“The Law goes contrary to my heart,” Jesus calmly replied.

He was still speaking when the groom made his appearance, bathed, perfumed, a green wreath over his thick head of curly hair. A few drinks had put him in the best of moods, and his nose was dazzling. With one thrust he threw open the door. The guests flowed in behind him, and Jesus entered also, holding Magdalene by the hand.

“Which are the foolish virgins, which the wise?” Peter asked John in a low voice. “What did you make of it?”

“That God is our Father,” replied the son of Zebedee.

The rabbi arrived and performed the ceremony. Afterward, bride and groom placed themselves in the middle of the house, and the guests filed by, kissing them and expressing the wish that they might give birth to a son who would rescue Israel from its slavery. Then the lutes started to play, the guests danced and drank, and Jesus and his companions danced and drank with them. The hours passed, and when the moon rose they resumed their journey. It was autumn now, but the great heat of the days had not abated, and it was delightful to travel in the moist coolness of the night.

Their faces directed toward Jerusalem, they proceeded. They had drunk, and everything appeared transformed. Their bodies had grown buoyant, like souls; they walked with winged feet, with the Jordan on their left, and on their right, lying tame and fertile under the moonlight, the plain of Zabulon, tired and satisfied this year too, after having once more fulfilled the obligation which God had entrusted to it for centuries and centuries: to lift up the grain to the height of a man, to load down the vines with grapes and the olive trees with olives. It lay now, tired and satisfied, like a mother who had just given birth to her child.

“What a joy this is, brothers!” Peter said over and over again. His delight in this nocturnal march and in the sweetness of the camaraderie was insatiable. “Is it real? Is it a dream? Have we been bewitched? The way I am, I feel like singing a song, or else I’ll burst!”

“All together!” cried Jesus. He went in front, tipped up his head, and was the first to begin. His voice was weak, but pleasant and full of passion. To its right and left were the voices of John and Andrew, melodious and tender. For some time these three high voices chirped their graceful vibrato all alone. They were so mellifluous, your heart skipped a beat: they can’t keep it up, you said to yourself. So much honey will surely make them dizzy and sick, one after the other. But the voices spurted forth out of a very deep spring, and every time they were about to falter, they steadied themselves again. Suddenly-what joy! what strength!-the baritones of Peter, Jacob and Judas shook the air, heavy, triumphant and full of virility; and all together, each with his own grace and force, the companions lifted high to the heavens the jubilant psalm of the sacred journey:

The hours passed, the stars dimmed, the sun rose. Leaving the red soil of Galilee behind them, they entered black-soiled Samaria.

Judas halted. “Let’s change our route,” he proposed. “This is a heretical and accursed land. Let’s cross the Jordan bridge and go along the other bank. It’s a sin to touch those who transgress the Law. Their God is contaminated and so is their water and their bread. A mouthful of Samaritan bread, my mother used to tell me, is a mouthful of pork. Let’s change our route!”

But Jesus took Judas calmly by the hand and they continued on together. “Judas, my brother,” he said to him, “when the pure man touches the soiled man, the soiled man becomes pure. Do not object. We have come for them, for sinners. What need do the righteous have of us? Here in Samaria a kind word may save a soul-a kind word, Judas, a good deed, a smile at the Samaritan who goes by. Do you understand?”

Judas glanced furtively around him to be sure the others could not hear. “This is not the way,” he said softly; “no, it is not the way. But I’ll be patient until we reach the wild ascetic. He will judge. Until then, go where you like, do what you like. I won’t leave you.”

He passed his crooked staff over his shoulders and walked on ahead, all by himself.

The others conversed as they marched. Jesus spoke to them of love, the Father, the kingdom of heaven. He explained which souls were the foolish virgins, which the wise, what the lamps were and what the oil, who the bridegroom was and why the foolish virgins not only entered his house, as did the wise, but were the only ones to have their tired feet washed by the servants. As the four companions listened, their minds widened, received all that was being said to them, and their hearts grew firm. Sin now appeared to them like a foolish virgin standing with her extinguished lamp, imploring and weeping before the door of the Lord…

They marched and marched. The skies above them clouded over and the face of the earth grew dark. The air smelled of rain.

They arrived at the first village, at the foot of Gerizim, the holy mountain of their forefathers. At the entrance to the village, surrounded by date palms and reeds, was the age-old well of Jacob. It was here that the patriarch had come with his sheep to draw water and drink. The stone lip of the well was eaten away by the ropes which had rubbed over it for generations and generations.

Jesus felt tired. The stones had cut his feet; they were bleeding. “I shall stay here,” he said. “You go into the village and knock at the doors. Some good soul will be found to give us a loaf of bread as alms; and some woman will come to the well and draw water for us to drink. Have faith in God, and in men.”

The five left, but on the way Judas changed his mind. “I’m not going into a contaminated village,” he said, “and I’m not going to eat contaminated bread. I’ll stay here under this fig tree and wait for you.”

Jesus had lain down meanwhile in the shade of the reeds. He was thirsty, but the well was deep: how was he to drink? He inclined his head and gave himself up to thought. He had placed a difficult road before him. His body was weak, he grew tired, his knees sagged, he did not have the strength to support his soul. He fell, but straightway God always blew a cool, light breeze over him, his body found strength again and he rose and continued on. For how long? Until death? Until beyond death?

While he reflected on God, man and death, the reeds stirred and a young woman wearing bracelets and earrings and carrying a jug on her head approached the well and placed her jug down on the brim. Jesus saw her through the reeds let out the rope she was carrying, lower the bucket, draw up water and fill the jug. His thirst increased.

“Woman,” he said, emerging from the reeds, “give me a drink.”

The woman was startled by his sudden appearance in front of her.

“Do not be afraid,” he said. “I am an honest man. I’m thirsty; give me a drink.”

“How is it,” she replied, “that you, a Galilean-I can tell by your clothes-ask a drink of me, a Samaritan?”

“If you knew who it was that says to you, Woman, give me a drink,’ you would fall at his feet and ask him to give you immortal water to drink.”

The woman was perplexed. “You have neither rope nor bucket, and the well is deep. How could you draw up water to give me a drink?”

“He who drinks of the water of this well will thirst again,” Jesus answered, “but he who drinks the water that I shall give him will not thirst again for all eternity.”