Perfidy

“’And they took the thirty pieces of silver, the price of him on whom a price had been set by some of the sons of Israel, and they gave them for the potter’s field, as the Lord  directed me.’”

Mathew 27 9:10

     The man’s body swayed gently in the breeze, but there was not even the gentlest whisper of wind to the air.

*Crack*

 The branch tumbled with ferocious intent, as the body landed with a dry, desultory, thud.

Even the tree bent north and away from that fallen at its base, as if the tree wanted nothing to do with the corpse. There were none to witness the fall save for the family of the deceased, and they too turned their backs and walked away.

The man’s family had not wept, with even his mother’s cheeks remaining dry, Herod was her name. Her only gift to the betrayer, was the warm, salty spray of her sputum upon his lifeless corpse. She seized a pale cloth from his neck, a tattered inconsequential rag, not for remembrance, but a gift given to a child: rescinded.

**********************************

           The man’s legs kicked treading water, without hope, and without need. Here there was no danger, or pain, or need. Just isolation and absence.

    He lifted pale eyes, as devoid of color as they were of life, seeking light, but they found only its absence. Twinned, despondent, eyes gazed upon a realm inhospitable and without hope. However often he sought the light, he could not reach it, he could not reach Him, the Father—not here, and not Judas Iscariot. 

   Bereft of joy, without wisdom, and without love. Fire, brimstone, the Inferno, Pandemonium, the Abyss, Gehenna, Hades, Hel, the Underworld, the Netherworld: Hell, hath many names.

   It matters not the language, or the time, in all languages and all times Judas Iscariot is damned. He well knows it. He carries this fact with him, a self-made pillory.

   To Judas, Hell was a disappointment. Here, he had thought to find absolution through torment, through torturous punishment of his spirit. He had thought to finally get the punishment that he so richly deserved.

Instead of a lake of fire and brimstone he was greeted on the beginning of every day by a body of water, a lake of aimless color. It held neither warmth, nor cold and sat devoid of color. For all its width and depths, it was but a void to the north and to the south.

   Every morning was the same. He found himself in the lake’s depths, in the same location, and at the same time as the day before. The days were indeterminable, sometimes long, at other times so short that they began and ended within the blink of an eye.

   Judas was not probed, he was not poked, he was not prodded. He did not have to hear the malevolent laughter of dark nebulous voices, nor did he have to endure the crude jokes of demons and ghouls. Neither was he flayed, nor pierced. Nor was he crucified.

           He was denied punishment, gaoled with nothing so offensive as the stench of his own failures. Doomed to repeat the same activity in endless repetition.

           A day did not pass however inaccurate that term, in which he did not desire to be punished. Denied. Always denied.

He screamed until his voice was hoarse. He dove and sucked water into his lungs until he was consumed. At worst he felt discomfort, in this, his solitary existence. It always ended the same, with unending boredom as he lived the same moment repeatedly. Incessantly.

Do I still exist?

Can I exist? After what I have done… Whether the question was voiced aloud or in the quiet of his own mind he never received an answer. He doubted one would be forthcoming.

He doubted that he was worth the answering.

           “I once walked with The Christ.” He mumbled.

“I had brothers… I was loved. Once.”

           In a bygone life tears would have streaked his cheeks, but now his tear ducts were dried beyond use. He no longer suffered from the need to hunger or to slake his thirst.

“I am forgotten. Forsaken.”

“Father. Why have you forgotten me?”

You know why. A small, nearly inaudible voice replied. You are a fool, a greedy, small man. A coward and a fool. The honest words stung, lessened only by the veracity of his own mind. Would they have stung less from the mouth of another?

He slumped, defeated. He felt deionized water pass over the tips of his ears, as his head sank beneath the surface of the lake. When he had lived, he would have felt panic needles speedily tear through his chest and into his heart. His only feeling was an absence, and a longing. He longed for companionship, for his friends, to hear the voice of his father, and listen to the voice of his Father.

           The water did not sting him, nor suck him into its depths. Yet, it did not offer peace.

The absence of air in his lungs was not an irritant, or a discomfort, it wasn’t anything. He let his body fall further down into its dark depths.

           He blinked and his body was no longer sinking beneath the lake.

           He was paddling, to stay afloat.

           Absent his efforts, he would sink below the waves fueled by his very motions. Lifelessly, similarly to a pendulous leaf fallen from a tree, would he sink through the colorless depths. However long he fell he would fail to reach a bottom, and neither would he surface again to the top.

           His only solace were the vestiges of his near forgotten memories. Memories of Herod, and Simon, his father, and John the Baptist, and lastly… Jesus.

           Jesus of Nazareth, the living Savior, the Christ. Once they had been friends.

           Conversely, Jesus, always depicted with long flowing brown hair. Judas’ memories recalled a different picture. Jesus with hair worn short, in similar fashion to the Romans, and not as the Nazarites and long and gone to gray.

           How could a carpenter, born of meager means, have been born with such strength? Such strength of character, strength of love, and strength of purpose.

           Why. Why did this happen to me? He repeated the betrayal in the back of his mind. He had glanced back, the priests and rabble tracking him, their attention rapt upon his actions: “’The one I will kiss is the man; seize him.’” Were his words of betrayal, spoken to the High Priest and his cronies...

           His betrayal enacted as he had charged straight to Jesus of Nazareth, greeted him as Rabbi and kissed him upon the cheek. Such a vitriolic act, mummed, falsified as a sign of love and peace.

 Jesus had displayed neither rancor, nor surprise, but rather a deliberate disappointment as the crowd gathered had accosted and grabbed him to be judged. Judas had seen the look in his eyes, the recrimination: and worse.

           The thirty pieces of silver had been as feathers in his palms, and anchors circling his neck. He had thought to return them—and to undo his great betrayal. To no avail, the elders already had what they sought. They had Jesus, the son of God. ‘The blasphemer’ they called him, the ‘liar’ the ‘fool,’ and many other names, many of which were most foul.

           Indescribable sorrow had been his reward, first that of his own soul, and then that last piercing look from his friend before the crowd had grabbed him. All that he could taste afterwards, was the bitter, acrid afterbirth of a winter’s hearth. Ashes. Gray ash.

           He had watched when the crowd gathered and beat his friend. He had watched as they whipped him through the streets.

           He did not watch him die, nor did he watch his resurrection.

           Instead, he sought a lone and isolated tree from which to hang a rope around his neck. He had felt every ragged, uneven edge of the rope as it bit into his flesh, and he savored the punishment, however mild. When the rope snapped his neck, he gloried in the brief, but catastrophic level of pain that coursed through his body. Such pain, that it caused the milliseconds in which his life was measured, to seem eternal.

           In death he expected the Devil himself to greet him, and to host his most deserving punishment to which every moment would seem an unending, and hellacious torment.

           He was surprised to find this… purgatory of mediums instead, and silence.

           The absence was a pull, a longing.

           Why Father?

           You know the reason.

Thirty pieces of silver of reasons... It was not such a great mystery... A small internal voice answered his misery. It was the voice of his mind. He never received any other answer, in this place he was all alone.

           His hands parted the water around him expertly, time meant nothing here as how can eternity be measured. Suffice to say he had become an expert swimmer. It was all he was good at.

           Perhaps a stubbornness clung to him, a refusal to acknowledge the truth: he was unwanted. His betrayal had been so complete, and unforgivable, that even Herod his mother had not batted an eye at his final betrayal.

           His suicide.

           Judas believed that to take your life was the ultimate betrayal of God. It had not delayed his hand or caused his arm to falter when he had pulled the noose taut, and he had gladly suffered the roughness of the rope burn the tender flesh around his throat. The small, shriveled part of him, had been engulfed by the most familiar darkness within, the part of himself that shouted do it not was silenced.

           ‘I have sinned by betraying innocent blood.’ What God would forgive me? He cried, he wept, he sobbed but his eyes would not produce their briny offering. I am lost, alone, forever. Forsaken.

           He closed his eyes, shut them tight, the shadowed darkness that was his sky giving way to the narrowed world behind his shuttered lids.

One who would intervene, who could intervene was prevented. Not by his father, the Father, but by the idolatrous selfishness inherent in Judas alone in his own personal Hell.  

           The Christ watched, his eyes downcast and heavy with somber feelings, ones of pity and sorrow. He watched, and he waited. Maybe one day he would see what he expected, what he undoubtedly hoped for, but this was not that day. He observed without a word passing his lips. 

           With no other company but the sour, bitter memories of a life wasted, Judas recollected a time before he had encountered Christ.

           He had been a sad, pitiful excuse of a person. He had lied, stolen, and tasted the sexual caresses of his own mother, unbeknownst to himself, but the sin was still his.

            He had stolen from those poorer than himself. He had lived a life of opulence and indolence, and he had been hated and loathed. He had lusted for the flesh of women, lusted for the cold hard grasp of gold and silver, and for meat and drink. Nothing had been out of his grasp, save for that which all men desire: peace within themselves.

           Jesus of Nazareth had lifted him and made him a disciple, one of twelve. Judas had been grateful—at first, but then envy had bitten a dark piece from his heart of stone. Christ had divided his love amongst his disciples and had gifted his words on those less deserving.

           Judas had wept, when he had taken the thirty pieces of silver, but it was a ruse intended to fool his own heart. One that had failed. His tears had been lies, lies meant to prove he felt more, that he cared for more than the hatred which consumed him.

 He knew the powers of Christ; he had seen them for himself. Christ worked miracles; he had made Judas see something in the world other than self-loathing. Christ had shown that God forgives the contrite and those who seek truthful redemption and to be forgiven of sin. He had felt unworthy. Sullied. A wolf amongst sheep cannot be part of the flock.

           So, he had committed to the betrayal, and murder of the Christ. His friend.

           “I do not deserve forgiveness!”

           “Punish me. Damn you!!!!” He wailed. He screamed. He yelled. He cursed. No pendulum swung, there were no scaly hobbled creatures intent upon devouring his flesh while he still lived. He was answered with silence.

           He had been buried as a stranger by his own people. His name become reviled, an epithet for betrayal. His corpse forgotten; his soul unforgiven. 

           His mind ran back to the night before Jesus had been taken. Supper. The thirteen of them had as usual broke bread together, the disciples, and Christ. They had supped wine, and laughed, and cried when Christ had announced his imminent betrayal. Rage and fear had coursed through him—overfilling the cup.

           Judas had felt real fear at those words. Black paranoia had almost caused him to flee in the night, certain that some other amongst the disciples would suss out his immoral infidelity. Another black emotion had caused him to stay. What better way to harm yourself, than to harm him whom you love most? The words whispered to him, from a familiar abyss of dark thoughts.

           Why am I unworthy of love? The same familiar voice asked the question.

           “I hate you!” He screamed the words, his throat tearing such was the violence of his speech.

           He was lost, he had always been lost. The map, and the key had been given him and he had spurned such materials as unworthy of a serpent such as himself.

           Why Father? He began, and then he started down a different path. Why not? The small voice, grown minute asked.

           Forgive me Father. He cried.

           I have sinned. I have committed my heart to darkness. I have turned my heart to sin.

           A heart of stone, softened, without understanding.

           Forgive me Father! He cried. He surprised himself with the prayer. He wept, and the water tasted of salt.

           “Forgive me Jesus.” He whispered. I did not mean it. I would give my soul to take everything back. As meager an offering as it is.

           The Christ, who was watching, turned away. The luminescence of his being momentarily brightened the place in which Judas dwelled and then all grew dark.

           I repent of my sins against the innocent, against the flesh, against you Father. Holy Father, Holy Spirit listen, heed my words. “I beg of you.” His voice shocked him with its volume.

           The water, grew solid, and firmed beneath his knees. He sat in prayer, hands bent over the windows into his soul.

           Every sin that he had ever committed was regurgitated, and they flashed through his mind like fire through a field of wheat. He was culled.

           He recalled as a boy, striking his friend David on the streets. He wept, as he imagined seeing David shrink inwards. His sin was magnified and multiplied through all the years between, from when they were boys, to grown men. He saw adult David, strike and rob a blind man.

           “Sin begets sin.” He whispered.

           He released the poison, let it flow from his heart to his fingertips and to the water below.

           Sickly green liquid drained from his pores, below to the water made solid beneath him.

           He recalled another sin, not least amongst them. Jesus, offering his purse full of the offerings of the faithful. His grubby, greedy fingers had grasped the cool alluring metal contained within. Not for as he said, “To supply and render to those of the faithful and the disciples,” but rather for his own gratification.

           He had lain with a woman. A woman well paid to copulate with him. Their sins intertwined, hers the lesser, though it had been she that had spread herself wide.

           Another, and another, until he was confronted with the last. The heaviest. The most heinous.

           He witnessed.

           Jesus carried the cross of his own crucifixion, condemned by the Roman state with all the authority of Caesar. He watched as the nails spread the flesh of Christ’s hands, pierced to the very bone.

           He wept. “I am so sorry…” He mumbled, his words indecipherable through his tears.

           “Oh, that I have learned so late—too late. Though I be damned for all time, forgive me Father. Forgive me for betraying him the Christ. Forgive me for betraying you. I would make it right. I repent. I repent.”

           With those words he lay back, his sides heaving as if he had run a race. The locks of his hair covered his face, and his Hell had changed imperceptibly.

           The water was the color of blue glass, the waves as soft as the Mediterranean on a tranquil day.

           The sky lit as if by the light of Heaven.

           Judas startled, exclaiming. “I feel you, Father.” He said, his voice taken with wonder. He glanced at his shoulder, where a hand weighed him down.

           “What is this?” Judas exclaimed.

           “It is time, brother.” Christ said to his disciple.

           “Oh Jesus. Forgive me, forgive me, forgive me.” Judas wept. He clutched at the robes of Christ and sobbed as a child.

           “I have come into the world as light, so that whoever believes in me may not remain in darkness. If anyone hears my words and does not keep them, I do not judge him; for I did not come to judge the world but to save the world.” Jesus said.

                 “Thank you, Jesus. I have been so alone here.”

                 “My servant, that I know well. I have watched over you. Are you ready?”

                 “Ready, Lord? I am, but—” He hesitated. “For what?”

                 “To meet our Holy Father. We still have much work to do.”

                 Together they turned and walked away from Judas’ pale Hell.

The shepherd resting a comforting arm on the shoulder of his wayward sheep.