The walk to the mountain lake was five kilometres over bogland, conifer forestry and trails covered in sheep shit. But the scenery was magical, even in winter. The fast-flowing river Scaul was lined with hazel brush on both banks, while the sparse fields threw up the occasional darkly shining holly. Skies switched between rain and sun so rapidly that the bare hills were bathed in a series of rainbows. For long periods the mother and son walked without hearing the slightest indication of human activity, other than their own conversation.
As they left the trail and rejoined a narrow road, shoes filthy with muck, the mother had a plan. As the lake grew closer, her determination only hardened. Eleven days previous, she had put up a post on a website telling herself what to do about results of the US general election. One of the things she had mentioned was “go to the top of a mountain and shout FUUUUUUUCCCCCCCCK”.
Well, they weren’t at the top of a mountain, rather at the bottom, but it was as remote a place as she’d ever travelled to on foot. As the son chatted on about a YouTube channel he was watching called Sunny and Melon where half the characters were AI-voiced, she decided what she’d do.
While her son would record her on the phone, she would stand right on the shore of that lake and shout with all her might, “FUCK TRUMP!” and hear the echoes bounce around the mountainsides. It would be a ritual, a catharsis, and her son would forgive her for the naughty words. He knew his mother was weird.
“When are we getting to this lake?” he complained, even though it was right in front of them, an expanse of dark, untroubled blue. But the road there twisted and turned, went up and downhill, before finally ending at a picnic spot by a small car park. It would be another five hundred metres before they finally got to the picnic table, which stood on a small grassy promontory, and then the mother had to use her raincoat to wipe down the seat after the last rainfall.
While the son ate two queen cakes he’d insisted on getting in SuperValu the previous day, the mother wandered out to the edge of the promontory and stood on a rock. Across the lake there was one farmhouse; beyond that, more forest. Other than that, the place was empty of other living beings apart from sheep.
As the rainbow dipped into the dark water, she realised there would only be a few minutes more of sun, and went back to where the boy was sitting watching videos. “Could you -?”
But there’s a car coming. And a van. A white rented car parks, then releases a group of five people. They chatter loudly in Chinese. Tourists, doing the Wild Atlantic Way drive. And out of the van comes an Irishman in hi-vis with a small motorbike. He’s telling the Chinese tourists the walking route up the mountain gap, and they all go together.
She gives up. The moment has passed. How would she explain screaming her lungs out? They would think she was mad.
Then her son looks up from his video. “Who’s that, mum?”
“Oh, they’re just some tourists come to look at the waterfall.”
“No, I mean over here.” He gestures at the promontory. She turns around; sitting on the rock she just vacated is Jesus. How does she know it’s Jesus? Hard to explain since He does not have long, flowing hair, or a beard, and He isn’t wearing robes. He’s a short fellow, His hair clipped to almost nothing, and He’s dark. He’s wearing a pair of plain trousers, sunglasses and a polo shirt.
But she knows it’s Him. Like a punch to a gut.
“Hi,” says Jesus.
“Um, hi.” She falters. It’s not the right way to greet the Messiah, the Son of Man, the Redeemer, the…
“I saw you wanted to scream ‘Fuck Trump’.” His voice is pleasant, very slightly accented.
“How did you know?” she whispers, but He hears her.
“I am who I am,” He responds with a smile. Behind Him, another holly bends to the right, a stalwart in winds long tending in the same direction. It’s a startling green in a landscape bare of trees. “I wanted to let you know about that time I was on the cross because I wanted to do the same thing.” Then He turns towards the lake and immediately the mountains around it ware engulfed in a blazing red light, as if they were aflame. With a mighty pair of lungs, He shouts:
Eloi, eloi, lama sabacthani?
Bacthani – thani – thani, the hills echo. The son looks up from his video. “Cool,” he says, “where did you get that light from?”
“The people who walked in darkness.” Jesus is grinning now, shit-eatingly. But then like the weather, His expression darkens. “I want to talk seriously about all that. Right when I cried those words for the first time, I really believed them. Because after hours of suffering on that cross in absolute agony, I realised it was all a con. Nobody was going to come and rescue Me. My Father wasn’t going to raise Me up because He didn’t exist. Or rather he did, he was whoever raped My mother before Joseph took us on. There were no miracles, no, not even the ones they said I’d done. I was going to die. I’d given up My life for absolutely nothing.”
He paused, and it started to rain. The son got under the picnic table and continued watching his videos; he had lost interest in Jesus and didn’t want to get wet.
“But I didn’t die. As you all know. And I wish to God My father I had, because have you any idea what it’s like to live with PTSD for two thousand years? Do you think I’m ever going to forget Good Friday? Do you know what it’s like to have those nails hammered in you? They’re not delicate. Roman nails are almost a centimetre thick. And the way your feet are bent back…” His face contorts in pain. “I never felt the same way about God the Father again. Once you lose faith, it’s hard to get it back.”
She takes His hand. She feels sorry for Him and a bit discombobulated that Jesus is wandering around the earth feeling as lost and broken as everyone else. His palm is soft. There are no signs of a wound. His eyes are the deepest brown, open and generous.
“Don’t be alarmed,” He whispered, “I only say all this to let you know that I suffer with you. I suffer your doubt, your rage, your impotence, your powerlessness. I don’t have a box of tricks to counter the evil humans do in My name. But I do have My humanity. I realise now why My father gave me that, even I sometimes struggle to forgive him for it.”
The rain continued, soft and insistent. Jesus walked over to where the son was still crouched under the table, watching his videos.
“Hello,” He said, “what you watching?”
“Sunny and Melon,” the boy replied. “They’ve got eight different channels and this is called the Sunny and Friends one. Except all the friends are AI voices!”
“Really?” said Jesus. “Well, there’s nothing artificial about Me. I’m begotten, not made.”
The boy hit pause and gave him the side eye. “Is that something you learned in religion class?”
And now Jesus was smiling as broadly as the sun. “Hun, my entire life has been religion class. I’m sick of it. Hey, you ever played Geometry Dash? I’ve heard it’s good.”
And so the son crouched lower still under the table to play games with the Son, who held the mother’s hand firm until the clouds passed and the next rainbow arrived.