Baratas - Part 2

Part 2

            The following day dawned bright and happy. Well it appeared that way to me. My little creatures all seemed to be smiling, none of them complaining as they were want to do normally and then there were the ‘Baratas’ marching tidily around the top of the kitchen table, Henry at their head.

I phoned Rachel.

“How long before you can get the script to me with the scenes for the dancing bugs?” I asked her.

Three hour later express delivery had them on my doorstep. I quickly skimmed through the notes checked storyboard and schedule then set out my own plans for the next nineteen and a half days.

I checked in with Henry and gave him his special treats. The others had retired to their box which I’d left open for them as the instructions had suggested.

Next, I prepared the training props. I needed a head and the upper torso of a man. The ‘Baratas’ would be required to file across a table over the head and into the mouth, then emerge from the torso. The notes attached to the script were vaguely written so it wasn’t easy to understand what special effects exactly, biggus was wanting.

He had mentioned dancing, so I read the script more closely to get a better feel of what was expected. The dance, if there was one, was probably in the dream, come nightmare part, where the main character, Julius, dreamed he was being attacked by all of these cockroaches. I imagined that the dream, come nightmare, sequence would look great if the roaches just happened to dance a victory dance on or around the victim. It didn’t seem to be much, but I could easily imagine the cost involved in doing this with special effects.

I quickly scanned through the rest of the script without finding anything else. We ought to be able to pull it off, I was sure of that. All that was needed was to get the whole idea across to Henry.

They had finished their mornings work by the time I returned so I laid out what they needed, making sure that Henry was well catered for before retiring myself for some much needed rest.

A new dawn and a new challenge awaited me. The instructions were quite clear. All I needed to do was speak to Henry as normally and naturally as I could. It wouldn’t take him long to understand what I needed.

So it was that I found myself seated at a table in front of an attentive roach trying to find a way explaining what is was we needed to do.

I’d been talking for about ten minutes or so, sketching a few ideas as I spoke repeating some of the instructions several times over when something began to squeak       inside my brain. I stopped, shook my head to clear it and wondered if the alcohol of the past week was finally kicking in.

It was still there and I quickly apologized to Henry for the interruption. The squeak suddenly became a discernible ‘Ok’. I looked at this little creature and asked.

“Are you talking to me?”

That hardly discernable squeak was back in my head once again.

“Do you like the plan?” I asked

Squeak.

“Are you happy here with me?”

Squeak.

Okay, now it seemed as if Henry was actually communicating with me, but what would happen if he tried to tell me something, tried to explain something in detail. Would I be able to understand him? The only thing to do was put it to the test while we still had time.

“So Henry. You know what we need to do, do you have any suggestions?” I asked looking directly at him.

There was a long pause.  I waited expectantly until I decided that he either hadn’t understood me or really wasn’t able to communicate at all. I opened my mouth to speak but a squeak interrupted me. It sounded like wait, so I waited. Henry began to move slowly and as I watched him, I realised that he was enacting the instructions I had given him.

He moved, paused, moved again, returned to where he had begun, then repeated the same thing several times.

I watched, fascinated at what he was doing and at how much he had understood.

It wasn’t long before he stopped and faced me. I looked down at him and waited. Then that squeaking sound came into my head and I began to understand a little of what he was saying. 

Overall, the plan seemed okay and he felt that he could get the others to follow each of the steps that we had arranged.

“Do you want them to march?” He asked.

“No,” I said, “have them act as naturally as possible,”

Henry then explained that the dance routine was going to be the most difficult part.

“I have been practicing these things for a long time,” he said. “How long do we have to train the others?”

“Less than two weeks,” I told him.

“I will do my best,” he squeaked finally, before turning about and climbing back into his shoebox.

The next few days were much of a muchness, eat, work, rest, eat, work, sleep.

I left Henry to himself and went about with my other chores. I still had my pets to keep and train too for their parts in the same film.

Today was the big day. I had laid out the props and as much of what I had around to create some semblance of a real shoot. I liked to do this with my pets so they wouldn’t get stage fright being amongst so many different objects so I expected this to be helpful for Henry and his friends too.

It took Henry very little time to get the others used to the set-up. He walked them from one prop to the other then back again, all the while stopping, tapping then moving on.

The shot they had been practicing for came up next and I watched with bated breath and a stopwatch to see how they would perform.

At the final click I let out a sigh of relief. Everything had gone off like a dream. Henry was standing there and I began to congratulate him, but there was a little problem still that had to be dealt with.

“Look Henry, it’s perfect, except that it’s too fast. We need to add another 15 seconds. You’ll have to slow them down.” I said.

There was a long pause, one that I was getting used to. Then that high pitched sensation in my head returned.

“I don’t understand ‘seconds’. Please explain.”

With all his remarkable skills, I didn’t ever imagine that the intricacies of time would be an alien concept to Henry. I though through all that they had learnt to do and couldn’t really see where they might find another 15 seconds.

“Henry!” I called out. “What I need is 16 beat, just like this,” I said as I tapped my finger on the table.

“You want them to beat 15 times?”

“No I need this routine to be extended by this amount – the same as adding an extra beat roughly 15 times through your routine.” I was feeling a little exasperated at not being understood and finding it hard, for the very fist time, to help Henry understand.

I stood back a little and took a deep breath before looking down once again and seeing this brown shiny roach as if for the first time. I had forgotten what I was dealing with so I swallowed my anger and tried again.

But Henry was really something very special and as I tried a different tack he really showed his mettle by squeaking out to me to wait while he started to go through the routine by himself, squeaking at each place he added a second.

We were about half way through when I asked him to stop.

“Henry,” I said, “that is perfect – now try and get your boys used to the change, finish the dance and then we’ll look at the finished result in two day’s time. We only have three and a half days before shooting.

Henry squeaked his agreement then turned around to return to his box.

The two days flew by and ‘biggus’ had been bugging me constantly. It was make or break for both of us but he didn’t know about my secret weapon. Oh how glad I was going to be to stick it to him, show them all how well I was able to meet any challenge. The way things were going, I wouldn’t be needing them for much longer. In fact, they’d been needing me, all of them.

The show was flawless, timed to perfection with a dance routine that would make the top acts along Vegas, envious. Well that’s how I felt about it and I told Henry so.

We agreed that the next day would be a rest day. He would exercise the others and practice the dance, but very little else. I would have to take care of the other ‘stars’ and would see Henry only at feeding time.

I was really amazed at the way things were working out. Henry was like the partner I had never had, someone who took care of the other chores. Pity though couldn’t make coffee or do some cleaning.  

Once in a recent conversation with Simon, I mentioned how good it was to have someone – I couldn’t think of Henry as ‘something’ any more – like Henry about and Simon told me how often they had shared moment together too.

“You only fully understand what life is,” Simon said, “when life is seen through the senses of a creature like Henry.”  

It’s the size, the perspective and the simplicity of it all, we agreed. We as humans had created our own world based on who we were and on what best suited us.  

Now through Henry’s eyes we see how distorted this world has really become. We duplicate the work of insects like ants and bees and call it our own invention. We adapt to our limitations and create aids, so that we can fly like bids, creatures that have flown most of their natural lives. We evolve over billions of years yet other creatures take far less time and we as human beings have inhabited this planet for such a short time while the likes of Henry have been around since life began. 

We are making life and survival so much more difficult for them yet they will still be here when we have become extinct ourselves – and believe me, we will drive ourselves to extinction.  

Simon was probably right in many ways but I really didn’t share his apocalyptic views, not fully anyway.

We all rested as best we could. Then, as if a new world had begun with the brightest of days and blessed future, we all set out to face the inquisition of lights and film.

Like us, the others had also been busily preparing for this moment. There were many things that resembled the way I had set-up my pet’s studio except that there were many more people and the lights penetratingly bright and hot. The pandemonium between scenes was hard even for me.

Biggus was there in his elevated glory, bull horn to lips, directing, or shouting, hard at times to tell as everything seemed to roll in its usual fashion with or without his help.

My pets were generally okay except for a Collie which seemed to suffer a sudden nervous fit. I took her outside and patted and combed her until she was calm enough to return.

Henry was wonderful. If the other roaches were affected or not it was hard to tell because Henry had everything covered.

I expected some of the crew to be a little curious over the shoeboxes and their contents, but I guess they had seen so many strange things before that one more curiosity was already a little anticlimactic. 

The scenes were shot in the sequence as promised and I was relieved to see the Collie do through her part without the slightest hiccup. I guess it was a little stage fright that had hit her, unusual considering that she had done this before.

I tapped softly on Henry’s box as I saw the scenery change and our props being carried into position.

Then there was a tap on my shoulder. I was one of Biggus’s assistants.

“He’s been shouting for you for five minutes now,” she said apologetically.

I looked up quickly to see Biggus almost exploding as he shouted out.

“Zac – get you stinking arse here and stop fucking about.”

I hurried over, then with neck-torturing strain I confirmed our readiness to proceed.

“You’d better deliver Zac,” he threatened, his voice more strident than I had heard for a long long time. He must have been under all sorts of pressure. Let’s just hope everything is nailed down tight enough I thought.”

I checked the props especially the passageways the roaches would need to use. Then I carried the shoe boxes to center stage and lifted off the lids. There was a hushed silence as all strained forward to see what was going to emerge.

Henry was the first. He levered himself from his box, paused to survey what was in front of him, then turned slowly about seeming to drink in the delights of the set. Finally he stopped fearing Biggus high stool. With slow purposeful movements he lifted the front half of his body to sit back firmly on his ample torso legs, poised to take him all the way up. He seemed to be taking deep breaths as we waited, that torso expanding and contracting several times before lifted himself upon those back legs, almost like a weight lifter trying for an Olympic press.  He was now upright and firm, the tips of his wings delicately touching the table in a fine show of balance. With consummate ease, Henry bent his head and upper body forward drawing one of his many legs across in front of him in a very well performed bow.

All around us, everbody started clapping as Henry raised and lowered his head several times.

I called for hush and said gently “That’s enough Henry. We can get the others ready now.”

Henry angled his head in my direction and nodded before lowering himself to all six legs once again. There were sounds of gasping and ‘wowing’ coming from many of them, then there was a bellow.

“Did any of yer get that,” Biggus shouted out.

Two of the sycophants rushed forward handycams outstretched, both showing “I did, I did.”   

“Great,” Biggus declared. Get it into the bay with the others. “Zac – amazing stuff my man – but that’s only one. Can’t we get this show on the road and I mean now!” His voice was rising, but Henry was ignoring it as much as everyone else and was already marching the others from their box onto center stage.

“Alright, positions everybody … cameras, lights … and action, Biggus bellowed.

Nothing happened. I thought that something had gone wrong, that Henry had suddenly become camera shy. I moved as if to step forward when noticed Henry lift up a long leg to wave my back.

“Well!” Shouted Biggus.

I signaled him to keep rolling as I watched Henry begin tapping with another leg. There was a movement, and a brown shape began to move into position followed by another then another as all of the roaches moved through their routine.

I looked at those around me and noted their reactions as they watched these small brown creatures bring a dull looking scene to life. There were silent oohs and aahs and celebratory hand clapping as the roaches reached the climax and began to dance.

I looked up at Biggus, waiting for the cut and print command. Instead he kept everything rolling as the roaches paraded from the prop to cross a patch of floor between us.

I must have been off in another world, for the next thing I saw filled me with shock and horror. The actor, the prop was to represent, suddenly appeared and pounded down on the marching retreating roaches and began stepping briskly on each one until all were a smashed squashed mess.

I might have rushed out to their aid, tried to prevent what was happening and not just simply sit still, tears welling up in my eyes as the camera panned and focused into close ups of the actors gleeful face and the lifeless brown splodges, left about him. I might have, except I couldn’t. I was a professional. I was being paid and could gripe as much as I liked but I could never cross in front of a film crew filming, never interrupt a shoot in any way without finding myself unemployed for life.

So I watched rooted to my spot cursing and crying deep down inside those final moments.

He would give signal any moment now and I would be ready to pounce on the high stool, knock him to the ground and pound punches into that smirky smelly smulchy face of his.

I was on the boil, steam probably shooting out of all the orifices of my body and the high pitched screaming of my brain, penetrating and strident, urging me to halt, to wait for that massive thrust that was to come. But the high pitched scream became a high pitched call, calling out my name, in such a way as only Henry could and I hissed and he called, then I hissed once more as the heat under my cauldron was suddenly switched off.

I looked around seethingly trying to find him without losing my focus. I was still determined to take on Biggus but Henry’s screech was insistent.

There he was, under the overhanging lip of the other’s shoebox. His antennae were waving frantically and his front legs were moving very agitatedly. Finally, I focused on him wondering how I might help him.

“Relax Zachary, relax. It is all in the script. They knew what was going to happen. Simon told me and I told them,” he screeched out.

I was dumb founded. How had Simon gotten hold of the script? What was the connection and why didn’t I know about it myself?

I grabbed for a nearby script and thumbed through to where the ‘Baratas’ were to perform. I checked the dance sequence the flipped the page. There in black and white was the actors stomping sequence. I checked my own script and found that that page was missing.

“Simon is not able to work on the sets,” Henry screeched. “So Rachel, his friend, arranged everything for you to complete his work. He is very proud and of course grateful too.”

“But how?” I said quietly. “Why wasn’t I told? And why did the others accept that horrible end?”

There was pandemonium about us but silence between us. All steam had drained from my boilers and I was feeling weak. I collapsed, literally collapsed beneath me.

“It was their one and only chance,” Henry’s high pitch continued. “The closest they could come to being something other than anonymous, forgotten pets. For a short moment they were stars, heroes even. We all want to be that way someday.”

“But to sacrifice your life, their lives in such a horrible senseless way,” I half mumbled.

“It is the same everyday for them, but now they have left a testament to themselves. People will look at us differently from now on. Henry’s voice trailed off. 

“Zac, ma man, that was fantastic, I never in the world expected anything like it,” Biggus shouted enthusiastically bouncing heavy hand after heavy hand against my upper back. It hurt, hurt like hell, but so much had been drained from my body that I could barely raise a whimper.

“We’ve got a great future ahead of us Zac, I can see that now,” He spouted off voice and stride as some other victim drew his attention.

Henry and I escaped that horrible turmoil and made our way to Simon’s house. I couldn’t find Rachel to thank her, which was good in a way, because I was still upset at her for removing that page. To be honest, I was more upset at myself for not noticing.

Simon was his usual warm companionable self and complimented me on what we had achieved and for the way I had looked after Henry.

“There are very few Henrys out there,” he said. “In time there will be others, but their world is much smaller and simpler than ours. They need to be left to themselves.”

I thanked them both profusely and returned to my own home, now deplete of everything. I had donated my film collection to a local museum and most of my stars were now somebody’s pet somewhere all, I believed, in very good and caring hands.

I have officially retired from show business. The reality is just too grim to bear.

I am now a dog handler. We go to disaster sites and help find victims who are lost or buried. It’s dangerous work and we face death each and every moment we are there. And yes, I see so many roaches, and we walk round them, Toby my dog sniffs at them, and imagine that they are saluting us too. I don’t stamp on roaches anymore.

People look at me differently now, and ask me about the name in dark brown letters just above the pocket of my shirt. “BARATAS”           

    

     

  

             

Baratas Part 1

Part 1

I’ve always been a fan of the cinema. I grew up in a small town and as far back as I can remember, our family was always first to line-up to see the latest movie that came to town.

It was a special event for us one that we looked forward to eagerly. My mother would line us up in the front parlour, four girls and three boys, the boys were the youngest and I was the youngest of them all, where she would check our clothes, look behind our ears and scold any unscrubbed fingernails or shoes.

Then we would troop along the dusty street with its tall firs, pockets of trimmed, green lawns in front of simple but clean wooden structured homes, the two miles to the street where the cinema was situated.

We always arrived long before the film was to be shown to make sure we would be first in line. We sat in the middle of the theatre, so as not to damage our eyes, my mother said, with the four smallest sitting in front of the others so we could all share the little titbits my mother had prepared for us. 

It was a wonderful time, every moment a magical delight as the cartoons lead to the newsreels then finally the main feature. We always cheered when the film began and would sit patiently as the story developed, even when it was a particularly bad film. 

I remember that even from a very early age we were expected to discuss what we had seen and comment on the good and bad points. Whereas most of the family tended to focus on the film as a whole, it seemed that I was drawn mostly to the animals in the story. I watched with delight as the ‘Silvers’ the ‘Lassies’ and ‘Rin-tin-tins’  of the films performed daring and heroic acts that for me, made the actors and actresses seem half-backed by comparison.

So it was that by the time our loving family had dispersed to the corners of their world, I found myself tied neatly to the other side of that magic wide screen, with my own trained animals at the beck and call of director after director.

But my stars were not stars. They were the simple walk-ons, crawl-ons or bark-ons that were never remembered. Still, they were stars in my world and merited the special treatment and care that was accorded to them.

“Zac” the director shouted out. “Where the hell are you?”

My name is Zachary and most people call me that except for Dick. Big Dick I like to call him, for no other reason other than to express my dislike for him. Others call him Richard, ‘Mr Glass’ or simply ‘boss’.

“Yes Dick,” I called back in my most annoying voice.  

He squirmed a little in his high top director’s chair. He never seemed to be completely sure about me especially when my voice sounded as camp as that one did. 

“Get over here will ya,” he demanded.

“I’m all yours biggus,” I joked as campily as possible.

There were sniggles here and there, and an inordinate number of linen handkerchiefs seemed to be fluttering from pocket to nose. He might have been a talented Director but no one really liked the way he bandied it about and got under their skins.  Still beggars can’t be choosers and there were a number of beggars there, who long discarded their begging bowls in favour of the lash of his tongue.

“Ah yeh, didn’t see ya for a moment there. Look, Zac,” he said beginning that drooping gaze of his that meant he needed a favour.” We all like what ya’ve done with the animals, nothing’s wrong so don’t think there is.”

He must have seen a spark flash from my eyes or something. He should have known it was just the lighting. I really didn’t give a fuck if he liked or disliked what I did. I knew, and he knew that I was not only one of the best animal trainers in the studio, but I was also the only one who didn’t give a shit about him.   

“This one’s a wrap, post’ll take it from here. It’s the next one that’s got me by the short ones.” he smiled, hoping, I guess, that I wasn’t reading anything untoward into his comment; I’m only 5ft 4 inches. Didn’t I tell you that?  

So I just nodded, wishing to hell that he’d get down from his chair because I was getting an awful crook in my neck.

“You’ve got four different scenes for your pets. Nuthins changed, it’s exactly as we discussed last week. The thing is”, he said leaning down a little more to my level, which did my neck no end of good.

“I’m on a fight leash, the budget won’t get me special effects, well, not the way I wanted them.” He’d stopped and hadn’t told me anything.

He sat up and looked around to see if he’d been heard. He’d said it loud enough so I figured that someone out there was supposed to get the message.

Dick got down from his high chair and that was decidedly worse because he must have been a basketball center at some time in his life and the craning was about to get worse except.

“Let’s go Zac, I’ll buy us the coffees,” and his long arm stretched a great flat hand down to my scrawny shoulder where he proceeded to push/guide/shove or all of the above, from the shoot to the on-site canteen. 

“I need bugs, bugs that can act,” he said finally.

I managed to blow a greater part of the froth from my ‘crème du latè’ over the table in front of us and was happy to see spots splatter across his rose coloured T-shirt.

I wouldn’t normally have found such a request ‘strange’ but with the way things had been going with Dick lately and the second, third and fourth rate talent the studio had been throwing at us, I really felt we were clutching at straws if we expected bugs to carry an okay kind of movie.  

So I choked, coughed and blew the foam from my ‘Latè’ and he just sat there smiling, no even bothering to wipe at the spreading strains, unless that is, he didn’t know about the splashes.

“You can do it Zac. If anyone can, it’s got to be you,”

“I don’t see it Dick. What is it exactly you want me to do?” I asked trying to grasp the hidden dimension of his mind.

“You train animals, don’t you?”

“Yes Dick, I do. It is those animals you pay me to bring onto your shoots so you can make them look ridiculous,” I said as sarcastically as possible.

He stared at me blankly.

“Yes, yes, I know,” he said, deftly sidestepping the sarcasm. “Now. I want you to do the same thing with bugs.”

I wasn’t sure if he and I were still sharing the same space on the same planet, so I lifted my arm up and waved my hand in front of his face. He quickly looked around to see who I was waving at, so I snapped my fingers a couple of times.

“What? What you want? Another ‘Latè’, cake, don’t you? I’ll call the waitress,” He said standing up.

“Dick! DICK!!,” I shouted. “He stopped and looked at me in frustration. “Sit down will you, you’re giving me a headache.”

“I was only trying to help,” was all I got as he slumped down in his seat.

“I do not do, bugs,” I practically spelt it out to him. “I do animals, you know, those barky, chirpy, meowy things that shit and scratch everywhere they go.”

“Yeh, and you do a good job, a very good job.” he said, suddenly making that giant leap for mankind. “But I need ya to do, bugs, bugs, that do what ya tell them, that follow instructions, like actors do,” he smiled.

“Actors don’t follow instructions,” I corrected, “they interpret, and you direct them, give them direction, and if you’re lucky, what they do is what you want – which doesn’t seem the case nowadays.” 

“So times are hard, these actors are young, learning the ropes, ya know, getting experience…” he trailed off. 

I looked at this even bigger, Dick and wondered how much he really believed. He was going down fast and the way I saw it, it was time to get off this express train to disaster.

“What is it ya want Zac? Money? Fame?” and here he paused. Then true to form, the nasty side of this big Dick reared its ugly head. “Or maybe it’s just work, and ya need it,” He said snidingly.

He was right. I’d stepped on too many toes recently, let my big mouth run ahead of good sense. I was feeling the pinch. With the advent of better computer graphics, special effects and the change in people’s choices, demand for my services, and those of my stars, had waned dramatically.

I’d never been one to save, much and most of what I earned went towards the upkeep of my dwindling business and my ever expanding film collection. 

So, I needed the work.

“I want fame,” I said. I wasn’t going to give him the pleasure of admitting that he was right.

“Fame? What can you do with fame?” he laughed. “It’ll never happen – Animal trainers never get fame.”

“So give me the money. I’ll settle for that, and lots of it,” I struck back, already 2x0 down on him.   

“That’s what I wanted to tell ya Zac. The money’s lousy – it’s the budget. I told ya that already.”

I was cooked, roasted until black.

“Here’s the deal. You give me trained bugs and you work. You’ll get a fair wage and all the time ya need until the shoot begins.” He sat back smiling contentedly. “This way Zac,” he paused, “ya still work. Now ain’t that sweet.”

I could have puked. What I wouldn’t give to be somewhere else.

But instead of blowing shit through my over active and trained orifice I simply said, “What bugs do you need Biggus?” 

He ignored the name, which was okay. The joke was wearing just a little thin.

“Roaches. Big fat ones. I need ya to give me dancing Roaches.”

He stood up and pulled up his pants which had slipped down his thinning body. He must have been feeling the pinch as much as everyone else.

“Get in touch with Rachel. She’ll give ya the budget and timetable as well as the scenes. Ya do this right and we’ll be getting much better work. You’ll, of course, have the pleasure of working with me some more.” he said almost tipping on imaginary fedora.

“Oh what bliss,” I thought, then “why don’t you shove it!” I wanted to shout out. 

Then it hit me. Where the hell was I to begin? Crawl under the neighbor’s house and jam a handful of ‘roaches’ into a jar and begin teaching them how to dance?

What the hell was I supposed to do? I actually hated the sight of the scuttling dirty smelly brown shits. I’d as soon step on them and leave them half dead for the ants to eat than have them anywhere near where I lived.

“They’re dumb brainless creatures,” I mumbled to myself as I stepped out of the coffee shop, and yes, true to his word, Biggus had paid for the coffees, NOT, so got stuck with that too.

The next few days were a hazy memory to me. I’d found some choice specimens on one of our lots not far from the last shoot. I’d taken them home and had spent an inordinately long time trying to get them to do something, ten minutes, before giving up in disgust as first one then another, then a third escaped across the desk into the myriad of spaces between the wooden floor and the skirting boards.  

The only one left committed suicide when it dived under my stamping boot. The sound of a crackling, popping squelching bug brought me great joy and I gaily christened the tangled entrails ‘biggus’ in honour of the man himself. 

I left home shortly afterwards and ended up slinking from dive after dive, shot – or double shot – after shot until I was too drunk to know if I had enough money in my pocket for the next one.

I must have been thrown out of quite a few of those dives because I had bruises the length of my body at different stages of hurt.

It must have been the second or third day when the mush of fermented juices finally flooded, streamed then trickled from the distant reaches of my body and I was able to keep my body upright for longer than 27 seconds, a record I had established over the hours that passed.

So it was that I finally focused on the man’s card, a business card, simple, with no frills just the name, contact number and the word ‘Baratas’ scribbled on the back.

“What was it he had said? “ I mumbled out loud. A solitary life had made me into a prodigious mumbler. 

“His name was Fred, “I paused to think, “No, that’s Flintstone – so Barney is out too. George? No! Brill? No again, he didn’t look the president type. So, what did he look like?” and my head was beginning to ache again with the vibrations of my mumbling mouth, so I just thought it through instead.

He looked kind of Latin, like Central American maybe. Swarthy skin, nice colour, wavy black hair, dark brown eyes. Yeh. It was the eyes, those piercing brown bullets. So he must be a Jose, Juan, Manoel – No, of course not. It was Simon. Now I remembered then looked at the business card again and there it was ‘Simon de Fonseca’. Hey I’m right I smiled a celebratory smile – the brain’s still working.

But what the hell are ‘Baratas’? I had cried in many of those bars. I must have done because that’s when I drink the heaviest.

So if I was crying then I was probably telling all and sundry about the shit I was in. But what did that have to do with mister ‘de Fonseca’.

“I am from Brazil,” He had said. I was beginning to remember now. “We have many wonderful things in my country, especially the ‘Baratas’.”

It was here that my memory failed me. “Brazil has coffee. Brazil has sugar and now Brazil has oil, so we’ve told – but what are ‘Baratas’?”

So I dialed the number on his card.

Two rings into the call and I decided it was a bad idea so I reached for the disconnect, except, there was a click and a softly spoken ‘Good morning’.  

“Ah, good morning. Mr. Fonseca?”

“Yes?”

“This is Zachary. We were talking the other night and …,”

He interrupted me.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Zachary is it? I don’t remember names very well, but I would assume that you are holding my business card in your hand or you wouldn’t have called this number. Am I right?”

“Well, actually, yes, that’s true,” I replied.

“Then please, could you read to me what is written on the back of the card,” he asked gently.

“It’s ‘Baratas’, and that’s why I’m calling,” I began.

“Of course, that’s why you are calling me. Mr. Zac, a very funny man, but very drunk, also.”  

“So you remember?” I asked a little more intently.

“Oh yes, your bugs and Mr. Biggus, I think you called him and how he was the only one in this world who understood you and that you needed dancing Roaches.”

Simon de Fonseca stopped talking and I cringed at the thought of someone hearing me say something nice about the great Richard Glass.

“Yeh, yeh, you’re right. I must have made a spectacle of myself,”

“On the contrary, Mr. Zac. We all had a very amusing time.”

So there was more than one person listening to that shit – god, what I wouldn’t give to erase that episode, I thought.  

“Ah, Mr. Fonseca,” I began slowly. “What exactly does ‘Baratas’ mean?”

“Baratas are very wonderful creatures, Mr. Zac,”

“Please call me Zachary, Mr. Fonseca, but what kind of creatures are they ? ” , I almost pleaded.

“You may call me Simon, Zacharia,”  

“It’s Zachary, Simon.”

Yes of course, please, I am sorry. The Barata is what your Mr. Biggus is needing.” He said, a smile almost coming through his voice.

“You mean that ‘Baratas’ are Roaches?” I asked incredulously.

“Yes, yes, Zachary. But not just any Roach. These are very clever creatures and might I venture to say, intelligent too.”

I almost scoffed in disbelief but there was something serious in his manner so I waited to hear more.

“I have some very special Baratas that I can help you with. We must get together and I will show you, then you can decide.”

“Look Simon, I’m grateful for the help really, believe me, but I don’t see how the hell I’m going to get stupid Roaches to dance, and I don’t mean to put you down but you’ve got to be pulling my chain if you expect me to believe that Roaches have any inkling of intelligence.”

“Now now, uh, Zachary. I promise you. It will not be a waste of time. Look, why don’t you come and have dinner here with me, a fun evening, a little eating, a little drinking, then a little look at my friends. You will not have wasted your time I assure you. You will leave with a full stomach, a warm feeling in your head and the happiness of a good friend, said Simon convincingly.

I was listening for something, anything that would give me an out, except, there wasn’t a single reason why I shouldn’t go and visit him. I kind of liked the guy and besides, I was starved. My budget had gotten me down to a starvation diet.

“So, what time then?” I asked.

There was a quiet shuffling then “How about two hours from now, that will give you, time to get here and me, time to make all the preparations,” Simon replied with that smiley voice of his.

I knew where he lived. I’d been there a few times on odd errands. A nice neighborhood, nothing fancy but clean and quiet. 

I spruced myself up as best I could, set out the evening snacks and headed out. An hour and forty minutes later I was admiring some of the many photos that lined the walls of his living room.

Carmen Miranda with her trademark fruit basket – Not really Brazilian, Simon explained, but from Portugal, made Brazil famous none-the-less. Ze Carioca the cartoon Brazilian bird – the most famous Brazilian music – Tom Jobim, Joao Gilberto.

Carmen and Ze were familiar to me, but Tom Jobim and Joao meant nothing.

“Bossa Nova,” Simon shouted out, “The Girl from Ipanema”

Then I clicked, and he reeled off the popular standards I’d been humming along to most of my life.

It was a great meal – I’d been afraid that he might prepare something from the Brazilian jungles – instead we had a beautifully grilled steak with fresh vegetables and sauté potatoes followed by cheesecake.

We drank wine and I listened to his stories of life in a country run by Dictators and Generals.

“It’s not like that anymore,” Simon said. “Now we have democratic dictators.”

My look of shock became laughter as I saw him wink.

“It is true. Democracy came to my country in 1989 but sometimes it feels to me that little has changed. We really need to do very much to make Brazil a true democracy, but come, that is enough of my thoughts. Let me show you what you have come to see.”

He led me from the room to a door beneath the stairs.

“Please, watch your head,” he said leading me through.

Still, forewarned or not, I managed to shave a healthy patch from my already balding pate as we stepped down into the dark space below. Simon switched on a light, then another and I found myself in a well appointed office.

“This, my friend, is where I hide myself most days. I have all that I need except perhaps for a window and a view of the sea, which is best because I would never work otherwise.”

Behind a large bookstand sitting on a long table was what looked like a shoe box with large air vents cut into the sides.

“Please Zachary, could you sit there in that chair and keep perfectly still. Thank you,” he said as I sat myself down.

“Henry,” he called out. “I have a friend who wishes to meet you.” 

There came a scurrying sound from within the box. I was suddenly afraid. I felt no love for cockroaches and had often done my best to be rid of them as quickly as possible.

I felt my heartbeat quicken as the feelers protruded from one of the large vents followed by the shiny brown head, body and spindly legs as ‘Henry’ crawled onto the table in front of the box. I swallowed the urge to reach out and crush ‘Henry’ with great difficulty.

Henry the roach, the Brazilian Barata remained motionless except for his waving antennas. Then he turned away from me to face Simon. There was a moment of silence then Simon spoke.

“Henry seems to feel a little threatened by you being here. He is not sure if he can trust you.” and Simon lifted a questioning eyebrow in my direction.

Should I come clean, I wondered. Why not, it wouldn’t do any harm. So I said.

“He scares me, we used to rush around stamping on roaches like him when I was young. It’s a little hard just sitting here doing nothing.   

Simon smiled enigmatically. Now you must decide Zachary for I understand a lot depends on this project for your Mr Biggus.”

He was right as it seemed everyone but me, really understood. I needed this job, needed to get back on track, maybe take a new direction sometime ahead, but until them I really needed this work. So I did my best to relax a little and think positive.

Simon smiled encouragingly at me as he instructed Henry to show off his talents.

“I’m afraid that Henry only knows the ‘Samba”,” Simon said. “He seems to have problems with the ‘Bossa Nova’.”  

And Henry began to move around in front of his box in a way that resembled scuttling, the exact same thing I thought roaches did anyway, then things changed. What had seemed to be random steps became something more rhythmical and contained a pattern. I’d never understood ‘Samba’ as a dance but watching Henry now I began to recognize a certain beauty as his six legs moved about to some imagined but unheard sound.

I was impressed and began to look for parallels that might be used with my own stars, thinking about the beat, the count etc. I’d often taught my pets their tricks using a combination of light sounds, vibrations or gestures that they seemed able to count from as they polished off their routines.

Henry had stopped. If he were human I might imagine him resting to catch his breath or even pumping himself up for the next act.

Then he began to move strangely, first bending his body a little, almost stretching, while his back legs appeared to be looking for purchase on the shiny smooth surface of the table. There was almost a grunt, I thought I’d heard one but I might be mistaken as Henry launched his head and body upright so that he was supported by his two back legs and the soft spongy trunk of his body.  His front legs flailed about a bit until he was comfortably balanced before he gradually pushed himself upright to stand without support on his back legs. 

I sat there with my mouth open and let the spittle drool from my mouth and down my chin, not daring to move in case I startled him.

“He has been trying to do that for almost a week now. Yesterday was his first time and today this is his third, but it is tiring for him.” Simon said smilingly as he tapped his finger twice on the table.

Henry lowered himself down and remained there motionless.

“Give him a few seconds Zachary, then he will show you some other things he can do,” Simon said.

“Hell no,” I said enthusiastically. “He’s done enough already. Just tell me what we do next.”

Simon smiled, tapped the table once more and waited for Henry to return slowly to his box.

“I am sure that Henry would be happy to go with you. You must understand that Henry is, what you might call, a seed. He will help you to train the other Baratas I give to you. Henry Is not unique but he is special and I believe you do not have much time to prepare your pets, it that so?” Simon had asked me a question but already knew the answer and was already fussing about among similar boxes.

“Yes, it’s true. I guess I’ve got about two weeks before ‘biggus’ will need my services.” I replied.

Simon now had another box that he placed on the table next to Henry’s. It had smaller covered vents and as Simon lifted the top of the box I could see a transparent film across the top. Down inside were many of the scurrying brown and black insects, the way I was used to seeing them.

“Henry?” Simon called into Henry’s box. “I believe it is now that you instruct the others. I have placed their box next to yours.”

We both waited but nothing happened. I looked questioningly at Simon who held up his hand and told me that Henry didn’t like to be rushed and that we should be patient. He then suggested coffee while we waited so we went back to his kitchen to savior the hot brew. 

I was impatient yet enthralled at the prospect of seeing what was going to happen. The coffee was black and sickly sweet but delicious non-the-less. “This is how we make coffee in Brazil” he told me.

“It is time,” he announced.

We returned to his office where I looked eagerly at the two boxes half expecting Henry to be atop his own box commanding the others to perform tricks.

Instead, Henry was nowhere to be seen. All was silent. Even the scuttling from the other box had stopped. Simon still smiled, then he said “See” as he lifted the lid of the other box.

There the ‘Baratas’ were lined up in a row facing Henry’s box all apparently engrossed in something we could neither see nor hear.

Simon had placed his hand lightly on the table, then he looked at me.

“It is Henry. The sensation is very faint, but I believe he is tapping out instructions to the others.”

After some time Simon announced that the tapping had stopped.

“I think everything is ready.”

He lifted the lid of the box. Down inside the ‘Baratas’ seemed to look up as one then down again.

“You will take the two boxes. I have written some instruction on this paper for you to begin. I expect that Henry will give you further instructions, soon enough,” Simon said handing me a carefully written list.

So, how was I going to understand ‘Roach’ speak? I was impressed but not convinced. I only hoped that Simon didn’t sense it.

The trip home was uneventful. I placed the boxes on the kitchen table, checked the ‘Pets’ then sat down and read the instructions.

They really did not need any special care and might even be able to look after themselves if it came to a pinch. Let’s face it.  They’ve been around longer than any other creature on this planet.

Henry was another thing. He was to be afforded as much in the way of comfort as could be managed. He was my guarantee of success.

Through my eyes as a boy

Authors note

Let me state first, that I am not a particularly religious person, and that the belief in something or someone that cannot be seen is even harder still, especially in the world as we know it today.

I do however, believe in man and the strength and power that man and men have when the pursuit is good but understand that it is also unfortunately as strong when it is bad. I do prefer to believe in good rather than god and sometimes wonder if they might not be one and the same.

We are taught through the words of man in his bible, of the man they call Jesus. By all accounts, this man was someone very much ahead of his time and somewhat of a revolutionary. He seemed to have understood and questioned much more than most others were prepared to do and this brings into question why and how he came to do this. There are also many, what people call, miracles attributed to Jesus which are hard to disprove or prove, as are the miracles of today.

My story has come to me over a period of time and seems to have been formed through me in a way that I find as hard to believe as I do the absolute truth of such a person. Nevertheless I have continued to write, what I hope to be, a little something that people who read this might identify with or if possible, understand what a man such as Jesus might have lived and experienced to cause him to be and act as he did.

This story reflects only a very short period of a life that I cannot hope to know, but as I felt compelled to write it, I also feel compelled to make what there is, available to those who might wish to live this short period through and with me.

Shane Gregory Dale

Introduction

The man known as Jesus lived an intense and difficult period of his life just before he died, teaching others and bringing the word of his father, that who we call God, to the people around him. Such were these last few years that many who came into contact with such a man wanted so desperately to find a release from their lives seemingly so heavily burdened with suffering and despair under yet another conquering empire.
To this end, the word of his father brought hope to many and Jesus 's criticism of the customs of his people reflected what many were beginning to feel too but were afraid to say.
For his troubles Jesus found himself hounded by both the empire and his own people until finally, he was brought to trial and sentenced to die on the cross as would a common criminal.

This story begins from that very moment when he seems to most suffer......

Chapter One – Upon the cross

I see them all below me. They expect so much of me yet, all I want is a release from this pain, this torture.

“Oh father. Forgive them for they know not what they do!”

I shout out these words that have come into my head, and the pain is such that I lose my senses. Everything stops for a moment. I don't know how long it is but I rise again, driving the pain shooting through me until I scream.
I am lost there swimming in and out of the present to the past.
Then I am a boy again and I awake to Joseph, my father, already working hard below. My mother is Mary. Even after these years together she seems not to have changed. Her face is angelic, serene, while her will is iron. I see her through a man's eyes, but I am just a boy.
I am to be a carpenter, just like my father, shaping the wood into beauteous, living, wonderful things. I will take the naked rough soul placed before me and mould it, transform it into a thing of beauty.
I am a carpenter and my father is a god, whose skilled hands do all, that I so want to do. I stand beside him and act out each of the movements he makes. I have some wood before me. I too select a piece, turning it from one way to the other as Joseph does. I select another, then another until there is a pile, just like his.
He stands there smiling his wise smile while I await his judgement. He draws me to him then takes each piece from his pile and explains the characteristics of that wood that made it a part of his work and what part it would play when his work is finished.
I stand before my own pile. It is like our games. The games we play as children, when we select the friends we want to play alongside us. Each is chosen because he is favoured as a friend, not because of the role he can play.
My pile of wood is like that. The pieces are beautiful and are my friends, but they will never come together in the way my father's will.
I hear my friends outside, calling me.

“Be off with you,” my father commands and I skip forth into the heat of the morning already seeking the voices through the blinding brightness.

“Why are you so late?” they shout as one. “Were you taking time to once more suckle at your mother's breast?”

I chase after them with feigned anger into the already crowded market of our town. They dodge back and forth between the various stalls, together then apart, goading me along, until exhausted, we finally fall into a gasping heap below the great walls of the temple.
From the temple we hear the sounds of the merchants chanting out their wares, each vying for the little money the people have brought with them.
We pick ourselves up and wander around past the walls to the entrance. The steps before us lead to the extent of marble which is the floor of this great place. The stench of so many people assaults our senses while the hollow sounds that had come to us outside are a pandemonium within this closed place.
The running continues as each of us threads himself through the milling crowd. Our destination is at the front of the temple, to a place that is elevated above the rest. There have been many speakers who have stood before our people and spoken of great things from this place.
We take turns at speaking to the unheeding groups below us and pretend that we are commanding them. Some people turn and listen to us while others only laugh and tease us. I feel a sense of wonderment when it is my turn, and for a moment it seems that everyone is stopped and listens to me. That is just a fleeting moment and passes quickly.
We soon tire of our game and run scrambling beneath the stalls, looking for something, anything that might have fallen, that we could take with us as we leave.
There are five of us today. Sometimes there are more and other times less. We are all ten years old, going on eleven. We have played together ever since my father brought us here from the land where I was born.

Chapter Two – Discoveries

Today we are going to visit a special place. Ahaz told us about it yesterday. We walk the paths trodden flat by the hooves of the many goats, across low hills white and dry in the harsh hot sunlight, the sharp stones tearing relentlessly against the hardened soles of our sandals.
Then there is another trail, obviously not often travelled as the still growing grass along its route testifies.
We are quieter now, almost hushed in an effort to move as stealthily as possible through the canopy of date palms and olive trees.
We come across a narrow opening in the rock wall before us. We wait a little, watching listening, ready to run if need be, but there is hardly a sound.
Slowly we press ourselves through the gap and along the passage beyond. The dust we stir up begins to cling to our clothes in the close heat there, making us too, smell like the mules and goats that have passed before us.
On the other side, the sun beats relentlessly upon us as a gusting dry wind whips the sand about our feet. Before us lie two paths and Ahaz eagerly heads to the one on the right.
The path leads us down a winding route amongst boulders and short grasses. Although tired from the hot sun and the effort of our excursion, this is soon forgotten as we sight some far off dwellings below.
We quicken our pace excitedly paying no heed to Ahaz's quiet pleadings. We almost rush directly into the small hamlet but see some men leaving one of the huts. We quickly fall behind some rocks and wait for Johab, the slowest, to catch up.
It doesn't take long before these men pass us, talking in low voices, seeming not to notice us.
Ahaz finally gets up and motions us to follow. We move off the path and climb round the rocks to the back of the first hut.
Through the flapping gossamer in front of the open door, we can faintly see what appears to be a woman. She is dancing to some unheard music, her movements as delicate and light as I have ever seen before.
We all watch, transfixed as she swings first one way, then another. It is hypnotic and none of us wants to turn away. She stops suddenly and seems to look directly at us.
We duck down behind our cover in frightened horror expecting the shout of discovery. An eternity passes until I finally take the courage to look again.
She is gone, so I look around in panic to see if she is coming to find us. I call the others who too begin searching.
I see a figure now through the billowing curtain, but it isn't her. It is a heavy set figure who moves like a merchant, like one who has not carried much.
Where is she we wonder looking from one to the other? The man moves in and out of our view but she remains elusively hidden.
Once again we look about us already tiring of our game.
The sharp crack of a shutter closing draws our attention back to the house. The man is gone too and the interior of the house is totally dark, the only light now coming from the open doorway and its gossamer veil.
Then her naked form is silhouetted against the gossamer, drawing gasps from each of us as she steps back into the house, closing the door behind her.

“Who is she?” asks Eliahba.

“What is she doing?” Benaiah asks next.

None of us have the answer. It seems that there will be no more fun here today so we slowly make our way back to where we had come.
The sun is past its zenith and we each have chores to do, so we go as quickly as we can to our homes.
I arrive home to find my mother is angry today. She cannot buy the things we need because the caravans are delayed once more. She sends me to talk to some weary travellers who have just arrived to get news of the roads leading to our city.
Dusk is drawing in as I approach the market place again. With the cooling of the day into night, fires are lit while people gather their robes about them as they settle to partake of their final meal for the day.
I see the travellers far off to one side already bedded down to rest. Not wanting to disturb them, I instead move to sit at the feet of an old Rabbi, just as some of the other boys have done.
He speaks to us of his travels, of the peoples he has seen and of their strange customs. We listen in awe as he gesticulates this way and that, singing yet crying, laughing then serious.
'The men are savages he says of one. 'The women are common and of the earth' he says of another. 'Tall idols are scattered everywhere' he says of yet another people and we all cry out in dismay at such sacrilege. But he is tiring fast so our group breaks up until finally I am alone with him.

“When you cross the highest mountains, the hottest deserts and the deepest rivers, do not despair. These will be but pebbles in your sandals compared to what lies ahead.” he says looking directly at me.

“But I am to remain here with my father. That, that you say is not for me,” I reply confidently.

“No my child. You are destined to be more than a craftsman like your father. You will see many Rabbis like me, speaking to you in different tongues.”

“How do you know my father?” I ask puzzled.

“Through you my child. He is great and wise, and so shall you be. I am tired now. Go in peace.”

“Go in peace father,” I reply in wonderment.

“How could this Rabbi know my father? How could he know me?” I ask myself. He is here but a short time and I myself have only seen him this once.

I walk slowly back home gathering water for my mother, thinking about the Rabbi's words and those of the few travellers I spoke to in the market.
My mother is calmer as I tell her about the Romans and their new taxes slowing everybody down.

“Prices are going to be much higher,” she says. “We will have to barter well these coming days.”

I seek out my father who is resting. He bids me to join him, the weariness of his day already lifting from his brow. He begins talking to me about his work, his customers, then about the new roman taxes, confirming what I learnt in the market.

“Father,” I ask, “What is that place amongst the rocks along that path rarely travelled, accessed through the fissure in the rock face?”

My father looks at me and I sense the question in his heart, and his careful consideration of what I ask.

“My son,” he says finally. “We are a people of exacting standards. We have laws that must be obeyed, yet there are many of us who have needs that contradict these laws. Such is the wisdom of our people, that laws can be kept and needs be met as long as the two are kept as far apart as possible. It is that place where men go to, to satisfy those needs that their wives can not.”

I think this through as I know my father expects me to.

“Father. I'm not sure what this 'need' is that you speak of?”

“If you know of this place, then I guess you must have been there. Is this right?”

“Yes my father,” I reply without shame, for I have never felt shame before my father.

“And you have seen men and women coming together, Is this right?”

“This too is right, my father.”

“And the woman?” He looks at me with an enquiring look. “You feel a stirring when you look at them? Your pulse quickens and you think silly thoughts?”

I pause before speaking. “My father is truly wise,” I say.

“I was a boy once,” he says.

“Father. Why is it wrong to feel these things when the woman is not your wife?”

“It is not wrong to feel. It is wrong to act. Our laws state that we must have only one wife and that our children should come only of that union.”

“But our people come of Abraham who had two wives,” I remind him.

“Only because his wife could not bear children. If not for her goodness, our race would not have been.”

I am left now with these questions of what is right and what is wrong. My father, for all his great strength, is weary now and I see from his tone that it is time for me to think through what we have spoken about. And so I retire.

Chapter Three - Future

I rise with the sun and attend to my mother's bidding. Today is the busiest market day of the week and I must keep alert. My mother needs a number of different things, and while my father is constantly busy, his work often pays very little so we must make every hard earned shekel count.
My friends and I have no time to play today as each of us is busy helping our families.
Being alone, without them, in the great temple is a denigrating experience. The noise is even more deafening and the stalls seem to have doubled in size and quantity.
I look at this place of worship and wonder how these people can do what they do to such hallowed ground. I want to shout out and scream at them, but I am merely a boy, and what can a boy do in a man's world.
Instead, I begin moving through the stalls and watch the haggling, trying my hand every now and then, just to test the waters.
The new Roman taxes have made it hard for everyone and I soon see that my mother's wishes will be difficult to meet.
Some men are gathered round the place where leavened bread is prepared as they wait. Another well travelled Rabbi is there recounting yet other tales of other places, while taking a small share of each of the breads placed before the men.
He is in the midst of what appears to be a long and detailed story, when he stops abruptly and looks directly at me.

“You are truly the son of your father,” he says after some delay. “I know for I have seen your father and he is in me.”

I am as surprised at this Rabbi's declaration as I was at the others. He is new here and my father has no time for such markets. They can not have met.
I thank him none-the-less and move to leave. There is something however that holds me there as I look deeply into the Rabbi's eyes and sense a deep wisdom come over me. It is as if the ages of man is coursing through my mind, and for a moment I am dizzy, ready to collapse. My eyes flutter, then open to a vast emptiness, a desert, an oasis, both as one. As quickly as my eyes open my eyes close. A rapid blink and the market is back but the Rabbi has gone.
I am frightened but strangely, not afraid.
There are many people looking up at me, each has some problem. Some appear to be blind, deformed, crippled, even crazy, all crying quietly for help and I, in despair, unable to understand or grasp what has become of me, reach up to cover my ears and eyes, yet it is strange to me, for I have become bearded, my hair is long and the young tenderness of my skin is tougher, rougher, aged.
I look down at these old robes, so long and worn, to the sandals that cover great feet, to similar men beside me, gently holding these people back.
A bright light hits my eyes and I blink them shut. For a moment I am as if suspended in nothingness and other voices pound about my head.
I open my eyes, and all is quieted. The people are gone and the many voices too, while the Rabbi continues to look at me, talking, not to me or to anyone in particular, but as if nothing has happened.
I am aware of nothing new. Around me things are as they were. The men do not stare. My clothes are as they have always been my face still clear of the signs of men while my sandals, although similar, cover much smaller feet.
The Rabbi rises to leave and gathers what he needs to him, never once taking his eyes from mine.

“I believe that you are ready and have seen what you are to become,” he says so that only I can hear. “Your life as a boy will soon end but what you live now will make you that man you are to become.”

He bows his head, turns and leaves, his robes dragging lifelessly behind him.
I must continue with my mother's work but I cannot forget what happened and I wander from stall to stall, unconsciously gathering all that she needs.
She scolds me for I have brought so little and spent so much. As punishment I must forage for those things I failed to buy. Then, as night falls and the cold collects about us, I call to my father for help in understanding what has so recently passed.

“You are not of this world,” he says. “You are born of the father and your life with us is to be short. This I have been told.”

Chapter Four - Gifts

Today we rest. My friends and I have no chores beyond our usual water gathering o we run from our homes to the banks of the great river.
We flit in and out of the olive and date trees, hunt below the palms for fallen delights. We drink of the fresh water and the life giving rays of the sun. It is getting hotter and we seek shelter in the shade of these wonderful monsters.
It is Johab who sees it, for he is the slowest and wanders as if in a dream, with his head in the clouds, so it is this that takes his eyes to the lovely bird up high.
It seems to be hurt as it hobbles along the branch in one direction then another. The temptation is too great and the boys in us rush to collect as many stones as possible to throw at the unfortunate creature.
We take turns, each one of us dancing with joy as our stones come closer, bouncing off branches, the trunk, until finally, one, two, three stones hit the bird and it plummets to the ground, dead. We celebrate, dance about, poking at the lifeless corpse.
Finally we crouch down and look more closely, each one of us touching the quickly cooling body.
Eliahba is the most silent among us and there is a strange sadness about him.

“There is a nest up there,” he says, so quietly that we hardly hear him. “Listen to those hungry babies.”

We all listen, as the sounds of pleading baby birds begin to bombard us.

“How will they survive?” Ahaz asks.

“She wasn't hurt,” Johab admits. “She was protecting her babies.

We continue looking at the lifeless creature, thinking about what we have done. We are only boys and sometimes things happen.

Then something inside me makes me speak. “It is wrong to take a life, any life. We can never forget that, we must always work towards keeping life- my father commands it.

They all look at me, wondering no doubt, where my father is to give such commandments.
I stoop to pick up the little bird and I cover it with my hands as they watch me. I expect them to laugh and tease me. Instead they remain solemn, waiting for what is to come, for they know me as I know not myself.
My hands open as if, by someone else. That cruelly broken creature is now whole and stirs until it awakes, testing its wings before surveying each of us and flying back to the tree above.
They come to me, my friends, and tap me lightly on the shoulder, embrace me a little but say nothing as we gather our things and return home.

Chapter Five - Justice

I am alone today. Each of my friends has something different to do so I have decided to visit the market again, to see what produce there is and the prices the traders charge. It is more and more important that I do this so my mother can trust me more.
There is much excitement here, more than most days. There is a large group of men and older women who are dragging another, quite beautiful woman between them.
I follow as they take her to the square, where she is thrown to the ground. She looks up at them and there is fear in her eyes. But there is defiance there too as she looks from one to one. Shortly her gaze focuses on me and her eyes plead. A deep, deep sense of pity comes over me and I move as if to be with her, except I am pushed aside.

“There are those of you who do as I have done,” she shouts out, but nobody listens.

They have all gathered small and large piles of stones around them and their voices rise in a crescendo, then, as if as one, they begin to hurl their stones at the woman, who strikes up her hands and arms and legs in useless protection as her clothes and body are torn into useless shreds.

“And so shall fall all who are adulterers,” a louder voice chants, and great cheering follows.

I am last to leave, sickened and saddened by what is left. I hope her death was quick and that she finds forgiveness in that other world. But who will forgive those who do this? Isn't the first rule we learn - “Thou shalt not kill”?

My father looks at me as I arrive home and is immediately saddened by my face and the tears that stream from my eyes.

“Are you unwell?” he asks me.

“It is not an illness my father,” I reply.

“Then what troubles you?” he asks now.

“I don't understand. I believe in our laws. I respect our people, but I do not understand and I am sad because of this”.

My father looks puzzled. “Of what do you speak my son?”

“Of the market today. We are taught that killing is wrong, yet a woman is stoned by our people until she is dead.” I reply to my father angrily, but not so angry as to hurt him, but angry enough for him to see my pain.

We are silent as I wipe the tears from my cheeks. My father looks down at me and I can see that great depth of wisdom that is his, move through his mind.

“You understand that she did something against our rules and must be punished for that, don't you?” he says finally.

“Yes I understand that, but what punishment is this that kills? Did she kill another?”

“No my son. She was procreating with a man who was not her husband.”

“But you said that there are women who are permitted to do this,” I say to my father, now more puzzled than before.

“Yes my son, there are such women, but she was not one of them and she dishonoured her husband and her family.” My father stops and waits.

I remember the woman now and remember her husband and her family.

“But her husband is already dishonoured. He drinks of the wine and is made a fool and he does foolish things. Her family is all lazy and live without a home or food and beg from everyone,” I tell my father.

“It is not wrong to be poor, to beg when there is nothing. There is no law against such things, and it is wrong of us to judge these things this way,” my father scolds lightly.

“Is stealing wrong? My father. Is cheating? Beating others? Is not killing wrong, even in self-defence?”

“All these things you mention are against our laws,” my father replies, a thoughtful look playing across his face.

“Then what right does Aaron have who steals from beggar's bowls? Ishmael who steals camels? Johaab who beats his own mother and children? What right does Thomas have to cheat the people who borrow money from him? Yet all of these were the first to cast their stones. And even Magda, she who services men, cast her stone. What right do they have to judge?”

My father comes and holds me to him, and strokes my head. I ask so many questions and he in his wisdom, answers them. But this question is one I must answer myself. This I sense very strongly through his touch.

Chapter Six - Hunger

My life with these people is a strange one. I live with them and feel as one with them, yet, I feel different. I am learning the ways of my people, I was born one of them I am told, but there are many things that do not seem right.
A man who is harmed by another can inflict the same harm in return. Are they not both criminals then? Shouldn't he who harms be shown the error of his ways? Shouldn't he who is harmed not learn the power of understanding and forgiveness so that he might teach he who harmed him and all those others who wish harm on others?
But no. They all seem to hunger more and more for better things, even when they are fully satisfied.
I once gave a hungry man half my meal one day when my mother and I travelled to a neighbouring village. My mother smiled her approval, but a man next to us who didn't see her smile began to scold me.

“Have you no shame boy? Why do you dishonour your father and his hard work by giving that man the food you need?”

“But he is hungry,” I reply.

“Did he pay you?” the man asks.

“No,” I reply.

“Did he work for it or did you a service?” he asks again.

“No,” I reply once more.

“Then he has no right to your food.” he states simply.

I look at him and study his face. His look is triumphant and there is confidence in him, that he understands these simple laws of our people. But as I look into him, I see that confidence wane, replaced by doubt, until his eyes leave mine.

“How can a man who has no work, who cannot work, live and eat and be warm if our laws are so strict?”

“He must find a way,” he answers less surely.

“Should we not share what we have when we have plenty or especially, when we have too much?”

His confidence returns. “We must keep what we cannot use for the future. We work hard now so that we will never have to beg, go hungry or be cold.” The triumph is on the verge of returning.

“While those around us suffer and die?”

“They will die anyway. We will all die.” He is beginning to tire of this discussion.

“And what is enough that is not too much? You can never know your future. You may walk from here and fall dead to the earth, right now. What then of your plenty? What then of those who suffer and die so that you may have plenty, more than you will ever need?”

“It is my right.” he defends.

“It is our duty to help others, to share our good fortune with others so that we all might live without suffering.”

I turn from him and he is quiet.

When we left that place, the hungry man thanked me and moved on, but the angry man just sat there, staring into nothing while tears streamed slowly down his cheeks. I wiped at my own tears, for I too was crying for him.

Chapter Seven - Salvation

I, too, cry from where I hang on this cross, looking down on those few who are below me. We three approach the hour that is our end, when our earthly bodies will be no more than an empty vessel while my soul will rise to be with my father.
The pain is much less now. The physical pain that is, those holes in my hands, those lashings about my feet and that gash in my side have become a throbbing reminder of my earthly state.
But that pain that touched me so many times when I was young, when I felt the injustice of my people against each other, still tears into me, more deeply even, than the centurion's lance.
Do I give myself so that they may be saved? Is my life nothing? There are so few of them who weep yet so many who sought my touch.

“I bless each of you who have found the courage and strength to be here, and forgive all of you who have yet to believe. I give of myself in your name so that you shall be saved.” I say this as a final release, as I step from this shell, as I go.