Chapter One

1

Huddling by the corners of the city wall, the man watched them carefully. There were six of them standing beneath the branches of a solitary tree; a lonely oasis in the desert beyond the walls of Bethlehem. The wind had begun to howl and whip even before the sun had set and the watcher pulled his shawl quick about his throat. He was not a young man any longer and his skin couldn't take the pummeling being offered by the sand. The shawl stretched across his nose, not only for protection, but to hinder the stench of camel dung and leprosy that rode the air. These were bad times and the tension among the populace only promised further unrest.

As the wind increased, it carved swirling figures on the open desert. Instinctively he felt beneath his robes for the pouch that rested there; afraid of its occupant and further afraid that one of the dancing ghosts might come and take from him that which he had stolen from another. He felt the weight of the metal in the cloth sack. He also felt its power; deep, breathing energy. Maybe the soul of its creator still resided within it. Its swelling called to his blood, heating him and making him erect. He suddenly felt as though the sand about him would open and swallow him completely. The thought forced him to press his back to the wall even more firmly. As he cringed against the wind and the thoughts, he wept only to have the tears swept away by the hungry wind. I am a wretch, he thought. Rotten within. But if that were so, how could the Master not have seen? How could he have let it come to this?

He thought of the supper and of what the Teacher had said.

"One of you will betray me this very night."

Of course he had known. Gooseflesh broke out along the man's arms. Of course the Master had known. When the Nazarene had kissed him, he must have tasted the treachery in his sweat.

He felt a sob rising and the sudden urge to run, but he suppressed them both. Why was he here? What compulsion must he feed? Questions that haunted him from childhood; from the moment he knew that he didn't belong. Not with the other children. Not with his family. And most certainly not with the Messiah. That was why he had left the sanctuary of the city walls, left the sight of God. He wanted time to realize himself. If it took lifetimes, he would know who he was. He needed to find a way to fit in with the rest of the world. If the Kingdom of Heaven was realized, then the opportunity would never come. He didn't want Heaven. He wanted the Earth. A ground in which to plant; a wife with whom to grow old. He was expressing man's oldest desire. Free will. If Jesus was allowed to live, the words of the prophets would come to pass, making the paths of right and wrong indistinguishable. This could not be. Not now. Not ever.

The sand whipped him furiously; lashings from above. Each grain seemed to have a mouth and they all spoke with one voice. Traitor! Follower of the serpent! Perhaps so, but all of it be damned. The world was not yet ready to begin its ending. He would die from this life and be born into another. In that existence he would not be so wretched. He did not want the life of an angel, but that of another man. He would not lose future lives for the sanctuary of the shortsighted. The power had to be stripped from his teacher. The man, Christ, could not be the Messiah.

2

The laughter of the men beneath the tree carried on the wind and pricked up the traitor's ears. The time was at hand. He forced himself away from the wall and forged ahead, through the wind.

"Who's there?" came the voice from one shadowed figure.

"It is I, Judas."

Judas watched the Shadow Man rise from his perch and circle the other side of the tree. There, silhouetted against the background of moon tide, another figure stood. Solitary and defined only by his dark shape, it seemed as though the man were staring into the whipping air, unabashed by the punishing sand it carried.

"Master. It is Judas."

"Has he the Shunite?" The taller man asked without turning, his voice carried evenly in the storm.

"I shall go and see Master."

"Don't bother." The man turned finally, his tall countenance dwarfing his servant. "He would have been a fool to come here without it."

"Yes, Master."

Judas watched the two shadows approach while the others formed a circle around him.

"Come," said the voice of their master. "The trunk of this tree should protect you from the blowing sands."

At the sound of his voice, Judas once more fought back the urge to run. It would have no good, he knew, but it might help remove some of the anxiety that settled in his belly like bad water. Two of the servants stepped aside allowing him passage to the tree's trunk.

"You've brought it then?"

"Yes."

The man's hand lay flat out before Judas. It seemed insubstantial, made more of wind and sand than of flesh. Judas shook his head back and forth.

"The ... the silver," Judas said, his voice wavering.

"Of course."

The man snapped his fingers and Judas thought the sound should have been lost amid the howling of the gale, yet he had heard it just fine. One of the servants approached and placed a small sack into Judas' own outstretched hand. He felt the weight of the bag and he knew it was right. He reached down beneath his robes and pulled free the cloth bag hiding there. He held it out before him, feeling the loss of power as it stopped coursing through his blood. The man gently pulled the pouch from Judas' still clutching fingers.

With the exchange complete, he was stripped of its power and Judas took a step back. He watched the man carefully, noting that he didn't open the pouch. Much like Judas with the silver, he too knew it was right.

"You realize of course," the man said to him, "that Jesus of Nazareth will have to die."

Judas nodded and his legs buckled as he felt the true weight of his deed.

"The imbalance of the Shunite cannot be tolerated. Even a man such as Jesus would go mad."

Judas nodded once more and sobbed before the stranger who emitted such freeze. He barely felt his arms being seized by the servants as he was pulled to his feet. The man closed the distance between them and placed his hands, which to Judas were as icy as the coldest of rains, on either side of his face and held him still. The eyes glistening like blue jewels in the moonlight as they stared into Judas' own, pushing aside the tears and reaching beyond. My God! His mind screamed. He's trying to steal my soul!

"And why shouldn't I?" The man answered, somehow hearing Judas' unspoken cries. "You've sold it already, haven't you?"

The man was smiling as he lowered his lips and kissed the traitor. Judas could taste the man's foul, frozen breath and not for the first time since they met, wondered if this were the Devil himself.

When the kiss was ended, the man turned his back on Judas and walked a few steps away. There he pondered. There was fear in the traitor; any fool could have tasted that. But beneath that, something more disturbing. A sense of truth perhaps. It worried him. Maybe this betrayal was part of some prophecy after all, and Judas was simply playing a role. After a while, he decided that it was impossible. No one could have known of his coming. This was just human superstition. Christ was a visitor like himself; a being who understood the need for power.

"Give him the sign," he called to the servants over his shoulder, "and hang him from the tallest branch."

Attached to the wooden sign was a rough cord, which they hung about Judas' neck. In the wood was carved a word in the ancient language. It simply read: traitor. More of the same cord had been fashioned into a noose, which the servants slipped about his throat. Two of the men held him tightly against the tree while the third reached beneath the robes for the pouch of silver.

"Leave it," the Master called and the man skittered away.

Judas struggled little as they pulled him away from the ground. As his life began to slip away, he realized that he had been wrong. He truly did belong. He had simply been playing his part. A role designed especially for him. None of the other Apostles could have done the task. He found himself wanting the breath of angels.

3

The Apostle Peter had gone to the boy, knowing him to be a believer and had entrusted him with the greatest of tasks. Peter had told the boy that Jesus himself had chosen him, for he was most holy and loyal among his peers. The boy Joseph had taken the pouch from Peter and had done as he was told. He ran. The wind was at his back and it felt more like flight than the pumping of his legs. He closed his eyes and believed he was lifted on the wings of angels.

He was to run to the edge of the world, until he reached the sea. Once there he would climb the highest mountain and relinguish the treasure into its deepest crevice. Joseph felt the small dagger bouncing against his hip as he went. With that dagger and all of his courage, he was to guard the Messiah's treasure for the rest of his days.

The boy never looked back toward the world he left behind.


Copyright Notice: Excerpted pages of Juggler by Stefan Bourque, published by Wicked Pages Press. ©2002 by Stefan Bourque. All rights reserved. This text may be used and shared in accordance with the fair-use provisions of U.S. copyright law, and it may be archived and redistributed in electronic form, provided that this entire notice, including copyright information, is carried and provided that Stefan Bourque or Darkwriter.Com or Wicked Pages Press is notified and no fee is charged for access. Archiving, redistribution, or republication of this text on other terms, in any medium, requires consent of Stefan Bourque or Darkwriter.Com or Wicked Pages Press.

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