam washed his head, and after that he wept openly and without shame, like a child.

In a nest of towels he was rubbed and oiled. When Yeshua returned with fresh clothing Tim was able to look him in the eye. "I am Vishnu," he whispered.

"Wait, Tim," said Yeshua softly. He nodded at Miriam, who left the bath house with Tim's old robes and closed the wooden doors behind her. Sunlight streamed in through a row of high windows, illuminating the steam in slices. Yeshua sat down on the bench opposite Tim and folded his hands in his lap. "We will not be disturbed," he said. "Tell me about your injury."

"I can't walk."

"Are you in pain?"

"Not really."

"Do your legs have sensation?" asked Yeshua.

"Yeah, I can feel them fine."

"Please don't be embarrassed by this, but I must ask whether you are incontinent."

"No, no -- I'm good there, too. Um, both ways."

"What happens when you try to walk?"

"I fall down."

"Do you feel unbalanced?"

"No, my legs are too weak to hold me up. My muscles are like pudding. I can barely twitch my foot."

"Show me."

Yeshua appraised Tim's feeble twitch expressionlessly, then flicked his eyes in warning before he reached out and gently palpitated Tim's calf. Tim steeled against the touch initially but relaxed after a moment, his shoulders dropping. Yeshua probed around the knee and at the top of Tim's right thigh.

While still examining the leg he said, "Tell me about the day this happened to you, Tim."

"I'm not supposed to screw up time by telling you things."

"You sound like Simeon."

Tim ignored him, his tongue working in his mouth as he thought. "But Jeremiah already told you we're from the-days-yet-to-come, right? I mean, I can be vague, can't I?"

"Tell me what you can," prompted Yeshua. "I won't press you to break any vows."

Tim pressed his lips together in thought, eyes wandering. Finally he said, "What would you say if I told you there was a way -- a language, kind of -- to describe the world so precisely that its words were indistinguishable from reality?"

Yeshua saw that Tim had offered this as a kind of barricade, a challenge to credulity. He was surprised when Yeshua smiled. "Naturally, Tim."

Tim blinked. "You know about the Secret Mathematic?"

"It is the tongue of the father of the world, the tongue that called forth time and matter from unbeing. It is The Word. Yes, Tim, with that I am acquainted."

Tim processed this slowly, nodding. He closed his eyes and began to speak quickly. "Mr. Lord sir, in my time people know some of that language, and they use it. We use it, that is. I mean I'm one of them. We used it to try to make a weapon to keep our enemies at bay, and I was one of the builders. And I made a mistake. I changed some of the code. And as a result we lost control."

Yeshua accepted this uncritically. "Were people killed?"

Tim gulped, then nodded. "Tens of thousands. Neptune exploded. We cast the weapon into the Sun, hoping it would burn."

"Did it?"

"It didn't. It kept on churning away inside the Sun's belly for a thousand years and then the Sun went new."

"New?"

"I'm sorry, that probably doesn't make any sense through the translator. When people from my time say a star goes new we mean it's exploding."

"And so too with the Sun?"

"Sure. The Sun is a star, just like any other."

This time Yeshua gulped. "That is what Simeon says."

"Yeah, it's kind of mind-blowing. Sorry to ambush you with it like that. I forgot you guys don't know that. I mean, you still think the Earth is flat, right?"

Yeshua shook his head. "My schooling was Hellenic, Tim. The natural philosophers make a persuasive case for a spherical Earth."

"No kidding? That's slightly cold."

"Pardon me?"

Tim frowned. "Bad translation. Forget it. The point is that the Sun went new because of me."

"What happened to Earth?"

"First the seas boiled and the sky turned to fire. Then things got ugly."

Yeshua paled. "The end of days," he breathed. It seemed suddenly colder in the bath house. Yeshua shivered. "And mankind is lost?" he asked, his voice tight.

"Oh no," Tim said hurriedly. "No, no, no. The only people left on Earth were...barbarians, really. Does that word mean anything to you? They were people that lived like animals. They were the descendants of everyone too stupid or too crazy to save themselves. They thought the...natural philosophers were trying to trick everyone for some reason, that the Sun wasn't actually sick."

"But those who heeded the warning -- they were saved?"

"So far as I know. They built big arks, loaded them up with life, and trucked out for a different star. We don't really know which one. It's all well after my time, you understand."

"I don't," confessed Yeshua.

Tim shifted in his swaddling and considered the matter, chewing on his lip. "Okay, the first thing you have to know is that time is really weird. I mean, really weird. Half the stuff we do know we know because Jeremiah and I met ourselves once, and we were able to give ourselves a lot of good tips on being lost in time."

Yeshua rubbed his temples and sat back. "How can one meet oneself?"

"Like I said, time is really weird. It's homeostatic -- it resists change. It's like a thick fluid. It runs according to the rules of the world, but you can nudge it. If you're stubborn enough about nudging it you can trick it into flowing another way for a spell. So you see Jeremiah and I have already done all this once -- saved the world, I mean -- and now we're doing it again to reinforce the nudge, to make our having solved it all more likely, because the more likely something is the better chance that it turns real real. Um, like for keeps."

"You've done all this before? The end of this day is in your memory?"

"No, no -- it wasn't us us...it was -- a variation of us. They got to the end, they managed to stop them and get control of the apparatus, and then they came back to tell us what to do so we could go and make it so what they stopped never even started. Do you follow me?"

"No."

"Imagine somebody's going to be murdered. So a time traveling guy goes forward in time and tries to stop it, but he can't stop it all the way -- he fixes it so that the victim's injured instead of killed. So now we're taking our turn: we're going to fix it so that the victim doesn't even get hurt."

"And who is that victim?"

Tim raised his brow helplessly. "Uh, I guess that would be the temporal helices carved into the world by frame-dragging from the Sun. The grand attractors were loused up by the Bane of Zoran, but we're setting things right again."

Yeshua rubbed the tip of his nose thoughtfully. "I wish Simeon hadn't run away. He would have been able to make sense of this. He also speaks of this Zoran. Tell me, Tim: what is the bane?"

Tim leaned forward and inclined his head toward Yeshua's conspiratorily. "The Bane of Zoran is two people. We think one of them is a human woman, and we're pretty sure the other one is a -- what did you call it? -- a golem. They wanted to use the language to re-write history, which Zoran forbids. We don't really understand what happened, but Jeremiah says the Bane of Zoran exploited the weapon we made to puncture time. But it didn't work. It just made a big mess."

Yeshua nodded. "A mess you and Jeremiah are on a quest to clean up?"

"Yeah, pretty much. See, you are following along."

"You assume this burden because you view the weapon as your responsibility?"

"Well, I do, yeah. Jeremiah's just doing it because he's good."

A silence came upon them next. The steam had blown clean and the bath house felt emptier, but no longer cold. Yeshua's eyes were far away. Tim did not fidget. He felt as if time had stopped.

Yeshua said, "Tim, I believe you. And when causes and effects are so commingled as to allow men to meet themselves and give advice, I furthermore believe you are wrong to blame yourself for the calamity. If this bane who would act against history and risk every life around the Sun found entry to exploit the world from your mistake, without your mistake they surely would have sought to unleash their evil through other avenues."

"Maybe," admitted Tim.

"Furthermore," pressed Yeshua, "you said it yourself that another version of yourself has already succeeded. You have dedicated not only yourself but yourselves to undoing what has been done, and I can only imagine the courage you have had to call along the way."

Tim said nothing.

Yeshua said, "You say Jeremiah is good. I believe you are right. And I believe you, too, are good. I can see it in your eyes when you let me look, Tim. You can't hide your soul from me."

He stood up slowly, then reached out his hand toward Tim. "Rise, child."

"I can't," said Tim.

"You can," insisted Yeshua. "The father of the world has a plan for you, Tim. You feel it when life is quiet. Feel it now. Rise."

Those eyes brokered no refusal: Tim rose.

He stood on shaking legs with his hands poised to catch his fall, expression moving from fear to surprise to joy in a smooth melt. He straightened his back, then took a fumbling step and pinwheeled his arms to regain balance. He put his hand into Yeshua's. "Oh my God," squeaked Tim.

Yeshua laughed. "How do you feel?"

"I feel light."

"I do not doubt that you could fly."

"Maybe I could," agreed Tim, his cheeks dimpling. Infused with a sudden energy he gushed, "I saw this kind of thing happen once before! Have you ever seen this show called The Revengineers? Aw, forget it -- of course you haven't." Tim paused, then scratched his head and looked sheepishly over at Yeshua. "Thank you," he pronounced solemnly.

Yeshua grinned. "We have in each of us the power to heal ourselves, and in turn to heal others. Go forth, Tim, and sin no more."

Tim mosied around the bath house in a tight circuit, giddy with each more certain step. He pulled the fresh robe over his head, tied on his sandals and then performed a humble jig. "I feel incredible!" he crooned.

"Will you stay for my supper sermon?" asked Yeshua, smiling toothily through his bramble of beard. "I want you to meet my friend Yudah. He is very interested in the stories Simeon tells, and I'm sure he'll be equally insatiable for your own descriptions of the-days-to-come."

Tim shook his head, suddenly serious. "I'd love to, but I can't. I just can't. I have to get back to the apparatus. I don't want Jeremiah to have to walk back for me. We don't have the time to waste."

"You know he would do this?"

"Totally. He's...he's Jeremiah. Of course he'd come back for me."

"Why?"

"Because he loves people. Even me. He'd do anything for me. He wouldn't think twice about dying if he thought it would help -- I mean, in the long run."

Yeshua nodded pensively. "The father of the world works through him."

Tim shrugged. "I guess that's as likely as anything else. Which way do I go?"

Yeshua joined him at the threshold and pointed the way through the courtyard to Capernaum's broad central avenue. "The trail is fresh. You won't get lost."

Tim hesitated, then surged forward and embraced Yeshua. "Thanks for everything, Jesus. You're awesome. Keep on doing your thing, okay? Don't get discouraged. I'm probably not supposed to say so, but lots of people in the-days-to-come look up to you."

"I will not waiver," promised Yeshua.

"Attaboy," said Tim, who then gave the teacher a friendly punch in the arm. "Wow!" he whistled. "I feel like a million coins."

Yeshua crossed his arms and leaned against the bath house as he watched Tim jog purposefully out into the avenue and then turn smartly to follow the others into the desert, his chins bouncing with purpose. Miriam wandered over and touched Yeshua's arm. "Did you help him?" she asked.

"He helped himself," said Yeshua. "And perhaps me, as well."

"Teacher?"

"Tell your sisters, Miriam: we go to Jerusalem. History awaits."

Miriam's smooth brow furrowed. "History, teacher? Is not history that which has already happened?"

Yeshua put his arm around her shoulders and sighed. "Time is really weird," he explained, a faint smile on his lips.