Darkness has eaten up the light. I can’t lift my head to look up. I can barely open my eyes. I’m dizzy.

Besides, why bother trying? Why should I look up at the sky? Will a prayer save me from this awful death?

Even if I wanted to, even if I had the strength to pull those words out of my mind, I could hardly utter them. My lips are so dry, they cannot even shape their sound.

And even if I could say the words, who would I ad- dress them to? Will heaven deign to look down upon me? YHWH has no interest in us. Eli, Eli... A vague memory tickles the marrow of my soul, and a new pain runs through my body, from the palms of my hands to my feet.

The bitter, dry taste of blood burns the inside of my throat. I try to spit, a big spit from high above upon the earth, upon the gathering of evildoers below before my eyes close forever.

But not now. Not yet.

From the distance, among the shadows, I scan the fig- ures in the crowd below. No, they haven’t come for me. Not even her, in the darkness of the saddest day.

She’s not there.

I would distinguish her if she were—her way of tying her mantle over her head, the impatience in her quick foot- steps, the warmth of that gaze.

Memories return to suppurate the wounds in my heart and whisper forgotten words that I learned to sing as a child, long ago: Eli, Eli, lama sabactani!

PART ONE. A Warning

1.

“Mama! Mama! Dismas took my doll!”

A boy’s figure sneaked among the dance of shadows that

the trembling fire of the hearth threw on the walls of the house. He fled from the exasperated screams of a girl who sounded as if her soul had been taken from her.

The fire cast shadows and ochres into the boy’s wide eyes as he quickly scanned the room, the only one in the house. What was the best place to hide? There weren’t many op- tions. He dropped to the floor, sliding his four-year-old self under the table that presided over the room, with the rag doll clutched in his fist.

He sighed in relief. He was safe now from his sister, her cries vanishing into thin air.

All of the sudden, claws clutched at his ankles and dragged his body out from his cover like a sack of wheat. Her sister got over him, pouncing on his chest.

“Give me back the doll! You’re going to break it!”

Sara—eyes burning on a face twisted by anger—was not intimidated by the two years that separated her from her older brother. But she didn’t dare snatch the doll from his fists, for fear of tearing it to pieces and spilling its straw entrails on the floor.

“I won’t!” he resisted, gripping the doll even tighter.

The fight had barely begun when the door opened. It was their mother, alerted by the screams of her children. Sara turned to her for help.

“What’s happening here?” Mama cried angrily. “Can’t I even step out the door for a moment to talk to the neighbor? Sara, get off your brother now!”

Miriam bent down to her daughter and lifted her into her arms. She sighed; Dismas had been unbearable lately and would not leave his sister alone.

“He took papa’s doll from me,” Sara said, flying through her tears into the air.

Miriam put her daughter down on the floor and turned back to her son.

“Dismas, give me your sister’s doll immediately!”

The boy stood up, his prey pressed against his chest, defying his mother’s outstretched hand.

“Promise that you’ll play with me!” he turned to his sis- ter.

Sara pointed her graceful chin at him. “I will never play with you again!” she said. “I’m tired of playing the Roman soldier!”

Dismas’s lips trembled. His eyes turned to the flames of the hearth, and suddenly he acted without thinking twice.

Sara cried out in horror. She rushed toward the fire, try- ing to rescue her doll from the flames. Miriam managed to grab her by the shoulders and hold her back. Turning to her son, she slapped him across the face, wiping away his mali- cious smile.

The girl looked in horror as her doll vanished in the fire. Seized with rage, she broke from her mother’s grip and pounced like a wounded cat on Dismas.

“I’m never going to play with you again! Do you hear me? Never!”

A violent shake from her mother separated them both, Sara’s rage painted on her lips, Dismas’s awe springing from his eyes. He turned from his sister’s disconsolate face to the threat that loomed in his mother’s. He had the sudden feel- ing there would be no dinner for him tonight.

He pressed his back against the wall and watched while his mother tried to console Sara, a wave of tears bursting against her lap.

“Don’t worry, honey. We’ll ask Abba to make you another one.”

“My doll! It won’t be the same,” Sara whimpered. “And Abba isn’t home. He hasn’t come back yet.”

“Come on, come on. Don’t cry.” Miriam looked up at her son with embers in her pupils. “Dismas, how could you do this to your sister! It was her favorite toy. Would you like it if she did the same to yours? You ought to be ashamed. Wait until your father finds out and you’ll see. He’s coming today. You know that, don’t you?”

Dismas swallowed, taken aback by the news.

“Abba will decide then what your punishment is,” her mother continued, with the threat still hanging from her eyes. “Now go up to your bed and wait there.”

He sure knew what that meant. His mother was the one with the loud voice, but the one who really had to be feared was Abba. Papa didn’t shout; he didn’t even raise his voice when he spoke. But his words were the law, and the punish- ments they expressed were strictly carried out.

Dismas stared at the ground, his hands twisted over his mouth, before taking a few steps towards the ladder that led up to the loft. Despite its scant height and verticality, he had no difficulty climbing to the top. Experience was all it took.

Before lying down on his straw bed, he looked out of the corner of his eyes, from above, at his mother and sister. Sara was still crying. Her tears shining in the firelight caused a tingle of remorse in his gut. He knew this time he had gone too far. A knot tightened in his stomach, and tears of regret would have flowed if it weren’t for the fact that there was not going to be supper for him, and because he still remembered vividly his father’s last punishment. A slight shiver made his shoulders tremble as he remembered the nauseating smell of those latrines he’d had to clean.

He dropped onto the bed with his hands over his empty stomach. Why did he have to throw his sister’s doll into the fire just before dinner? He buried his face in the straw. All he could do now was wait. He imagined the anger on his father’s face when he found out that the doll had ended up in flames.

Dismas looked down again and watched as Sara helped to set the table, chatting with her mother as if nothing had happened, as if he did not exist. Fangs of envy and a sting of jealousy grew out of the shadows and made him think better—his sister had been asking for it, and if he could go back in time, he would do it again! Wasn’t she the one who had stopped playing with him ever since Abba had given her that stupid doll? Well, she then deserved it.

He knew his sister was the favorite in the house, there was no doubt about that. The doll was proof of it. Abba had made it for her before leaving with the sheep he had under his care in the village. “So when you hug her, you won’t miss me,” he’d told his sister when he said goodbye.

And what had Abba given to him? Nothing. Just a hug and a kiss, because he already had sticks and rods to fight the invisible armies of his imagination, that’s what Abba had said.

Tears of self-pity and bitterness wet Dismas’s pillow. Did anyone care about him? Even his sister had traded him for a straw-stuffed handkerchief. Who would he and his friend Nathaniel have fun with from now on? Who would play Jews and Romans with them? Who would they take prison- er in their battles against the invading army? That was why he had thrown the doll into the fire! So Sara would play with them again.

And despite everything... Dismas tossed and turned restlessly in bed, his eyes closed. He hadn’t realized the tears and sorrows his victorious action would produce in his dear sister. If only he could ask Sara for forgiveness!

All the jealousy, all of his fury, started to dissolve under a coat of repentance that died away in the nooks of a dream.

2.

He opened his eyes, still lost in the mists of his nap. A bang at the door and an unexpected joyful greeting had filled the air and his ears.

Abba was home. And with him, the fears and regrets that had taken hold of Dismas’s heart. He got up, restless, from his bed. How long had he been sleeping? He looked down from the loft into the room below. The table was set and un- touched, and the cooking fire was still burning, following the same soothing ritual of every meal. But something was different: His father’s voice, that playful tone, was unusual.

This was not how Abba usually came home after a week of tending the sheep out in the open, sleeping under the stars, protecting the flock from strays and wild beasts. There was no hint of tiredness in that voice today. Only light. Lots of light.

Miriam turned from the pots she was warming over the fire and looked at her husband with a frown. Her Ezekiel was a sober man; he wasn’t one to be fooled into sipping from someone else’s satchel. He always returned from his duties with his head over his shoulders, which had earned him a reputation that had served him well; everyone in the village entrusted the sheep to his care. But there could al- ways be a first time, she thought to herself, and the merrY tone in his husband’s voice told her that that day might have finally arrived.

“My dear, I’ve been dying to see you again!” he ex- claimed, exultant, oblivious to his wife’s suspicions.

Reaching her in two long strides, Ezekiel wrapped his arm around her waist and kissed her on the mouth. Miriam was about to slap him for being so insolent and so drunk, but the warmth of that caress stopped her hand dead in its tracks. That kiss had brought her back to their first night, and there was no wine in its taste.

“My beloved! My dear wife! I have seen him! I have seen him! It was him! The Messiah! He has been born!” And then Ezekiel burst into a torrent of words that, like pearls, adorned his wife’s face with light and wonder.

Dismas, who was watching the scene from the hayloft, barely heard what his parents were saying. His trembling heart only awaited the moment when his mother would raise her head and, calling his name, make him descend the ladder to face the penetrating gaze of the all-powerful judge and father. He swallowed, while echoes of the conversation below filtered through his ears —cold, fire, splendor, angels, hosannas, child, swaddling clothes, manger.

Suddenly he heard his name called, and he began to climb down like a sheep led to the slaughter. Neither his ears nor his mind had realized that it was not his mother who had called him, and that the tone of his father’s voice was very different from the one he’d been expecting —no trace of harshness, kindness taking over instead.

He approached his parents with hesitant steps. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw his sister Sara, standing behind Abba with her arms crossed. His father leaned towards Dismas and, extending his arms, pulled him close, hugging him to his chest.

“Dismas, listen to me, my son. Listen very carefully to what I am going to tell you. Today is a day of joy in this house. In all of Israel! Salvation has come, and you will see its power.” Tears clouded Ezekiel’s eyes. “You will see it. You, Dismas, my son, will see his power.”

Dismas, puzzled, looked up, seeking his mother’s face. She was also crying with joy. What about his punishment, then? His eyes wandered to the face of his little sister, who was still behind Abba. She looked as lost as Dismas was, but also delighted to see her parents in that state of happiness. Something inside pushed him to go to her and hug her tight- ly. Tears sprang to his eyes, but unlike those of his parents, his had the bittersweet taste of regret.

“Sara, sister, I am sorry.”

They hugged each other as if nothing had come between them.

That night the family meal was special. It was very similar to the Passover supper. There were songs and prayers of thanksgiving to YHWH. There was wine, unleavened bread, and even half a lamb that his mother had secured from the family of his friend Nathaniel, the richest people in town whose sheep Abba shepherded.

Dismas barely understood anything of what happened that day. He only knew that the little incident of his throw- ing the doll into the fire had been forgotten and that he had been able to reconcile with his beloved little sister. He didn’t know what the arrival of this Messiah, which his Abba wouldn’t stop talking about, meant. But he was sure of one thing—the Savior of Israel could not have started on a better footing: He had turned a well-deserved punishment into an early Passover celebration.

In bed, in the still of night, Dismas fell asleep with the singing of the prayers they had chanted during dinner, welcoming this Messiah who was going to save them all, still in his ears:

Lift up your heads, O gates!

and be lifted up, O ancient doors! that the King of glory may come in. Who is the King of glory?

The Lord, strong and mighty,

the Lord, mighty in battle.

About to fall into his dreams, Dismas groped for the stick he always kept under his pillow and gripped it by one end with the strength of a warrior. If this Messiah’s arrival meant there would be a mighty battle, he was more than ready to fight.