Nikos Kazantzakis - The Last Temptation of Christ

“Let him go gab with Jonah; he’s over there throwing his nets,” he grumbled. “As for us, lads, we’ve got work to do!” Once more he seized a knot in the rope and began to pull.

The fishermen resumed their sad, unvarying work chant, and all had their eyes glued on the buoys of red gourds, which came continually closer.

But just as they were about to haul the womb of the net with its load of fish up onto the beach, they heard a dreary buzzing in the distance, all over the plain, accompanied by shrill cries like those of the dirge. Old Zebedee tensed his huge, hairy ear in order to hear distinctly, and his men seized the opportunity and stopped work.

“What’s happened, lads?” Zebedee asked. “That’s the dirge; the women are lamenting.”

“Some great man died,” an aged fisherman answered him. “May God grant you a long life, boss.”

But old Zebedee had already climbed up onto a rock. His rapacious eyes swept over the plain, where he could see men and women running to the fields, falling, getting up again-and raising the dirge. The whole village began to turn upside down. Women passed by pulling out their hair, but behind them the men walked in silence, bowed down to the earth.

“What’s happened?” Zebedee yelled to them. “Where are you going? Why are the women crying?”

But they hurried past him toward the threshing floors and did not answer.

“Hey, where are you going? Who died?” howled Zebedee, waving his hands. “Who died?”

A stocky man halted, puffing. “The wheat!” he replied.

“Speak sensibly. I’m Zebedee; people don’t joke with me. Who died?”

He was answered, by cries which came from every direction “The wheat, the barley, the bread!”

Old Zebedee remained standing with gaping mouth. But suddenly he slapped his behind: he understood. “It’s the flood,” he murmured; “it washed the harvest off the threshing floors. Well, let the poor complain; it’s no concern of mine.”

The cries now inundated the plain. Every soul in the village had come outdoors. The women fell on the threshing floors and rolled in the mud, hurrying to gather up the small amount of wheat and barley which had been left as sediment in the hollows and furrows. The arms of Zebedee’s men fell useless to their sides: they had no strength to pull in the nets. Seeing them all gazing toward the plain with unemployed hands, Zebedee flew into a rage.

“To work!” he shouted, coming down from the rock. “Heave!” Once more he grasped the rope and pretended to pull. “We’re fishermen, glory be to God, not farmers. Let the floods come. The fish are expert swimmers and don’t drown. Two and two make four!”

Philip abandoned his flock and jumped from stone to stone. He wanted to talk. “A new deluge, lads!” he shouted, appearing before them. “Stop, for God’s sake, and let’s talk. It’s the end of the world! Just count up the calamities! Day before yesterday they crucified our great hope, the Zealot. Yesterday God opened the floodgates of heaven-just exactly when the threshing floors were loaded-and away went our bread. And not very long ago one of my sheep had a two-headed lamb. It’s the end of the world, I tell you! For the love of God, stop working and let’s talk!”

But old Zebedee caught fire. “Won’t you get the hell out of here, Philip, and leave us alone,” he yelled, the blood rising to his head. “Can’t you see we’ve got work to do. We’re fishermen and you’re a shepherd, so let the farmers complain-what do we care?… Men, your work!”

“And have you no pity, Zebedee, for the farmers who’ll die of hunger?” objected the shepherd. “They’re Israelites too, you know, our brothers; we’re all one tree, all of us, and it’s obvious that the plowmen are the roots-if they dry out, so do we all. And one thing more, Zebedee: if the Messiah comes and we’ve all died in the meantime, whom will he find to save? Answer me that if you can!”

Old Zebedee huffed and puffed. If you’d pinched his nostrils, he surely would have exploded. “Go on, for the love of God; go back to your philipkins. I’m sick and tired of hearing about Messiahs. One comes along, he’s crucified; along comes the next, he’s crucified too. And haven’t you learned what message Andrew brought his father, Jonah: it seems that wherever you go and wherever you stop, you find a cross. The dungeons are overflowing with Messiahs. Ooo, enough’s enough! We’ve been getting along just fine without Messiahs; they’re nothing but a nuisance. Go on, bring me some cheese and I’ll give you a panful of fish. You give me and I give you: that’s the Messiah!”

He laughed and turned to his adopted sons. “Step lively, my brave lads, so that we can light the fire, put on the chowder and eat. Look, the sun’s risen a yard and we haven’t done a thing.”

But no sooner had Philip lifted his foot to go join his flock than he halted. A donkey, nearly perishing with a load which reached to its ears, appeared on the narrow path which hugged the shore of the lake, and behind the donkey was a colossus with bare feet, open shirt-and a red beard. He held a forked stick in his hand and prodded the beast: he was in a hurry.

“Look! I think it’s old devil-hair himself, Judas Iscariot,” said the shepherd, holding his ground. “He’s started his rounds to the villages again to shoe mules and make pickaxes. Come on, let’s see what he’s got to say.”

“A plague on him!” murmured old Zebedee. “I don’t like his hair. I’ve heard that his ancestor Cain had a beard like that.”

“The unfortunate follow was born in the desert of Idumea,” said Philip. “Lions still roam there, so better not pick an argument with him.” He put two fingers into his mouth and began to whistle to the donkey-driver.

“Hello, Judas,” he called, “glad to see you. Come over this way a bit so we can get a better look at you.”

The redbeard spat and cursed. He did not like this shepherd fellow, nor did he like Zebedee, that parasite-didn’t like them at all. But he was a blacksmith, a man of need, and he approached.

“What news do you bring us from the villages along your route?” Philip asked. “What’s happening on the plain?”

The redbeard stopped his donkey by pulling its tail. “Everything’s just fine,” he answered with a dry laugh. “The Lord is exceedingly merciful, bless him! Yes, he loves his people! In Nazareth he crucifies the prophets, and here on the plain he sends a deluge and takes away his people’s bread. Can’t you hear the lamentations? The women are wailing for the wheat: you’d think it was their own sons.”

“Whatever God does is right,” Zebedee objected, vexed because all this talk was crippling the day’s work. “I have confidence in him no matter what he does. When everyone drowns and I’m the only one to escape, God is protecting me. When everyone else is saved and I’m the only one to drown, God is protecting me then too. I have confidence, I tell you. Two and two make four.”

When the redbeard heard these words he forgot that he was a day laborer who lived from hand to mouth and had to rely on every one of these people for his livelihood. Fired up by his evil disposition, he spoke and did not mince his words. “You have confidence, Zebedee, only because the Almighty lays a nice soft bed for you and your affairs. Your Worship has five fishing boats in his service; you have fifty fishermen as slaves; you feed them just exactly enough so they’ll have strength to work for you and won’t die of starvation-and all the while Your Highness stuffs his coffers and his larders, and his belly. Then you raise your hands to heaven and say, ‘God is just; I have confidence in Him! The world is beautiful; I hope it never changes!’… Why don’t you ask the Zealot who was crucified the other day why he struggled to free us; or the peasants whose whole year’s supply of wheat God snatched away in one night-ask them! They’re rolling in the mud right now, picking it up grain by grain, and weeping. Or ask me. I go around the villages and see and hear Israel ’s suffering. How long? How, long? Didn’t you ever ask yourself that, Zebedee?”