Uhh… what? Seems like your average times to I mean, if you don't mind, I'd really rather have an ounce of those— The darkest times! — He exclaimed with added drama, and the second driver nodded sagely, confirming the profoundness of the But this didn't work for me — I still had to endure a whole symphony of deep thoughts from Jesh soon, and at the moment, I'd much rather eat the old- fashioned way: by sending food directly into my mouth.
Before I could try bargaining again, they doubled down:
These times aren't They're dark, and not particularly light.
Why that color scheme? I might've liked green or purple times, for example — I pitched my suggestion, but got a firm, drill-sergeant reply:
No! They're And that's that.
Then maybe you could just keep driving and not talk until we leave this dark patch and hit something more... pastel?
I waved them off both metaphorically and literally and, with a heavy heart, reached for my final stash — a strip of dried meat I'd been saving exactly for the arrival of these Dark Times™. The jerky made its way on a pleasant voyage to my stomach, under the jealous yet polite stares of the two drivers. And with that handled, I decided I'd had enough of earthly distractions and dove back into the pages of Hero's works.
That rotating water-heating sphere of his? Definitely going on my to-do list.
I'll brush up on the mechanics, buy the parts, and put it all together. And then I'll be soaking in
warm water with scented oils and flower petals... well, I'll need to buy a house with an actual bath first, since in Capernaum it's my dad's place, not mine. But hey — details, details. That's future me's problem. And future me's not gonna let me down if I stop acting like a scared moron.
In these positively delusional thoughts I floated until we finally reached my long-desired destination
Cana of I'd been itching to get there. Waiting for Jesh in my hometown felt like too much of a drag, so I decided to cut ahead.
As soon as my feet hit the ground, I paid the entrance tax and stepped into the city. And that's when I found myself in a whole new world.
Now this I hadn't expected!
My good old Capernaum looked like some workshop-infested backwater compared to this place. And it wasn't about wealth — it was about vibe.
These people knew how to party. And more importantly — they wanted to.
Unlike the grumpy, overworked faces I was used to, everyone here radiated the kind of cheerful, wine-infused lunacy that immediately suggested either a festival or a low-level apocalypse. Wanting not to look like some slack-jawed provincial, I slapped on the face I used to wear when I was a tax collector — the classic "I'm only here to assess your sins and take your money" look — and strolled around, giving my best sneer to the scenery.
Not that anyone cared.
That much was obvious the second I reached the central square, which was packed with loudmouthed hawkers grilling meat and shoveling it off as fast as they could. They'd pour strong
drink right into the open mouths of anyone who asked, demanded, or — more importantly — paid.
After stuffing their faces, the customers apparently remembered they had souls — and that's when the amulet vendors pounced, shaking entire bunches of clinking charms in front of anyone who still had coins and guilt left.
I waved them off and tried to avoid the packs of dogs hunting down their personal better futures. One had already knocked over a wine amphora and was bolting from a series of angry slaps. But apparently that was a decoy maneuver — because while one made a scene, the rest dove under the vendor's stand and happily munched on spilled rice.
The square was ringed with whitewashed brick houses, many bearing inscriptions in Greek (which I could barely read) and Aramaic (which I could enjoy like a local tabloid). One masterpiece caught my eye:
"Gershon, you stinking microdick, bring the money back!"
Apparently this unknown Barabbas had crossed a much less influential kind of rabbi — the kind you could ignore. As for me, I'd already settled my debts, having sold the workshop to some wide-eyed schmuck, whom I'd dazzled with the "unlimited potential" of such a noble asset. I did stash a few items for later — I'm not an idiot — but most of the cash went to my ex-friend, who, aided by his hired knuckleheads, gave my tailbone a couple of stern reminders. It hurt, but not too bad.
Preventative maintenance, I told myself.
See, shit lives in multiple dimensions — the metaphysical, the spiritual, and the very specific moment you dare hope for anything good. That's when it drops in, fully formed and freshly crusted, lodging itself in your existence and making breathing an ordeal.
The second type of shit, however, has a more solid — or sometimes mushy — foundation. It's still foul and gross, but at least you can sidestep it. Which is exactly what I did when an old lady sweeping her balcony dumped a load of pigeon feathers and droppings down toward my head.
My first win in a long time. That called for a small celebration. Feeling mildly triumphant, I made my way to the edge of the square where a stone basin of water stood, and took a good swig — after shooing away a donkey who thought he was first in line.
Nearby, a shrill voice called out:
Only today! Only right now! Watch the true master — Herod the Feeble — draw your portrait in charcoal directly on the street!
The crier was a scrawny kid with a surprisingly bossy tone. I wandered over to the blanket spread out on the cobblestones, where a tiny old man with a giant head and a tuft of beard was hanging out. His tools were neatly arranged but untouched — and when I asked him for a portrait, he didn't even reach for them.
No, you're not right, — he grumbled — I don't like your Too sneaky.
And what are yours? Too old? — I snapped back. We locked eyes in mutual distaste like a pair of feral cats, but I scored my second victory of the day when Herod quickly gave up and stopped pestering me.
Still, he didn't draw me. Instead, he dove under his "stall" and pulled out a long fishbone scraper, sharpened like a blade. He tried to hand it to me while dramatically declaring:
I haven't seen ignorance like this in years! I knew the day would come when someone this… this… this far from Art would show up!
Honestly, that fishbone scraper of his would've been perfect for scraping the smug grin off his wrinkled mug — but I figured I had a better idea for someone so talent-deprived.
"I'm actually planning to renovate my apartment," I said. "You'd be just the guy I need."
What's the pay? Do I get fed? What's the deal with housing? — I jumped on the offer, catching him off He'd clearly expected me to be offended by his little speech, not to treat it like a job posting. But why would I be? A gig's a gig. I might not be a handyman, but after all my years in the workshop, I'd picked up a thing or two. So why not earn a few solid shekels?
Well, if you're seriously dumb enough to take the job, then come by…
We struck a deal like real businessmen, sealed it with a spit-and-shake, and off I went, whistling to myself. I hadn't even officially made it into Cana yet, and I'd already secured temp housing, food, and future savings. Now that's what I call a promising start.
Even the shouts right next to my ear — something about someone's honey being sweeter than breastmilk — didn't ruin my mood. Actually, maybe I should pick up the pace.
I passed a duo of street musicians playing flute and tympanum, gave them a clap and flipped them a coin. Same for the drunken guy dancing with a jug on his head — he seemed to appreciate the beat more than the balance.
Okay, enough chillin'. Time to get to business — and more importantly, to go check on the newlyweds. I saw the crowd starting to flow, predictably, from one square to another that opened up toward the grape terraces.
There it was: a grand lodge of sorts, like a darkened hangar with carved wooden columns. It opened out to the street — which I, of course, was now striding down like the main attraction. Getting through the mob was a full-contact sport. It looked like half the city had shown up!
Between the sweat, vinegar, and someone's tactical fart, my eyes were stinging. And the pounding drums weren't much help to my ears.
Still, the vibe was upbeat — dancing never stopped, and no one was complaining.
A drunk couple tried to drag me into their wobbly boogie net, but I'm from a fishing village, remember? I don't bite easy. I wasn't here for the revelry. I was here for something else.
Answers.
The others didn't seem to share my goal. But I did notice that, despite the chaos and cheer, people kept shooting guilty glances toward the lodge. Curious. I slapped the back of a guy who was busy relieving himself on an empty sack and asked:
Hey, what's everybody gawking at over there? Did the bride and groom do something wrong?
Nah… nah, they're locals. Regular folk. They're in love, they really are — I'm telling you, real love! But, like… a ton of bigshots showed Took all the benches, cut themselves off from us, and their tables are freakin' loaded. Meanwhile, we're over here licking the last crust with snot on it.
But over there… man, the stuff they've got…
His eyes rolled back in bliss, as if praying to the gods of roast lamb while still dribbling out the last of his bladder. I decided to leave him to his divine moment and made a beeline for the interesting part of the wedding — the tables. That's when I saw him.
Him. No doubt about it.