This is part of a series that I very much hope to publish. Any advice would be welcomed.

Supper

The days after the entry and what might have seemed like the desecration of the Temple were fraught with tension, questions and counter-questions ranging from questions about taxes to what would happen at the end of time. I was glad when a sort of cousin offered me some work towards the end of the week. Yes, on a roof. It kept me occupied. I did not realise that I was working almost next door to the room where the Teacher would eat Passover with the twelve and others. From my vantage point, I could see the preparations and the earnest way people went about trying to de-leaven the space, thus keeping it holy.

I saw his closest disciples arrive in twos and threes, as well as some of the women. I could not hear, of course, but what I saw was as astounding. I learnt from others what had been said. There were others who joined me on the roof and on surrounding ones. All of us almost hidden by the darkness. I was astounded that the Teacher got up from the table, took off his outer garment, and picking up a bowl began to wash the feet of his friends. That was the job of the lowest servant, not of the Teacher. Some seemed to protest, and I smiled that Peter was the most vocal, and yet even he had his feet washed.

At certain points those with Jesus seemed to remonstrate with each other. They seemed to be accusing each other and were startled and angry. It made no sense at all, at least not until the cold light of day. The Teacher broke bread, and shared wine. He was very purposeful and restrained about it. At one point, he gave the favoured piece of bread to the one called Judas, who got up and left the table. I watched as he came down the stairs with his cloak pulled around him. It was as if he was trying to make himself invisible. He need not have tried, for as he walked away darkness enveloped him.

No one else left and he did not return. I could see them sharing food as the story of the Passover was being retold. Instinctively those of us on the roofs began to recount the tale as well. It was our festival of liberation. I had shared it of course with family and friends, including Deborah on many occasions, and now watching he who I maybe hoped was the Messiah lead it.

Eventually they left the room together and headed down to the Kidron Valley. Most of us who were on the roofs followed. No one stopped us. We were singing the psalm of the Passover as we went. We must be going to the Garden, said one of those with me. He goes there to pray.

When we arrived at Gethsemane, most of us sat around the edge, while the 12 went deeper into the garden. I heard later that he had taken three of them deeper sit. These Olive groves had been here for generations. Maybe since creation itself. I wonder what stories they could tell. As time passed, I drifted until I slept.