THE SUN was about to touch the sky’s foundations. The fever of the day wilted, the wind died down, the lake sparkled rose and blue. Several storks, still hungry, stood on one leg upon the rocks, their eyes pinned on the water.

The ragamuffins fixed their eyes on the son of Mary and waited, not wanting to leave. What were they waiting for? They had forgotten their hunger and nakedness; they had forgotten the malice of the landowners, who had lacked the goodness of heart to leave a few grapes on the vintaged vines in order to sweeten the throat of poverty. They had been going from vineyard to vineyard since the morning, and their baskets remained empty. The same had happened at the reaping: they had gone from field to field, their sacks hanging empty at their sides; and each evening their children waited for them with opened mouths! But now-they did not know why or how-their baskets seemed suddenly to have been filled. They looked at the man in white in front of them and could not bear to leave. They waited. Waited for what? They themselves did not know.

The son of Mary returned their look. He too was waiting; he felt that all these souls were suspended from his neck. What did they want of him? What were they seeking? What could he give them, he who had nothing? He looked at them, looked at them, and for an instant lost courage and wanted to flee again, but was prevented by shame. What would become of Magdalene, who was clinging to his feet? And so many eyes gazing at him with yearning: how could he leave them unconsoled? To leave? But where to go? God was on every side. His grace pushed him where it pleased-no, not his grace, his power, his all-powerful power. The son of Mary now felt that this earth was his home-he had no other home; he felt that men were his desert-he had no other desert.

“Lord, your will be done,” he murmured, bowing his head and surrendering himself to God’s mercy.

An old man stood up among the ragamuffins and spoke. “Son of Mary, we are hungry, but it’s not bread we seek of you. You are poor, like ourselves. Open your mouth, say a kind word to us, and we shall be filled.”

A young man ventured: “Son of Mary, injustice is strangling us; our hearts can bear no more. You said you brought a kind word. Tell us that kind word; bring us justice!”

The son of Mary looked at the people. He heard the voice of freedom and hunger, and rejoiced. He felt that he had been awaiting this voice for years, this voice which had now come and called him by name. He turned to the people, his arms spread wide. “Brothers,” he said, “let us go!”

All at once, as though they too had been awaiting this call for years and had heard their true name for the first time, the people rejoiced and bellowed: “Let us go! In God’s name!”

The son of Mary took the lead; the rest moved off in one body. Next to the lake front was a pitted hill, still pale green despite the fiery heat of the summer sun, which beat down on it all day long. Now, in the sweetness of the evening, it was perfumed with thyme and savory. Its summit must have been the site of some ancient heathen temple, for fragments of several carved capitals of columns still lay on the ground. The clairvoyant fishermen, while fishing in the lake at night, regularly saw a white ghost sitting on the marble, and one night old Jonah even heard it weep… It was toward this hill that they all marched as if in a trance, the son of Mary in front, and behind, the great family of the poor.

Old Salome turned to her younger son. “Carry me in your arms. We’ll go too.” She took Mary’s hand. “Don’t cry, Mary,” she said. “Didn’t you see a glow around your son’s face?”

“I have no son, I have no son,” the mother replied, beginning to sob convulsively. “All those ragamuffins have sons, and I have none.” She started toward the hill, wailing and lamenting. Now she was sure: her son had abandoned her forever. When she ran to embrace him and take him home with her, he had looked at her with astonishment as though he did not know her; and when she said to him, “I am your mother,” he had put out his hand and pushed her away.

Old Zebedee saw his wife mount the hill with the multitude. Scowling, he grabbed his club, turned to his son Jacob and his son’s two companions, Philip and Nathanael, and pointed to the noisy, agitated mob. “They’re famished wolves, damn them all! We’d better howl along with them so they won’t take us for sheep and eat us. Let’s follow behind-but remember, no matter what that windmill son of Mary tells them, we’ll boo him. Do you hear! We mustn’t let him get the upper hand. Forward, all together, and look sharp!”

This said, he too started to climb the hill, as slow as a lame donkey.

Just then Jonah’s two sons appeared. Peter held his brother by the arm and spoke to him tranquilly, tenderly, in order not to infuriate him. But the other was disturbed and kept his eyes on the swarms of people that were mounting, and on the man in white who led them.

“Who are they? Where are they going?” Peter asked Judas, who still stood in the street, unable to come to a decision.

“The son of Mary,” the redbeard sneered.

“And the troop behind him?”

“The poor who glean the grapes after the vintage. They took one look and attached themselves to him. I think he’s going up there to talk to them.”

“What can he say? He couldn’t even divide up hay for a pair of donkeys.”

Judas shrugged his shoulders. “We’ll see,” he growled, and he too started up the hill.

Two swarthy amazons were returning from the vineyards, exhausted and overheated, each with a large basket of grapes balanced on her head. Envying the camaraderie of the others, they decided to join them to pass the time, and attached themselves to the rear of the procession.

Old Jonah, his net on his shoulders, was dragging himself toward his shack. He was hungry, and impatient to arrive. When he saw his sons and the crowd mounting the hill, he stopped, open-mouthed, and gazed at them with round, fishlike eyes. He did not think of anything; he did not ask himself who had died, who was getting married, or where so many people were going all in a group. He did not think of anything; he simply stared with gaping mouth.

“Come on, fish-prophet Jonah, let’s go,” Zebedee called to him. “It’s a party! Seems like Mary Magdalene’s getting married. Come on, let’s go and have a good time!”

Jonah moved his thick lips. He was about to speak, but changed his mind. Giving a heave with his shoulder to adjust the net on his back, he went off toward his neighborhood with heavy steps. A considerable time later, as he was at last nearing his hut, his mind, after many labor pains, finally gave birth: “Go to the devil, Zebedee, you blockhead!” he grumbled; then, kicking open the door, he went in.

When Zebedee and his companions reached the top of the hill, Jesus was sitting cross-legged on the capital of a column. He had not opened his mouth yet; he seemed to be waiting for them. The crowd of paupers was in front of him, the men cross-legged on the ground, the women standing in back, looking at him. The sun had set, but Mount Hebron, to the north, still held the light at its summit and did not allow it to flee.

Jesus watched the light wrestle with the darkness, his hands crossed over his chest. At times he slowly drew his glance back onto the people’s faces, which were turned directly toward him. They were wrinkled, sorrowful, shrunken by hunger; and the eyes, pinned upon him, looked at him with reproach, as though he was to blame.

As soon as he saw Zebedee and his men, he rose. “Welcome,” he said. “Gather round, all of you. My voice is not very strong. I want to speak to you.”

Zebedee went in front in his capacity as village elder and enthroned himself on a stone. To his right were his two sons and also Philip and Nathanael; to his left, Peter and Andrew. Old Salome and Mary the wife of Joseph stood among the women, farther back. The other Mary, Mary Magdalene, was fallen at Jesus’ feet, her face hidden in her palms. Judas waited under a tormented, wind-gnarled pine tree, off to one side, and his hard blue eyes looked daggers at the son of Mary through the pine needles.