Fiction
Betrothal: A Gay Trans Biblical Romance
I am my beloved’s and he is mine
Outside, the sun is down and evening darkness falls soft across the city. Inside, the table is set and ready, warm light from oil lamps casting shadows as the twelve take their places for the feast. Yasha catches Yohan’s hand and pulls him down on his right to share his seat as the rest settle around them.
Yasha looks around the table and the sadness that has settled in him for the past several days mutes his smile. “I am so glad we are able to be together tonight. I had so deeply wished that we could have this last Passover together.”
Last Passover? Yohan looks up at Yasha, but he is leaning forward to pick up the jug of wine from the middle of the table. A chill creeps over Yohan’s skin like cold fire as Yasha pours the rich red liquid into a goblet.
Setting down the jug, Yasha lifts the goblet in both hands, the wine catching the light from the lamps. The others gaze up at him, their faces as perplexed and bewildered as Yohan feels, as Yasha says a prayer of thanks to the Father. As he lowers the cup, Yasha looks down and meets Yohan’s eyes, and his smile softens. Yasha drinks from the goblet, then holds it for Yohan.
Yasha does not let go of the cup, and Yohan’s hands cover Yasha’s as Yohan brings the cup to his lips.
Yasha hands the goblet to Yehudah who is seated on his left, then slips his hand into Yohan’s, weaving their fingers together, and lifts Yohan’s hand to his lips. Yasha’s eyes meet Yohan’s, glowing in the mellow light. His next words are soft, for Yohan’s ears alone: “I have no kinyan* to give you, but I give you my life. I am my beloved’s and my beloved is mine.”
Yohan’s heart skips in his chest, and he clutches Yasha’s fingers. He has never been so happy and yet full of dread all at once. “I am my beloved’s and my beloved is mine,” he repeats back, his voice barely a whisper.
✡
Yohan refuses to take his eyes off Yasha. As the light of midday vanished into unnatural darkness, he drew closer to Miryam as they stood at the foot of the cross, clinging to one another. The muscles in Yohan’s neck and shoulders are on fire from tipping his head back to look up at Yasha, and the pain that began in his feet from standing still so long is climbing up his legs into his knees, but he will not move. His pain is nothing to what Yasha is enduring.
“Mother,” Yasha whispers and Miryam leans forward, a hand lifting as if to touch her son’s foot, but stopping to hang trembling in midair. Yasha blinks blood, sweat, and tears from his eyes, and focuses on her, then Yohan. “Here… is your son.”
Yohan’s throat tightens until he can barely breathe, and he puts his arm about Miryam’s shoulders. A sob shudders through her and she drops her hand, sagging against Yohan.
“Beloved.” Yasha’s voice is hoarse, breaking on the word. He bends his head toward Miryam. “Here is… your mother.”
Yohan’s eyes burn, and he nods, tightening his arm around Miryam.
✡
Yohan takes Miryam home and tucks her into bed. Her grief is as an open wound. She cannot even walk on her own, and leans heavily on him.
Yohan sits by the hearth, hearing her soft weeping through the wall. Each breath he draws hurts, as if the air is clawing through his chest, burning his flesh and bone.
A knock at the door, and it is Cephas, his eyes haunted in the darkness. Yohan seats him by the hearth and brings him tea and bread. They sip at the tea, but neither touches the bread.
“Why?” Cephas whispers into the night. “I thought — How — ? Were we wrong about everything?” He looks at Yohan, his face and voice pleading.
Yohan has to look away. Cephas lost a friend, a leader, a messiah. Yohan lost his beloved. Cephas is adrift, unmoored. Yohan is broken. Yet he must go on. He must fulfil Yasha’s last request.
When Cephas falls asleep, passes out slumped against the wall by the hearth, Yohan collects the plates and cups and washes them. He puts the bread away and sweeps the floor and banks the fire for the night. Then he goes outside and sits by the front door, his head tipped back against the mud brick wall, and watches the moon and stars. “Was this Your plan?” he asks. “Did You send him here for this?”
There is no answer, and finally, wearied beyond anything he has ever felt before, Yohan sleeps.
✡
The Sabbath is long and quiet. Cephas goes home in the morning, then returns with his wife and her mother. The three of them are carrying just enough food so as not to violate the Sabbath rules. Miryam rises and the five of them sit in silence. Yohan wishes to speak of Yasha, to remember him somehow, but he cannot think of what to say, and the silence continues.
As the sun sets, Yohan and Miryam are sitting outside. Cephas’ wife and her mother have only just left when Magdalena, Yoanna, and Yohan’s mother Salome come into the courtyard. They go to Miryam and speak quietly with their heads together, then all four go into the house. Salome touches Yohan’s shoulder and gives him a sad smile on her way by.
Yohan closes his eyes. He is so very tired.
✡
“Yohan! Cephas!”
Yohan wakes with a jolt at the shouts. Yoanna, Salome, and Magdalena run into the courtyard from the road. Weren’t they just inside the house? How long was he asleep?
“The tomb is empty!” Yoanna cries, and, “They said he is risen!” Salome says between gasps for breath. All three women are dishevelled. Did they run all the way here from the tomb?
“What?” Yohan pushes himself to his feet to meet them. “Who said what?”
Cephas scrambles up from where he had fallen asleep in the courtyard as well. “Are you mad, to be running and shouting like this?”
“His body is gone!” Magdalena throws a hand out toward the road. “It is gone!”
Yohan meets Cephas’ eyes and sees a shock there that must mirror his own. And then they are running.
It is just as the women said: the large stone that blocked the cave opening is rolled away, leaving a dark hole gaping in the mountainside. Yohan stumbles to a stop at the mouth of the cave, his heart pounding. Cephas pushes him out of the way as he enters the tomb without stopping, and Yohan slowly follows him inside.
The shelf against the wall where they laid Yasha’s body is empty but for the linen cloths that wrapped his body, now lying folded neatly in the corner. Yasha is gone.
✡
Back at the house, speculations fly back and forth, people arriving, leaving, and returning. At midday, Yohan slips away from the chaos.
He finds himself on the shore of Lake Gennesaret, and walks out into the water until it reaches his waist, his robes floating about himself. Trailing his hands in the cold water, Yohan closes his eyes and tips his head back to the warm sun.
A calloused palm against his cheek is warmer than the sun upon his brow, and Yohan opens his eyes. Yasha stands beside him, also waist deep in the water, his eyes bright. “Beloved.”
“Are… are you really here?” Yohan’s question is barely a breath and he reaches out to touch Yasha’s cheek.
“I am here.” Yasha lays a hand over Yohan’s. “I will never leave you again.”
*Author’s note: a kinyan is a Jewish betrothal gift.
More about Yohan and Yasha:
Esther learned to read when she was four years old, and began writing shortly thereafter. She is a queer Christian poet, crafting with words to create art and music.
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