Kneeling, he placed his shoulder under the cross and clasped it in his arms. He raised one knee, braced himself-it seemed incredibly heavy to him, impossible to lift-and staggered slowly toward the door. Gasping, he took two steps, then a third and reached the door at last, but suddenly his knees gave way, his head swam and he fell face down over the threshold, crushed under the cross.

The small house vibrated. A shrill female cry was heard from within; a door opened, his mother appeared. She was tall, with large eyes and dark, wheat-colored skin. She had already passed the first stage of youth and entered the uneasy honeyed bitterness of autumn. Blue rings encircled her eyes, her mouth was firm like her son’s, but her chin stronger than his and more willful. She wore a violet linen kerchief, and two elongated silver rings, her only jewelry, tinkled on her ears.

As soon as she opened the door the old father became visible behind her. He was seated on his mattress, his upper body unclothed, his flabby skin pale yellow, his eyes glassy and motionless. She had just fed him and he was still laboriously chewing his meal of bread, olives and onions. The curly white hairs of his chest were full of drivel and crumbs. Next to his bed was the celebrated staff which had been predestined to blossom on the day of his engagement. It was dry now and withered.

When the mother entered and saw her son fallen and palpitating under the cross she dug her nails into her cheeks and stared at him without running to lift him up. She had grown weary of having him brought to her unconscious every two minutes in someone’s arms, of seeing him depart to wander through the fields or in deserted places, to remain day and night without food, refuse to work, do nothing but sit for hours with his eyes pinned on the air, a daydreamer and night-walker whose life was bare of accomplishment. It was only when a cross was ordered for a crucifixion that he threw himself body and soul into his work and labored day and night like a madman. He went no longer to the synagogue; he did not want to set foot in Cana again, or to go to any of the festivals. And when the moon was full his mind reeled, and the unfortunate mother heard him rave and shout in a delirium as though he were quarreling with some devil.

How many times had she prostrated herself before her brother-in-law the old rabbi, who was versed in exorcizing devils. The afflicted came to him from the ends of the earth and he cured them. Just the other day she had fallen at his feet and complained: “You heal strangers but you do not want to heal my son.”

The rabbi shook his head. “Mary, your boy isn’t being tormented by a devil; it’s not a devil, it’s God-so what can I do?”

“Is there no cure?” the wretched mother asked.

“It’s God, I tell you. No, there is no cure.”

“Why does he torment him?”

The old exorcist sighed but did not answer.

“Why does he torment him?” the mother asked again.

“Because he loves him,” the old rabbi finally replied.

Mary looked at him, startled. She opened her mouth to question him further, but the rabbi closed her lips.

“Do not ask,” he said to her. “Such is the law of God.” Knitting his brows, he nodded for her to leave.

The malady had lasted for years. Mary, even though she was a mother, had grown weary at last, and now that she saw her son fallen face down over the threshold with the blood oozing from his forehead, she did not budge. She only sighed from the bottom of her heart-sighed, however, not for her son but for her own fate. She had been so unfortunate in her life, unfortunate in her husband, unfortunate in her son. She had been widowed before she married, was a mother without possessing a child; and now she was growing older-the white hairs multiplied every day-and yet she had never known what it was to be young, had never felt the warmth of her husband, the sweetness and pride of being a wife and mother. Her eyes had finally been drained dry. Whatever tears God apportioned her she had already spilled, and she looked at her son and her husband dry-eyed. If she still sometimes wept, it was in the spring when she sat all by herself and gazed out at the green fields and smelled the perfumes which came from the blossoming trees. At these times she cried not for her husband or her son but for her own wasted life.

The young man had risen and was sponging up the blood with the edge of his garment. He turned, saw his mother regarding him severely, and became angry. He knew that look which forgave him nothing, knew those compressed, embittered lips. He could stand it no longer. He too had become weary in this house with the decrepit paralytic, the inconsolable mother and the daily servile admonitions: Eat! Work! Get married! Eat! Work! Get married!

His mother parted her compressed lips. “Jesus,” she said reprovingly, “who were you quarreling with again early this morning?”

The son bit his lips so that an unkind word would not escape them. He opened the door. The sun entered, and also a scorching, dust-laden wind from the desert. Without speaking, he brushed the sweat and blood from his forehead, put his shoulder in place once more, and lifted the cross.

His mother’s hair had poured out down to her shoulder blades. She ran her hands over it, gathered it together under her kerchief, and took a step toward her son. But as soon as she saw him clearly in the light, she quivered with astonishment. How incessantly his face changed! How it flowed-like water! Each day she saw him for the first time, found an unknown light on his forehead, in his eyes and mouth; a smile, sometimes happy, sometimes full of affliction, a gluttonous luster which licked his forehead, chin, neck-and devoured him.

Today, large black flames were blazing in his eyes. Frightened, she wanted for a moment to ask him, Who are you? but she restrained herself. “My boy!” she said with trembling lips. She remained quiet, waiting to see if this grown man was truly her son. Would he turn to look at her, to speak to her? He did not turn. Giving a heave, he adjusted the cross on his back and, walking steadily now, strode out of the house.

His mother leaned against the doorpost and watched him step lightly from cobble to cobble as he mounted the slope. The Lord only knew where he found such strength! It was not a cross on his back but two wings, and they propelled him!

“Lord, my God,” the confused mother whispered, “who is he? Whose son is he? He doesn’t resemble his father; he doesn’t resemble anyone. Every day he changes. He isn’t one person, he’s many… Oh, my mind is upside down.”

She remembered one afternoon when she was in the small courtyard next to the well, holding him to her breast. It was summer, and the vine arbor above her was heavy with grapes. While the newborn nursed she fell into a deep sleep, but not before she was able to see-in the space of an instant-a limitless dream. It seemed to her that there was an angel in heaven who held a star dangling from his hand, a star like a lantern, and he advanced and illuminated the earth below. And there was a road in the darkness, with many zigzags, and glowing brightly, like a flash of lightning. It crept toward her and began to extinguish itself at her feet. And while she gazed in fascination and asked herself where this road could have begun and why it ended at the soles of her feet, she raised her eyes-and what did she see: the star had stopped above her head, three horsemen had appeared at the end of the star-illumined road, and three golden crowns sparkled on their heads. They stopped for an instant, looked at the sky, saw the star halt, then spurred their horses and galloped toward her. The mother could now make out their faces clearly. The middle one was like a white rose, a beautiful fair-haired youth with cheeks still covered with fuzz. To his right stood a yellow man with a pointed black beard and slanting eyes. A Negro was at the left. He had curly white hair, golden rings in his ears, and dazzling teeth. But before the mother could sort them out any better or cover her son’s eyes so that he would not be dazzled by the intense light, the three horsemen had arrived, dismounted and knelt before her.