John by Niall Williams Page A

quickly. His face is scratched with thorns. He hurries across the bleak terrain toward the house of Marina.

10
    I fail you.
    Lord, I am weak. I am old. I forget much.
    I fail you.
    If a servant fail his master, ought not that master to find a better servant? What I have I hold not. Prochorus is dead. They speak against you even amongst those here. I hear it, though I hear it not. I see it, though I see it not.
    I fail you.
    It was long ago. I am ancient as dust. I will not see Galilee again.
    Give me to drink. The woman of Samaria by Jacob's well. The others gone into the city of Sychar. I stayed with you. You asked her for water, and she was surprised that a Jew ask a Samaritan. You said, 'If thou knewest the gift of God, and who it is saith to thee, give me to drink, thou wouldst have asked of him, and he would have given thee living water.
    'Whosoever shall drink of the water I shall give him shall never thirst; but the water that I shall give him shall be in him a well of water springing up into everlasting life.'
    Sir, give me this water that I thirst not.
    Lord, give me to drink.
    I am your poor servant aged as dust.
    Weary as ground too often sown. I confess it. What can I yield now?
    We are few and weak, and pray that you may come.
    Come, Lord, give me to drink.
    By the entrance of the cave, Linus sits. He hears a murmuring from the Apostle, endeavours to make out the words. Then there is the silence peculiar to that cave that is not silent but filled always with the sound of water running from invisible source inside the hill above. In the early part of the afternoon, Ioseph comes along the beaten pathway to the cave. He, too, is thin and wiry and sharp-boned; his beard is coarse and white.
    'Master?' he says, blinking into the darkness.
    'Ioseph, come.'
    John extends his hand and the disciple takes it in both of his.
    'Master, I come to confess despair,' Ioseph says.
    And at once John grasps his arm and rises. 'Come,' he whispers, 'bring me outside.'
    Linus stands. 'I will attend you, Master.'
    'No. Ioseph will see to me.'
    'Matthias has instructed me, Master.'
    'To disobey me? Stay. I will return, fear not. Ioseph, come.'
    'I will follow in case . . .'
    'You will stay!'John's voice is louder, greater than himself. Linus is startled back a step and looks to Ioseph then says: 'You may fall, Master, Ioseph is old and infirm. I can follow at ten paces and . . .'
    'A third time: you will stay, Linus. You will not follow. I command it.'
    In Linus's chin a pulse of muscle trembles. His pale eyes are a thin metal of disdain. His face is hotly reddened. How dare the old man talk to him so.
    The two elders walk past him and go outside. It is after the midday and the sun has not broken the cloud. Disappointed grey light falls. In the sombre sea down the pathway below them short combed waves are whipped and swallowed. There is a salt tang on the wind. The two men proceed along a route of broad stone to a place where there is natural seating of sun-and-rain-flattened rock.
    'He is not behind us?'
    'No, Master. He has stayed.'
    'Good. Here, then, let us sit.'
    John feels with his hand the smooth rock. Always in his touching a tapping, slight, quick, light, as though he affirms the real by his fingertips and knows only then that he is in it. They face the western shore, the Apostle's face tilted to receive what light may be.
    'This death has touched me closely,' Ioseph says. 'I sin of despair.'
    'You are not alone, Ioseph. It has touched us all.'
    'I fear . . .' The elder disciple pauses, presses his palms together.
    'Tell me.'
    'I fear myself. I fear my weakness. Today I have thought I will die here on Patmos, like Prochorus, waiting for the Lord, when before I had supposed I would live until the day. I know this is vanity. What am I that is different from others? Why should I endure when others perish? For what reason? Because I have believed? Others have believed and been crucified. Because I have lived this long with you, old