Lamb: the Gospel According to Biff, Christ's Childhood Pal

supposed to do. I turned back to Maggie.
    “You heard the Passover prediction?”
    She nodded. “I take it you didn’t confront him.”
    “I don’t know what to say.”
    “We need to talk him out of it. If he knows what awaits him in Jerusalem, why go? Why don’t we go into Phoenicia or Syria? He could even take the good news to Greece and be perfectly safe. They have people running all over the place preaching different ideas—look at Bartholomew and his Cynics.”
    “When we were in India, we saw a festival in the city of their goddess Kali. She’s a goddess of destruction, Maggie. It was the bloodiest thing I’ve ever seen, thousands of animals slaughtered, hundreds of men beheaded. The whole world seemed slick with blood. Joshua and I saved some children from being flayed alive, but when it was over, Joshua kept saying, no more sacrifices. No more.”
    Maggie looked at me as if she expected more. “So? It was horrible, what did you expect him to say?”
    “He wasn’t talking to me, Maggie. He was talking to God. And I don’t think he was making a request.”
    “Are you saying that he thinks his father wants to kill him for trying to change things, so he can’t avoid it because it’s the will of God?”
    “No, I’m saying that he’s going to allow himself to be killed to show his father that things need to be changed. He’s not going to try to avoid it at all.”

    For three months we begged, we pleaded, we reasoned, and we wept, but we could not talk Joshua out of going to Jerusalem for Passover. Joseph of Arimathea had sent word that the Pharisees and Sadducees were still plotting against Joshua, that Jakan had been speaking out against Joshua’s followers in the Court of the Gentiles, outside the Temple. But the threats only seemed to strengthen Joshua’s resolve. A couple of times Maggie and I managed to tie Joshua up and stash him in the bottom of a boat, using knots that we had learned from the sailor brothers Peter and Andrew, but both times Joshua appeared a few minutes later holding the cords that had bound him, saying things like, “Good knots, but not quite good enough, were they?”
    Maggie and I worried together for days before we left for Jerusalem. “He could be wrong about the execution,” I said.
    “Yes, he could be,” Maggie agreed.
    “Do you think he is? Wrong about it, I mean?”
    “I think I’m going to throw up.”
    “I don’t see how that’s going to stop him.”
    And it didn’t. The next day we left for Jerusalem. On the way we stopped to rest along the road at a town along the Jordan River called Beth Shemesh. We were sitting there, feeling somber and helpless, watching the column of pilgrims move along the riverbank, when an old woman emerged from the column and beat her way through the reclining apostles with a walking staff.
    “Out of the way, I need to talk to this fellow. Move, you oaf, you need to take a bath.” She bonked Bartholomew on the head as she passed and his doggy pals nipped at her heels. “Look out there, I’m an old woman, I need to see this Joshua of Nazareth.”
    “Oh no, Mother,” John wailed.
    James got up to stop her and she threatened him with the staff.
    “What can I help you with, Old Mother?” Joshua asked.
    “I’m the wife of Zebedee, mother of these two.” She pointed her staff to James and John. “I hear that you’re going to the kingdom soon.”
    “If it be so, so be it,” said Joshua.
    “Well, my late husband, Zebedee, God rest his soul, left these boys a perfectly good business, and since they’ve been following you around they’ve run it into the ground.” She turned to her sons. “Into the ground!”
    Joshua put his hand on her arm, but instead of the usual calm that I saw come over people when he touched them, Mrs. Zebedee pulled away and swung her staff at him, barely missing his head. “Don’t try to bamboozle me, Mr. Smooth Talker. My boys have ruined their father’s business for you, so I want your assurance that in return they get to sit on either side of the throne in the kingdom. It’s only fair. They’re good boys.” She turned to James and John. “If your father was alive it would kill him to see what you two have done.”
    “But Old Mother, it’s not up to me who will sit next to the throne.”
    “Who is it up to?”
    “Well, it’s up to the Lord, my father.”
    “Well then go ask him.” She leaned on her staff and tapped a foot. “I’ll wait.”
    “But…”
    “You