[a dialogue for one voice -] So this is what it feels like to die, he thinks, looking up into the arching trellis of old branches above him, as thick as wrists, as thighs. Holding him for the moment to the earth. In a few moments the sentries will enter through the garden gate, guided by the Judas Kiss, and he really will die – As real a death as is possible for you, he thinks. But for now the gaze of popular narration is turned away, has slipped into untroubled sleep along with his companions by the garden path. He has flung himself half-heartedly into the deep shadows of the acacia woods; tugged experimentally on his short hair, prematurely graying. He sighs, watches a centipede feel its way in the dark along a black leaf. So this is what it feels like to die. Nothing. - God? he asks. Enough of that rubbish, he thinks. You are God and God is only you. If you expect an answer, you must answer yourself. - God? - Yes? What is it? - Ha! I tricked you into answering. - No you didn’t. This is still you talking. - Crap. That’s going to cause some trouble down the road. - Why don’t you call this part of you Father, then? Or will that cause even more trouble? - Ah. A kind of internal Oedipus Complex, a Freudian thing. Let them figure that one out. - Who’s Freud? - Just someone won’t exist for the next couple of millennia. Don’t worry about it. - I won’t. Would a Voice from Heaven be better? - No, it’s all pretty much the same to me, I guess. - You don’t sound convinced. - A Voice from Heaven would be nice. A big booming one from a thundercloud, maybe. It would sound less like me talking to myself. But really – don’t trouble yourself. Or myself. - Okay. What is it? - Well – Father… - Yes? - Why do I have to explain myself? You should already know! - Sure I do, but it’ll do you good to say it. Go on – it’ll be therapeutic. - What’s therapy? - Come on! Quit stalling! I don’t have all day! - Sorry. I’m not bothering you, am I? Do you have to go somewhere? - Don’t you? - That’s the problem. I think I’m a little nervous about the whole thing. - That’s understandable. - No... It’s not the dying part. I’m not worried about that... - Who knows? Maybe you should be. - What’s that supposed to mean? - I’ll tell you later. Go on. - Well, it’s not really dying, is it? I mean – to these people, death is an end. No matter how much they talk about the Hereafter – it’s still the step into an uncertainty that makes it so frightening. Don’t you agree, Father? - Naturally. What else am I going to do? - Try disagreeing sometimes. - Impossible. We’re infallible, like Papal Bull. - Oh, Jesus! Hey – that’s kind of funny, isn’t it? - A laugh riot. What were you saying? - Well with us – with me – it’s not really a sacrifice, is it? You remember that thing with Abraham and Isaac? - Of course. - So we told Abraham to kill his son; it almostruined him. But if he’d known we were going to stop him in the knick of time, he would have gone skipping up that mountain like a ram. Ready to plunge down the dagger. Waiting for his cue to stop. There would have been no torture. No angst. - ‘Angst’? - You know what I mean! Anyway – this is different. I know what happens after death. I know I come back to life. The rest, the suffering and agony, it's just a show, right? - Well, it will hurt... - But humans are afraid of pain because of that same unknowing; because they don’t know if they’ll die, how long it will last – all that. I can’t be afraid of pain. - Not even excruciating pain? - No. Nothing. - So what are you worried about? - That they won’t believe the show! I won’t be convincingly agonized! - Ah. Is that it, son? - Yes! It’s the greatest show ever, and I’m afraid I’ll look like a half-rate actor! - Don’t worry about it. You’re a great showman. - It’s not just that. It sort of seems like I really should FEEL something. - Ah. The consummate method actor. - It’s a thing I’ve got with absolutes. I don’t feel like I can do it half-ass. - Right. - Right. So – got any ideas? - You could try to forget you already know the ending. A kind of willful suspension of belief. - Be serious, Father! - Okay. ...Sorry, there’s only one thing I can think of. It would be great – inspire fear and pain you can’t even imagine. But that’s not for anyone living to know – not even you. - But you know it! - Well – everybody knows it to some extent. - What is it? Come on, tell me! - I’ll tell you later on. How about tomorrow night? - Ha ha. So you won’t tell me... Father? - My lips are sealed. - But if you know, then I know. I should be able to think of it. - Go ahead, slugger. You’re the man. Jesus thinks. Madcap distractions, ideas and images, flit through his head, night-birds. Him scribbling the untold stories of the world in the Egyptian sand with Mary Magdalene, to be erased at the first touch of wind. Him killing the fig tree because it gave no fruit. Was it fig season then? He can't remember. He’d been hungry. Lazarus stumbling out of the tomb, stink-clothed, half- decomposed. Never to talk again. Jesus had turned away from the sight. Lazarus – - Oh, God! - Yes? - That – that can’t be it! - You got it. - But it’s so awful! It’s not right for people to live, not knowing that! - Of course. But no one will tell them. Not till it’s too late. - I’ll tell them! I’ll wake them now! They have to know! - Too late, kiddo. Here they come. A key turned clattering in the garden gate, bringing Peter Paul and John to their feet.