Free The Last Temptation of Christ by Nikos Kazantzakis Page A

everywhere for her son. The whole world began to weep. It grew dim, and within the deep mist the mother discerned horses and bronze armor and an immense newly hewn cross which stretched from earth to sky.
    A cavalryman turned and saw her. Lifting his lance, he nodded for her to go back. The mother stopped. Stooping down, she looked under the horses’ bellies and saw her son. He was on his knees, wielding the pickax and making the cross fast in the stones.
    “My child,” she cried, “Jesus!”
    So heart-rending was the mother’s cry, it rose above the entire tumult of men, horses and famished, barking dogs. The son turned and saw his mother. His face darkened and he resumed his strokes more furiously than before.
    The gypsies, mounted on the rope ladders, had stretched the Zealot on the cross, keeping him tied with ropes so that he would not slip down. Now they took up their nails and began to nail his hands. Heavy drops of hot blood splashed Jesus’ face. Abandoning his pickax, he stepped back in terror, retreated behind the horses and found himself next to the mother of the man who was so soon to die. Trembling, he waited to hear the sound of ripping flesh. All his blood massed in the very center of each of his hands; the veins swelled and throbbed violently—they seemed about to burst. In his palms he felt a painful spot, round like the head of a nail
    His mother’s voice rang out once again: “Jesus, my child!”
    A deep bellow rumbled down from the cross, a wild cry from the bowels not of the man, but from the very bowels of the earth: “Adonai!”
    The people heard it—it tore into their entrails. Was it themselves, the people, who had shouted? or the earth? or the man on the cross as the first nail was driven in? All were one, all were being crucified. People, earth and Zealot: all were bellowing. The blood spurted out and splashed the horses; a large drop fell on Jesus’ lips. It was hot, salty. The cross-maker staggered, but his mother rushed forward in time to catch him in her arms, and he did not fall.
    “My boy,” she murmured again. “Jesus ...”
    But his eyes were closed. He felt unbearable pain in his hands, feet and heart.
    The aristocratic old lady stood motionless and watched her son’s spasms on the two crossed boards. She bit her lips and was silent. But then behind her she heard the son of the Carpenter and his mother. The anger rose up in her and she turned. This was the apostate Jew who constructed her son’s cross, this the mother who bore him. Why should a son like this, a traitor, why should he live while her son writhed and bellowed upon the cross! Driven on by her grievance, she stretched forth both her hands toward the son of the Carpenter. She drew near and stood directly before him. He lifted his eyes and saw her. She was pale, wild, merciless. He saw her, and lowered his head. Her lips moved.
    “My curse upon you,” she said wildly, hoarsely, “my curse upon you, Son of the Carpenter. As you crucified another, may you be crucified yourself!”
    She turned to the mother. “And you, Mary, may you feel the pain that I have felt!”
    As soon as she had spoken, she turned her head and riveted her eyes once more upon her son. Magdalene was now embracing the foot of the cross and singing the dirge for the Zealot, her hands touching his feet, her hair and arms covered with blood.
    The gypsies took their knives and began to slash the crucified man’s clothing in order to portion out the pieces. Throwing lots, they divided his rags. Nothing remained but his white headcloth, splotched with large drops of blood.
    “Let’s give it to the son of the Carpenter,” they said. “Poor fellow, he did a good job too.”
    They found him sitting in the sun, curled up and shivering.
    “That’s your share, Carpenter,” one of them called, tossing him the bloody kerchief. “Best wishes for many more crucifixions to come!”
    “And here’s to your own, Carpenter!” said the other gypsy,