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“…No matter your gender, your race, your name, you are Him in human form. And you are priceless.”
It had been three months since those words were spoken.
It had been three months since a serene smile and a gentle handshake.
It had been three months since that soft tenor uttered a name that almost felt right.
“Ima?”
Joanna Iscariot glanced over her shoulder and smiled.
“Yes, my sweet?”
“Can you call me ‘Jude’?”
As soon as the name rang out in the morning air, it felt as if the sun was warming everything it touched. There was light instead of darkness.
The words proclaimed by the golden-haired young man in the temple court unlocked a deep, buried truth.
Sixteen years had been spent feeling wrong, but not knowing what.
It turned out that being a young woman was what was wrong.
He was a young man.
He just needed to know if it was safe to be as such, and after much deliberation, he decided that trying a new name was the first step.
His mother was silent.
“Ima? Did you hear me?”
She nodded her head, her grey curls bouncing slightly as she brought herself back to the present.
“I heard you, dear. But we named you ‘Judith’.”
“I’d like to try being called ‘Jude’.”
Joanna turned around properly, and looked at the teenager she called her daughter.
“Why?”
There wasn’t any venom, or even confusion. Just curiosity.
His mother was a kind woman; together they would distribute food among the needy, and she always had a soothing word when his anxieties took hold.
But he panicked.
As kind as she was, there was always this lingering disappointment. He wasn’t the child his parents had hoped for. Not only could he not carry on the family name, but he wasn’t overly talented; he didn’t have any special skills. He was known to push the boundaries, and both his parents had given up on trying to establish a betrothal. His reputation for sneaking around the temple and trading what he had for knowledge preceded him; people didn’t want such an inquisitive teen to marry into their families.
His parents were both devoted to their faith, and extremely traditional. Even if he tried to persuade them with Jesus’ words, there was still a chance things could go poorly.
If he outwardly told her he wasn’t her daughter… it may destroy them.
So he ended up telling her a half-truth.
“Some of the others, they go by shortened versions of their names. Eliana down the road is ‘Ana’, and her brother Joseph is ‘Joe’.”
Joanna hummed. “I’m not opposed to calling you ‘Jude’ alongside your proper name, but we called you ‘Judith’ after your father’s mother and after my brother Judas. You are what keeps their memories alive.”
He nodded, accepting how things would be. He just tried to not let the tears gathering in his eyes fall.
———
He stared at the ceiling unblinkingly.
His parents were both at the temple, celebrating a feast, the sounds of which reverberated through the streets.
He, on the other hand, was not.
He grimaced at a particularly loud sound from outside, adding to the pounding in his head.
Just over a month ago, he’d turned eighteen, and his father had given him a shawl, made of something soft and silky, in a lovely shade of rich blue. He genuinely adored it.
And then his mother had presented him with a new gown. It was well-made, and the pink linen was of a fine quality. But he hated it. He’d been able to manage with most of his clothing; the long sleeves and the near-shapeless dresses didn’t bring a lot of discomfort, as some of the men wore similar garments.
This gown, however, had a swooping neckline, and thin straps to hold it up. There was no possible way to hide. It was far too feminine. He’d feigned a smile, and said he’d wear it on special occasions.
His mother insisted he wear it for this festival.
Yet it sat draped on a chair in the corner, unworn.
He had been rudely awakened by a stabbing pain in his gut, a throbbing in his head, and splotches of blood upon his clothing and sheets. It was still two weeks until this was supposed to happen.
The arrival of his unwelcome visitor meant he had to stay at home. Ritually unclean, he couldn’t attend the feasts. He couldn’t set foot in the temple courts, he couldn’t do anything remotely interesting.
He loved the festivals; not only did he feel closer to God’s but it was easy to hear things, to gather knowledge. He hated the crowds, but in the past, he’d successfully sneaked into a handful of lectures in the outermost parts of the temple.
He could learn.
But instead, he was bedridden.
A loaf of bread sat by his bedside, the tiniest nibble taken out of it. Its accompanying cup of water had been drained, yet his throat and lips still felt dry. The damp cloth that sat upon his brow in an attempt to rid himself of his headache had long dried out, and the poppyseed elixir used to numb pain sat untouched.
Ever since they’d started at the age of twelve, he’d hated this time of the month. It was uncomfortable, painful, and restricting.
But now, ever since he started to properly look inside himself, and figure out who he was, they’d been steadily getting worse.
His abdomen would cramp, his body would ache, his head would pound. There could be nausea, or he wouldn’t be hungry, or the opposite could apply. He’d notice everything he didn’t like, and he’d loathe it even more; his long untameable ringlets, the way his mother insisted he remove body hair, the curves of his chest and hips.
He’d be unable to do the few things he loved until the blood stopped and he could cleanse himself.
His mother told him it was a natural part of life.
But nothing felt more unnatural to him.
He shouldn’t have to deal with this.
It reminded him of everything that was wrong.
Why had God made him like this?
———
As the seasons passed, things got worse.
One week out of every four was spent in bed, with nothing but the cramping of his body and the sounds of everyone else’s lives going by to keep him company.
After the first instance, his parents had all but shrugged it off. The second one, they had been more concerned.
His mother had spoken with a midwife, who assured her that his discomfort was normal. His father, on the other hand, spoke with a priest.
It had been a week since it started, and one day since it ended. He’d taken the time to physically and ritually cleanse himself the previous day, and he finally felt well enough to join his family at the table.
“Judith,” he said curtly, folding his hands in front of him. “We need to talk.”
“What is it, Abba?” he replied, his voice small and anxious.
“Your… condition… it has been bad, hasn’t it?”
He nodded.
“I spoke with Matthias at the temple, and it could be a manifestation of sin, of wrongdoing. As you are an unmarried woman, am I right to assume that you have been chaste, and you shall remain so until you are wed?”
“You know that I am,” he mumbled. “I have no desire for anything like that.”
“Nobody has touched you?”
He shook his head.
“And you’ve been ensuring you follow our laws, practising your faith correctly?” his father continued.
“Yes, Abba.”
“Then what is the reason behind your illness?” he almost snapped, burying his face in his hand. “It’s bad enough I have to tell the people at the temple and at work that you’re indisposed when they ask about you… but to not have a reason?”
“Simon,” his mother said softly. “Sometimes women’s bodies aren’t very reliable or kind. You know how difficult it was for me to come to be with child, and how I used to be rather ill. It’s not her fault.”
“Joanna, I don’t understand why this is happening to her.”
“I don’t either, Abba,” he mumbled. “Believe me, I don’t like it. It makes me feel miserable.”
“I’m sorry to snap, Judith. There’s a lot I’m having to deal with right now, this just adds to my worries.”
He knew that his father worried about a lot of things, and that he was rather low on that list.
“It’s alright. Hopefully it will get better with time.”
That was months ago, and it hadn’t gotten better.
Everything hurt, not just physically, but emotionally and mentally.
He just got better at hiding it.
Whilst still limited to the constraints of his home, he tried to make an effort. When the pain was manageable, he would weave baskets or make clothes. He’d read and write, honing his skills. He missed his lyre, but sometimes he would sing.
Yet there were still days where all he could do was lie in bed, putting off taking any pain relief until it was too much to bear.
He hated taking it; the poppy seeds were bitter and it made him feel woozy. It allowed the thoughts he didn’t want to think to make their way to the forefront of his mind.
He usually avoided it at all costs.
But after four days of stabbing pains and an aching body, he gave in.
He sat crumpled on the floor, tears streaming down his face, waiting for the medication to take effect.
“God, why?” he whimpered, in a desperate prayer. “Why did you make me this way? I feel wrong! It has been years of discomfort, but why is it now just pain? Please, make it stop!”
Minutes passed, or they could have been hours. The cramping in his belly wasn’t as noticeable, but the pounding in his head was.
One word looped through his mind.
Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.
Everything was wrong.
His chest. His hips. His waist. His arms. His hair. His lips. The parts of his body he avoided looking at or touching at all costs. The clothes he had to wear. The rules he had to follow. The things he couldn’t do. The places he couldn’t go. The way he had to avert his gaze from other people. The way he had to move out of the way for a man. The fact that he bled.
God had made him like this.
If he was a man, he should be like one. He shouldn’t have to deal with this.
He decided he wouldn’t.
He grabbed a length of rope from a cupboard. It was coarse and rough; they used it on the rare occasions when it rained, and a wagon or cart got stuck in the mud.
It was with purpose that he slung it over his shoulder, and began to walk.
It was lucky that the streets were quiet. He didn’t want to see someone he knew.
He debated leaving a note.
But his parents knew that if he wasn’t at home or near the temple, he’d be in the Garden.
The sun was beginning to set as Jude picked out a tree. It was tall and sturdy, its branches strong.
He began to climb.
The bark was coarse, and each and every step he took as he clambered up was painful.
But it didn’t compare with the pain in his mind.
Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.
He sat on a high branch, running the rope through his hands. He knew how to tie it. He’d practised it using scraps of yarn and lengths of ribbon. It wasn’t a particularly hard knot; in fact, it was incredibly easy.
Gethsemane wasn’t a bad place to die. The mountains surrounding it were green and leafy, and the grove itself smelt like Kerioth. He could see the temple court.
The temple court was where he met Jesus. Where Jesus had spoken those words.
“We all know how God created us, do we not? From the earth, from the rib of Adam.”
It was a tale he knew well.
“We contain multitudes, and remember, God loves us!”
God did say that He loved His creations.
“Why else would He create us the way He did?”
But why would God create him in a way that was wrong?
“We are in His image, we are like Him!”
Was everyone like Him?
“So we must treasure ourselves as such.”
He could try.
“Would we neglect to care for His Temple, or not treat His word with respect? Of course not!”
Jesus was right.
“So we must love ourselves.”
He didn’t.
“No matter your gender, your race, your name, you are Him in human form.”
But if this was true…
“And you are priceless.”
This had to be as well.
He reached up to brush a strand of hair out of his eyes, and his hand came away wet.
He was crying.
His mother would do the same when she found him.
He’d be buried, separated from everyone else, as sinners were. He’d still be mourned, but he’d forever remembered as Judith Iscariot.
That was even more wrong.
“Oh, God,” he whispered. “What am I thinking?”
He tossed the rope down without having tied a knot, then scrambled down the tree, wincing as his body screamed in protest.
He ran out of the Garden, away from Gethsemane, away from the temple, away from the rope he left behind.
He fell into his bed, and let the tears stream down his face.
He may have felt worthless, but maybe Jesus was right.
All he knew was that he had to keep going. If he was to die, it wouldn’t be as Judith.
———
“Judith, my sweet,” Joanna cooed, but it sounded more like a rasp.
He flinched, both at the use of the name he disliked so much, and the harshness of his mother’s voice.
She’d not spoken for days.
“Yes, Ima?” he whispered, his own voice hoarse. He too, had fallen ill. But he recovered.
Despite his best efforts, his parents would not. They knew that. He’d just tried to make them comfortable.
“You tried your best,” his mother said. “Thank you for looking after us.”
He reached forward and took one of her frail hands. “I’m sorry… I don’t think it was enough.”
“It’s alright. Our time has come. We’re old,” she said. “But can I ask something of you, Judith?”
He swallowed anxiously. “What do you need?”
“I would like to see my daughter properly, as would your father,” she said. “Put on that nice dress; the one you never wear.”
He felt his heart drop. With his parents spending so much time asleep, he’d taken to wearing his father’s clothing, or his most shapeless garments.
The dress he’d been given eight years ago was still in pristine condition. He’d only worn it on a handful of occasions.
But who was he to deny his dying mother?
He nodded, rising from the chair, traipsing towards his room. Once there, he mindlessly shedded the borrowed trousers and tunic, replacing it with the gown. The pink linen was soft, and the gown was pretty.
It just wasn’t him.
He avoided the mirror, and returned to his parents.
“You look lovely,” his father whispered, his once-bright hazel eyes now dull and tired, set in a gaunt face.
“Thank you, Abba,” he replied quietly.
“This house, and our one in Kerioth will be yours, along with all our possessions. We hope that you and your future husband can make good lives for yourselves,” he father continued, his voice gravelly.
“We know you don’t have a betrothal, but we want you to find someone. And we know you will, it sometimes just takes time. My brother Judas was unwed for a long time, and then he met his wife when she was in her thirties, and they were very happy,” his mother said.
He nodded. He had no intention of finding a spouse, but he did hope to make a good life for himself.
Something different caught his attention.
Judas.
“Ima, you said I was named after your brother. What was he like?”
“He was older than me by about fifteen years. He was a kind man. A scholar. He wrote hymns, and I would sing them. His hair was even curlier than yours. But he and his wife died when I was ten. I don’t remember much else, other than he made me happy,” she said. “Why do you ask?”
“You don’t speak of him very often.”
His mother grimaced, as a series of nasty coughs wracked her body. “I miss him,” she wheezed.
His father’s hand took her unoccupied one. “You’ll see him soon,” he said.
She nodded, and turned her attention to Jude. “Thank you, my sweet. Thank you for bringing me a good memory, and for being so dutiful and good.”
“I try, Ima,” he whispered. “Please rest. I’ll see you in the morning.”
He let go of her hand and stood.
“Wait,” called his father.
He turned.
“We were blessed to have a child like you,” he said. “Thank you, Jude.”
He felt tears prick in his eyes. His father had never referred to him as such before.
He averted his gaze. “Thank you, Abba. Sleep well.”
It was only once the pink linen lay crumpled on the floor, did the tears fall.
———
It all felt rather odd.
He’d not been brave enough to enter the temple, but he’d chosen to walk through the streets dressed in his father’s clothes, linen wrapped tightly around his chest, and with a scarf over his head.
He tried to avoid darting out of the way of others. He kept his strides purposeful, his posture stiffer than usual.
His hair was still long; that would be cut when the mourning period was over.
He’d need to figure out a better way of concealing his chest, too. This was too tight and uncomfortable.
But he liked how it looked.
It felt right.
He felt someone walk into him.
“Oh, I’m sorry!” a young girl stammered, the contents of her basket strewn about at his feet. “Please forgive me, sir.”
Sir.
He crouched down, helping her to pick up the spilled fruit and thankfully, unbroken, jars.
“It’s alright,” he said, grimacing slightly. He’d been practising quietly for years now, and more often now, but his voice still felt rather high.
“What are you doing with my sister?” growled a voice, and he looked up to see a teenager hurrying over; he recognised him as one of the students at the temple.
“She fell, I’m merely helping her gather her things,” he replied carefully. He chose to neglect to say that she fell after colliding with him; he didn't want her to get the blame.
“Hannah, is this true?”
The girl nodded.
The teen’s face softened. “What is the name of the man I must thank?”
“Judas.”
“Well, thank you, Judas. You’re a good man,” the teen said. “Come along, Hannah. We have to get those home to the rest of the family.”
He watched them walk away, and let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.
Saying it out loud affirmed it.
His name was Judas.
Judas Iscariot.
And he would be leaving all of this behind in less than a week.
It was almost time for a new beginning.