Excerpt from The Saviour

We first see the young boy, who members of P1 think is the Second Coming of Christ. It seems so. He appears to have healing powers.

PART I            The Time of Forgetting.

"The great man is he who does not lose his childlike heart."
                                                                          – Mencius

1.

It began in the time when footprints in the sand would disappear, irrevocably, covered by new layers of desert, blown gently by fickle winds. By strong winds, storms, light airs. Not only were the signs of the living hidden in the dust; truths, too, vanished behind the veil of centuries. The next time they came, they would, perhaps, appear in the snow, perhaps even in water. All this you may come to understand, but can never truly know.

1963:   The South of France

A warm, soft wind stirred the spring-green trees below the summit of Pine Hill, jutting above the forest like a monk’s tonsured skull. The air had dried most of the lying water after the passing rain, but some drops still hung, like tears, from needles, or clinging, pearled, on limestone outcrops. The taller towers of the castle at Villeneuve-les-Avignon, ten kilometers or so to the east, showed through the late afternoon haze. A silk curtain of mist, or far-off rain, wisped over the distant, snow-capped peak of Mount Ventoux. An imagination of birds, crows probably, skimmed the under-belly of low-lying grey clouds, hanging, mystically, like grey drapes. At the hill top obelisk a young ginger-haired woman stood looking southward, down to the village of Rousillon, to the chapel Saint Marie Madeleine.

From this vantage point, the buildings spread-eagled below resembled a large Celtic cross. The settlement centred on the crossroads – one road running north to south with another, narrower, east-west road meeting it at Place de Chateau-Renard.

Near the northern section of the 'cross', was the hub of life in the little town. The girl stood in silence observing several people, appearing like ants busily crawling around the square, ringed with cafes, market stalls and taverns, all of which looked in towards the church, the central, focal point of Place de Chateau-Renard. Music lifted upwards towards her. Carried by the breeze. Was that song ‘Michelle’? The Beatles? She wished to hear more of the beautiful melody: ‘I will say to you the only words that you’ll understand …’

She picked up her bag, and turned away from the obelisk. She felt the music chasing her as she began to walk. “Sont les mots qui vont très bien ensemble …” Reaching the edge of the peak, she stopped for a moment to look one last time at the toy town below. Sweet love song. “I love you, I love you, I love you. That’s all I want to say …”

She scrambled down the loose-stoned slope, waves of pebbles slipping before her, fanning out – searching – as if keen to join her fact-finding trip. Down through the ring of pines, and soon she found herself standing in the town centre staring up at the twenty-foot high oak doors of the church. The building’s harsh neo-gothic lines, which would have been more at home in Vivankapelle, Damme, Bruges – anywhere to the north – seemed to Juliana to contradict any Christian message of peace and love.

One of the large doors swung open and a black-robed figure rudely pushed past her. She lost her balance and fell, twisting her ankle, tried to rise, but the pain was too great.

“Mademoiselle?” The sound of a gentle voice. She looked up and saw, gazing into her eyes from above a face of great beauty. His accent was, strangely, Breton, not Provencal. Light seemed to shine from hazel eyes. His skin was tanned, his face thin, his wide mouth suggesting inner power and humour. Dark brown hair hung in small curls over his forehead. It seemed to Juliana that even the breeze wished to linger in this hair, and she felt that face had seen more than its innocent expression suggested.

“Here,” the young boy said. “Let me help you.” Or was his voice Caló?

He knelt before Juliana and gazed into her eyes. A broad smile started on her face, then, as she felt her eyes touched by his, subsided, withered to a weak, wilting shadow. She felt his hand reach out firmly clasping her foot and lifting it, rested it in his lap. Juliana noticed his baggy trousers were torn and dirty. Juliana guessed they were once white. The spring sun was warm so he wore no shirt.

“Here?” He spoke so quietly, his words seeming to caress her ears. No, his accent was Breton, from the far north. “The pain is here, no?” He touched the back of her ankle, slightly above the heel.

Juliana looked into his face and their eyes crossed softly, again. Her heart seemed to miss a beat, her pulse quickened and her breathing became short. She felt as if his eyes stared directly, yet tenderly, into her soul, and then reached eons further, into the minds of ancestors. It felt as if an invisible hand stretched out, supporting her. She relaxed into the innocent, imagined embrace.

“Please, Miss.” The soft voice, an unexpected maturity in its undertones, calmed her.  “Be still for a moment.” The boy, his face beautiful with trust, smiled the most radiant smile as his lithe fingers massaged her heel, almost, it seemed to Juliana, without touching her.

The warmth from his hands spread through her ankle, under her heel and back into the sole. Juliana let herself enjoy the moment. The reassuring sound of his voice and the wonderful – almost sensual – compassion in the slowly massaging hands made her want to close her eyes, to sleep. She shut her eyes and imagined his hands rising further on her legs, then touching her all over.

When she opened her eyes, and understood this boy was too young to be her lover, she felt ashamed by her desire, yet she was mesmerized. Juliana thought that he couldn’t be more than twelve – although his presence seemed to be that of a very much older person. His eyes continued to look directly into hers as she felt the heat from his hands move into her legs, creeping comfortingly up her calves and behind her knees. Was it Reiki?

Then she noticed his shoes. They were remarkable. They had mud-covered, tattered uppers; they were without soles, so that he was walking on bare feet. She could see that they were scarred, cut, bruised, and that the skin had become hardened. Viewed from above, however, his feet appeared to be covered, protected.

And his smooth young body seemed to glow. He seemed to glow. Or was that a trick of the afternoon light? His ribs showed, too.  If he had been thinner, he would be emaciated, but he wasn’t.

He stood and offered her his hand. “You’ll be okay now,” he said. “Do you feel okay?”

She tried to rise and, to her surprise, found that she could.  The pain was gone and the angry-looking, red swelling that had started to show around her ankle had subsided.

She started to thank him, but the boy raised a finger to his lips.

Still holding his hand, she stood facing him.  In spite of his few years, he was almost as tall as she.

“I was going into the church.”

“Juliana,” he said. “The day’s too nice to go inside.”

Juliana blushed. How had he known her name? She dropped his hand and turned away. She took a few steps towards the church door, and then turned back to the boy. She was going to ask his name, but he was gone. Surprised, Juliana looked around quickly, her eyes searching the cobbled terraces around Chateau-Renard Square.

The sound of someone coughing came from a café street table. Smoke drifted up slowly and then was caught by the warm breeze and whisked away towards the Square fountain. The sun sparkled through the tumbling waters, and only the gentle sound of its fluid cascade could be heard.

With her eyes, Juliana searched for the boy beyond the town centre and into narrow side alleys. The sun warmed her bare arms and the soft breeze ruffled her hair. The wind whispered through the trees in the town below Pine Hill.

Escaping water, mist, blown by gentle gusts, from the fountain fell back to earth, forming a shallow, spatulate pool on the plaza concrete. Clouds and almost zephyr blues were reflected from above, and there the beautiful boy stood, watching her. She imagined how the water might feel on his naked, shoed, feet. Cool, cleansing, soothing, and she wished to bathe them until the darkness came.

He smiled, playfully, waved his hand coyly. The muscles in his wrist seemed to weaken with doubt, and his hand slowly fell to his waist, shoulders drooping slightly. Was it disappointment? He shouted, “Hey! I’m Jeffrey!” Then turned and walked away. Across the sky.