“Was the cross, then, a dream-and the nails, the pain, the sun which became dark?”

“Yes, a dream. You lived your entire Passion in a dream. You mounted the cross and were nailed to it in a dream. The five wounds in your hands, feet and heart were inflicted in a dream, but with such force that, look! the blood is still flowing.”

Jesus gazed around him in a trance. Where was he? What was this plain with its flowering trees and water? And Jerusalem? And his soul? He turned to the angel and touched his arm. How cool his flesh was, how firm!

“Guardian angel,” he said, “as you speak my flesh finds relief, the cross becomes the shadow of a cross, the nails shadows of nails, and the crucifixion floats in the sky above me, like a cloud.”

“Let us go,” said the angel, and he began to stride nimbly over the blossoming meadow. “Great joys await you, Jesus of Nazareth. God left me free to allow you to taste all the pleasures you ever secretly longed for. Beloved, the earth is good-you’ll see. Wine, laughter, the lips of a woman, the gambols of your first son on your knees-all are good. We angels (would you believe it?) often lean over, up there in heaven, look at the earth-and sigh.”

His huge green wings fluttered and embraced Jesus. “Turn your head,” he said; “look behind you.”

Jesus turned his head-and what did he see? High in the distance, the hill of Nazareth gleamed in the rising sun, the fortress gates were open, and a multitude of thousands-all great lords and ladies-was coming out. They were dressed in gold and mounted on white horses. Waving in the air were standards of snowy-white silk decorated with golden lilies. The procession descended between flowering mountains, passed by royal castles, forded rivers, wound in and out, hugging the hillsides. He heard a din compounded of laughter, shrill conversations, and from behind the thick clumps of trees, sweet sighs.

“Guardian angel,” said Jesus, bewildered, “what is this multitude of noblemen? Who are these kings and queens? Where are they going?”

“It’s a royal marriage procession,” the angel replied with a smile. “They are going to a wedding.”

“Who is getting married?”

“You,” he answered. “This is the first joy I give you.”

Jesus’ blood flowed up to his head. Suddenly he conjectured who the bride would be, and his flesh rejoiced. He was in a hurry now. “Let’s go,” he said.

He immediately felt that he too had mounted a white horse saddled and bridled in gold. He looked at himself. A blue feather was waving at the top of his head, and his poor tunic with its thousands of patches had become all velvet and gold.

“My boy, is this the kingdom of heaven I announced to men?” he asked.

“No, no,” the angel replied, laughing. “This is the Earth.”

“How did it change so much?”

“It did not change; you did. Once upon a time your heart did not want the earth: it went against her will. Now it wants her-and that is the whole secret. Harmony between the earth and the heart, Jesus of Nazareth: that is the kingdom of heaven… But why waste our time with words? Come, the bride is waiting.”

The angel now mounted a white horse, and they set out. Behind him the mountains neighed with the royal cavalcade which was descending. The laughter of the women had increased. The birds, beating their wings in the air, were drawing everything toward the south. “He’s coming,” they sang, “he’s coming, he’s coming!”

Jesus’ heart was also a bird. Perched on the top of his head, it twittered, “I’m coming, I’m coming, I’m coming!”

But while he was galloping, suddenly, in the midst of his great exaltation, he remembered his disciples. Looking behind him, he examined the mass of lords and ladies, searched to find them-and did not find them.

He glanced at his companion with surprise.

“And my disciples?” he asked. “I don’t see them. Where can they be?”

He was answered with mocking laughter. “Dispersed.”

“Why?”

“Fear.”

“Even Judas?”

“All! All! They returned to their caïques, hid themselves in their cottages. They swear they never saw you, don’t know you… Don’t look behind you any more. Forget about them. Look in front.”

The inebriating perfume of flowering lemon trees invaded the air.

“Here we are,” said the angel, dismounting. His horse turned into light and vanished.

A deep lowing of complaint, all suffering and sweetness, resounded from within the olive grove. Jesus felt troubled: his own bowels seemed to be calling out. He looked. Tied to the trunk of an olive tree was a gleaming full-rumped bull, black with white forehead. His tail was held high, and a nuptial crown rested on his horns. Jesus had never seen such power, such brilliance, such hard muscles, nor eyes so dark, so full of virility. He was frightened. This is not a bull, he reflected; it is one of the dark, deathless faces of Almighty God.

The angel stood near him and smiled cunningly. “Don’t be afraid, Jesus of Nazareth. It’s a bull, a young virgin bull. Look how swiftly he moves his tongue and licks his moist nostrils, how he lowers his head and butts the olive tree, anxious to fight with it, how he shakes himself in order to break the rope and escape… Look down there in the meadow. What do you see?”

“Heifers, young heifers. They’re grazing.”

“They’re not grazing; they’re waiting for the young bull to break the rope. Listen once more how he bellows. What tenderness, what supplication, what power! Truly, like a dark and wounded god… Why has your face grown fierce, Jesus of Nazareth? Why do you look at me with those dark, unlaughing eyes?”

“Let us go,” Jesus bellowed softly. His voice was all tenderness, supplication and power.

“First I’ll release the bull,” answered the angel, laughing. “Don’t you feel sorry for him?”

He approached and untied the rope. For a moment the chaste beast did not move. But suddenly he understood: he was free. With a bound he rushed toward the meadow.

At precisely that instant Jesus heard the tinkling of bracelets and necklaces from within a lemon orchard. He turned. Mary Magdalene, crowned with lemon blossoms, was standing before him, bashful and trembling.

Jesus rushed forward and took her in his arms. “Magdalene, beloved Magdalene,” he cried, “oh, how many, how very many years I’ve longed for this moment! Who stepped between us and refused to leave us free-God?… Why are you crying?”

“Because of my great joy, Beloved; because of my great longing. Come!”

“Let us go. Lead me!”

He turned to say goodbye to his companion, but the angel had vanished into the air. Behind them, the great royal cortege of lords, ladies, kings, white horses and white lilies had also vanished. Below in the meadow, the bull was mounting the heifers.

“Whom are you looking for, Beloved? Why do you gaze behind you? Only we two remain in the world. I kiss the five wounds on your feet, your hands, your heart. What joy this is, what a Passover! The whole world has been resurrected! Come.”

“Where? Give me your hand; lead me. I trust you.”

“To a dense orchard. You’re being hunted; they want to seize you. Everything was ready-the cross, the nails, the mob, Pilate-but suddenly an angel came and snatched you away. Come-before the sun mounts and they see you. They’ve grown rabid: they want your death.”

“What have I done to them?”

“You sought their good, their salvation. How can they ever pardon you for that! Give me your hand, Beloved. Follow the woman. She, always sure, finds the way.”

She took his hand. Her fiery-red veil swelled as she walked hastily under the flowering, soon-fruitful lemon trees. Her fingers, entwined in those of the man, were burning hot, and her mouth smelled of lemon leaves.

Out of breath, she stopped for a moment and looked at Jesus. He shuddered, for he saw her eye frolic seductively, cunningly, like the eye of the angel. But she smiled at him.