Page 28 of Judas

"It's not my blood. I… want to tell you a story…one that is going to sound extraordinary and honestly… unbelievable. But I swear to you, Eliza… my Ahavah…every word is true. I swear on everything I hold dear," his voice trembled.

"Okay," she frowned. "Tell me."

Handing her a t-shirt from his closet, he whispered, "This will take a while. I'll make coffee."

Chapter sixteen

The warm scent of fresh ground beans wafted its invitation into Eliza's nostrils, immediately alerting her senses. Her mouth watered for what she knew would be the most delicious cup of coffee she'd ever tasted. Watching from the marble bar separating the kitchen from the common living space, she admired Judas's agility as he expertly crafted the perfect brew.

Passing her the cup, his face was pensive, "You like it straight if I remember."

"That's right," she whispered gently, slowly sipping. There was delicious wizardry in the cup.

Eliza cradled the warmth in her hands and stared at him. Her mind swirled with questions about what kind of story he wanted to tell her. It concerned her that his demeanor had changed so quickly the second she mentioned the whip hanging on his bedroom wall. As he completed his mug of magical brew, the scattering of scars on his back didn't go unnoticed. He gave her a shirt and shorts but he dressed only in a pair of thick athleticpants; it was his home after all and Eliza had come to cherish his form.

Judas turned to face her. Eliza thought he looked sad and uncomfortable and it was so far out of his personality that it made her concerned for his mental health. She wondered if that protective childhood he spoke of was a euphemism for an abusive one. It wouldn’t be the first time she heard a similar story.

Clearing his throat, Judas' voice broke their tense silence, "So…what I'm about to tell you—" He paused. "I know it's going to sound fantastic and believe me, you're going to think I'm a lunatic. But… I hope… by the end…" Another pause. "You can look past it and still…carefor me because I reallycareabout you," his dark caramel eyes misted with tears.

"Judas," reaching out, Eliza took his hand, "Nothing you can say will ever change the way I feel about you."

Judas closed his eyes, nodding.

"You asked about the pictures on the wall? It's not my family in those pictures, Eliza. I don't have any family… at least, I don't think I do.” He mused for a moment in serious contemplation. Did he have relatives out in the world? He wouldn’t know them, but surely his DNA was out there. Judas refocused, “Those men that resemble me? The reason they look like me is because… theyareme," his voice soft and fearful.

Eliza was confused, "So, you had old pictures made to look like family photos? Can I ask—"

"No," shaking his head emphatically, "No… those pictures are old. But, they're of me. I'm in those pictures… all of them."

Walking to the wall, he pointed to the target of Eliza's interest, "This was taken October 3, 1862, the morning after Mr. Lincoln arrived at the Union camp in Antietam. I was working for the photographer, Alexander Gardner at the time. I set up the picture while Alex tested the lighting when he took this. It wasso sunny that day and we had to move the officers several times because the President was so tall, he cast a shadow on some of the faces. After it was developed, Alex gave it to me as a gift."

Eliza narrowed her eyes on him in thought. There was absolutely no way what he was telling her was true. Did he just say he had his picture taken with the sixteenth president of the United States… over one hundred and sixty years ago?

"Judas," she chortled, "You can understand why that sounds absurd. I mean, that would make you, what? Over one hundred ninety years old? That's impossible."

"Khara," Judas growled under his breath.

"That! What is that word? I hear you use it a lot. It sounds… Hebrew," she exclaimed.

"Because itisHebrew. I told you I speak many languages. It just means shit… right now it means shit, what do I do now to convince you I'm telling the truth."

"I forgot you know Hebrew." Eliza was impressed again, recalling how he had called her har?r shli, his treasure.

He rolled his eyes, sighing, "French, Arabic, Spanish, Hebrew, Greek…and.." He took a breath. "Aramaic."

Her shock was immediate, "Impressive…but, I mean…you come from Israel, so it stands to reason…" She stopped, narrowing her eyes on him once more, "Wait. Did you say Aramaic? As in the language of Jesus? That's certainly different."

Judas, relieved he was possibly making headway, latched onto the opportunity to move forward. Taking her by the hand, he led her to the sofa.

"You asked me about the whip hanging in my bedroom… it's real as is the blood it's stained with… but the blood isn't mine. It belongs to a friend of mine… someone I followed and learned from. Someone I loved who asked me to do a terrible thing thatchanged history asyouknow it. Something that I, in hindsight, would not do again."

"Who does the blood belong to?" Eliza shifted uncomfortably in her seat. Her heart racing as fast as her mind. It was crazy to think about what he was going to tell her, but the clues seemed to put themselves together like a completed puzzle. She was the child of a lifelong evangelical.

Israel. Aramaic. A teacher and a terrible act.

"I called him Yesh… but you know him by his common name, Jesus."

Eliza thought she might vomit. Shaking her head violently, she wanted to scream that he was insane, but what came out of her open mouth was near maniacal laughter. He had to be delirious if he thought she would believe that he was Judas Iscariot.

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