Before I Wake by Robert J. Wiersema

Author:Robert J. Wiersema
Language: eng
Format: azw3, mobi, epub
Tags: General, Fiction
ISBN: 9780307371133
Publisher: St. Martin's Griffin
Published: 2008-07-22T07:00:00+00:00

HENRY

Tim was on the roof of the library, leaning against one of the ventilation shafts, looking up at the sky. The smoke from his cigar seemed to shine as it curled away, the tip an orange glow.

I had to wait for him to look up at me.

“I’ve been doing some reading,” I said.

“Ah, yes. Well, come and sit down. Tell me what you know.” He gestured at the roof, his motions a shadow against a shadow, barely visible.

I was carrying several books, and holding my place in one with my index finger, but I managed to settle myself next to him.

“Isn’t it a gorgeous night? A little cold, but look at those stars.”

“I’ve been doing some reading,” I started again.

“Would you like a cigar?” he asked. “I’ve got a couple of extra. I steal them from the shop around the corner.”

I shook my head. “No, no. I don’t smoke.”

He shrugged. “You’re missing out. There’s really nothing quite like it.” He held the cigar before him at arm’s length, rolling it between his fingers. “More of a meditation than a vice, really.”

“I’ve been reading…” I tried again.

He sighed, took a gentle pull on his cigar. “Let me guess: you’ve discovered old Ahasuerus?”

“What?” I had no idea what he was talking about. I carried on, trying to keep my thoughts organized, grateful to have his attention. “There’s a story,” I fumbled with my books for a moment before realizing that, even with the light of the city around us, it wasn’t bright enough for me to read. I had to rely on my memory. “There’s a story, in the Bible—”

“Not in the Bible,” he interrupted. “Apocryphal. Scholars seem to think it was added in the Middle Ages, but accounts go all the way back to the time of the Gospels.”

I shook my head, amazed. “So you know.”

“You’ll find, young Henry,” he said, “that there’s not a lot that surprises me anymore. Not for a very long time. But tell me, what did you find?”

“There’s a story, about a man who was cursed—”

“Punished.”

I glanced over at him, but I couldn’t read his expression in the dark. “Doomed to wander the world until the end of time because he hit Jesus when he was on his way to be crucified.”

“The avenue of sorrows…”

“So he was cursed—”

“He didn’t hit him.”

“What?”

The tip of his cigar glowed as he took a long pull. “The Jew. The Wandering Jew. He didn’t hit Christ. Oh, I know what the books say. This man pushed or shoved or hit or spit on Christ as he walked the avenue of sorrows toward Calvary, dragging his cross.

“Truth is, Ahasuerus was a shopkeeper. A simple man. A wife, six kids. And that day was just like any other day. Another execution. A couple of thieves, another one of those cult figures. Jerusalem was full of them in those days.

“Crucifixions were like big festivals. There was always a parade. People would follow the Romans and the victims along the route by the hundreds. A good day for business if you were lucky enough to have a shop right on the route like Ahasuerus did.

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