Christopher Moore - Lamb - The Gospel According to Biff, Christ’s Childhood Pal

“Rock is best, but I suppose hard dirt is good.”

“I need to remember that.”

We seldom saw Maggie in those days after we began working with my father. I found myself looking forward to the Sabbath, when we would go to the synagogue and I would mill around outside, among the women, while the men were inside listening to the reading of the Torah or the arguments of the Pharisees. It was one of the few times I could talk to Maggie without Joshua around, for though he resented the Pharisees even then, he knew he could learn from them, so he spent the Sabbath listening to their teachings. I still wonder if this time I stole with Maggie somehow represented a disloyalty to Joshua, but later, when I asked him about it, he said, “God is willing to forgive you the sin that you carry for being a child of man, but you must forgive yourself for having once been a child.”

“I suppose that’s right.”

“Of course it’s right, I’m the Son of God, you dolt. Besides, Maggie always wanted to talk about me anyway, didn’t she?”

“Not always,” I lied.

On the Sabbath before the murder, I found Maggie outside the synagogue, sitting by herself under a date palm tree. I shuffled up to her to talk, but kept looking at my feet. I knew that if I looked into her eyes I would forget what I was talking about, so I only looked at her in brief takes, the way a man will glance up at the sun on a sweltering day to confirm the source of the heat.

“Where’s Joshua?” were the first words out of her mouth, of course.

“Studying with the men.”

She seemed disappointed for a moment, but then brightened. “How is your work?”

“Hard, I like playing better.”

“What is Sepphoris like? Is it like Jerusalem?”

“No, it’s smaller. But there are a lot of Romans there.” She’d seen Romans. I needed something to impress her. “And there are graven images—statues of people.”

Maggie covered her mouth to stifle a giggle. “Statues, really? I would love to see them.”

“Then come with us, we are leaving tomorrow very early, before anyone is awake.”

“I couldn’t. Where would I tell my mother I was going?”

“Tell her that you are going to Sepphoris with the Messiah and his pal.”

Her eyes went wide and I looked away quickly, before I was caught in their spell. “You shouldn’t talk that way, Biff.”

“I saw the angel.”

“You said yourself that we shouldn’t say it.”

“I was only joking. Tell your mother that I told you about a beehive that I found and that you want to go find some honey while the bees are still groggy from the morning cold. It’s a full moon tonight, so you’ll be able to see. She just might believe you.”

“She might, but she’ll know I was lying when I don’t bring home any honey.”

“Tell her it was a hornets’ nest. She thinks Josh and I are stupid anyway, doesn’t she?”

“She thinks that Joshua is touched in the head, but you, yes, she thinks you’re stupid.”

“You see, my plan is working. For it is written that ‘if the wise man always appears stupid, his failures do not disappoint, and his success gives pleasant surprise.’”

Maggie smacked me on the leg. “That is not written.”

“Sure it is, Imbeciles three, verse seven.”

“There is no book of Imbeciles.”

“Drudges five-four?”

“You’re making that up.”

“Come with us, you can be back to Nazareth before it’s time to fetch the morning water.”

“Why so early? What are you two up to?”

“We’re going to circumcise Apollo.”

She didn’t say anything, she just looked at me, as if she would see “Liar” written across my forehead in fire.

“It wasn’t my idea,” I said. “It was Joshua’s.”

“I’ll go then,” she said.

Well, it worked, I finally got the angel to leave the room. It went like this:

Raziel called down to the front desk and asked him to send Jesus up. A few minutes later our Latin pal stood at attention at the foot of the angel’s bed.

Raziel said, “Tell him I need a Soap Opera Digest.”

In Spanish, I said, “Good afternoon, Jesus. How are you today?”

“I am well, sir, and you?”

“As good as can be expected, considering this man is holding me prisoner.”

“Tell him to hurry,” said Raziel.

“He doesn’t understand Spanish?” Jesus asked.

“Not a word of it, but don’t start speaking Hebrew or I’m sunk.”

“Are you really a prisoner? I wondered why you two never left the room. Should I call the police?”

“No, that won’t be necessary, but please shake your head and look apologetic.”

“What is taking so long?” Raziel said. “Give him the money and tell him to go.”

“He said he is not allowed to buy publications for you, but he can direct you to a place where you can purchase them yourself.”

“That’s ridiculous, he’s a servant, isn’t he? He will do as I ask.”

“Oh my, Jesus, he has asked if you would like to feel the power of his manly nakedness.”

“Is he crazy? I have a wife and two children.”

“Sadly, yes. Please show him that you are offended by his offer by spitting on him and storming out of the room.”

“I don’t know, sir, spitting on a guest…”

I handed him a handful of the bills that he’d taught me were appropriate gratuities. “Please, it will be good for him.”

“Very well, Mister Biff.” He produced an impressive loogie and launched it at the front of the angel’s robe, where it splatted and ran.

Raziel leapt to his feet.

“Well done, Jesus, now curse.”

“You fuckstick!”

“In Spanish.”

“Sorry, I was showing off my English. I know many swear words.”

“Well done. Spanish please.”

“Pendejo!”

“Splendid, now storm out.”

Jesus turned on his heel and left the room, slamming the door behind him.

“He spit on me?” Raziel said, still not believing it. “An angel of the Lord, and he spit on me.”

“Yes, you offended him.”

“He called me a fuckstick. I heard him.”

“In his culture, it is an affront to ask another man to buy a Soap Opera Digest for you. We’ll be lucky if he ever brings us a pizza again.”

“But I want a Soap Opera Digest.”

“He said you can buy one just down the street, I will be happy to go get one for you.”

“Not so fast, Apostle, none of your tricks. I’ll get it myself, you stay here.”

“You’ll need money.” I handed him some bills.

“If you leave the room I will find you in an instant, you know that?”

“Absolutely.”

“You cannot hide from me.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it. Hurry now.”

He sort of shuffled sideways toward the door. “Don’t try to lock me out, I’m taking a key with me. Not that I need it or anything, being an angel of the Lord.”

“Not to mention a fuckstick.”

“I don’t even know what that means.”

“Go, go, go.” I shooed him through the door. “Godspeed, Raziel.”

“Work on your Gospel while I’m gone.”

“Right.” I slammed the door in his face and threw the safety lock. Raziel has now watched hundreds of hours of American television, you’d think he would have noticed that people wear shoes when they go outside.

The book is exactly as I suspected, a Bible, but written in a flowery version of this English I’ve been writing in. The translation of the Torah and the prophets from the Hebrew is muddled sometimes, but the first part seems to be our Bible. This language is amazing—so many words. In my time we had very few words, perhaps a hundred that we used all the time, and thirty of them were synonyms for guilt. In this language you can curse for an hour and never use the same word twice. Flocks and schools and herds of words, that’s why I’m supposed to use this language to tell Joshua’s story.