Free Revelations by Julie Lynn Hayes Page B

Mary, who seems to know more than I do. She seems to have her finger on the pulse of the situation, but she remains silent. No use in asking what she’s obviously unwilling to divulge. No matter, I can ask Matthew later what he knows of things—he’ll tell me anything I wish to know. As will Jesus himself for that matter. But for entirely different reasons. I just don’t want to upset Jesus any more than he already is by asking, though.
    He’s upon the stage now, beckoning to Philip. I wonder what’s up. Normally he simply comes on and begins the next song. He’s looking very splendid in his pale blue robes. I know he’s most comfortable in such familiar garb. He tends to wear them upon the stage, or when he’s in our company. In this day and age, it wouldn’t do to go out into public dressed that way. It probably wouldn’t go over very well. But it seems rather appropriate for a group that styles themselves as The Apostles. Philip listens to him attentively, and then makes a sign to the rest of the band. I wonder what’s going on. It seems as though he’s made a change, he’s doing something unexpected. At least it appears that way from the reactions of the others.
    As the boys begin to play, Jesus walks toward the front of the stage, carrying his wireless mic. The mic is a concession to the fact that he has a tendency to roam too much in the course of both his vocalizing and his speaking, and wires tangle too easily. He raises his beautiful voice in song, and I am caught by surprise. His voice reveals a depth I don’t remember hearing before, which is saying a lot, because he has a voice like no other. His choice of music is also quite revealing—
    to me, anyway. It’s an old song— Kyrie by name. I haven’t even thought about it in years, but now the words flow about me as he fills the tent with his glorious dulcet tones. Kyrie eleison, kyrie eleison, kyrie… Lord, have mercy on me...
    Something’s wrong. I can feel it. I’m too close to him not to feel it. Something huge must be troubling him so much that he should make this very public appeal to his father—for that is doubtless what it is. He has never sung this song before.
    Never. It doesn’t take a genius to realize what the problem is—or should I say who.
    The juxtaposition of events is just too handy. I clench my fists in anger even as I search the crowd nearest to the stage, and sure enough there he is, on the far side, close but not too close. He always snags a point of view nearest the stage when Jesus sings or speaks; otherwise he roams wherever he likes. That little bastard. I excuse myself to Mary and Ruth, push my way politely through the crowd, until I’m standing beside the betrayer himself. He’s unaware of my presence. His eyes are riveted upon the stage. Upon Jesus. Always upon Jesus.
    “What’ve you done to him?” I hiss, coiled as if prepared to strike at this, my ancient enemy. I barely restrain myself from slapping his fool face.
    He turns toward me. I’m startled at what I see in his eyes—naked fear and confusion and something else, something I can’t quite put my finger on. Now I’m confused. Is it possible that Mr. Know-it-all Iscariot is frightened of something? Or someone? Once he recognizes me, the momentary illusion is dispelled. His eyes grow opaque as he seals himself off from me so I can’t see inside. Maybe he’s afraid he’s shown me too much.
    “Leave me alone,” is all he deigns to snarl as he turns his attention back to the stage. I can’t be gotten rid of quite so easily. I grab his arm, undaunted by his usual sullenness, force him to face me again. “You…have done this…I know it,” I accuse him.
    I can hear Jesus singing the chorus now. The way he sings the words, sings kyrie eleison , echoing in the haunting chorus…
    My God, it’s so very plaintive, so very evocative. An unwilling sob is drawn from my throat as I listen. I’m caught up in the emotions that I can feel in