Jaroslavas Melnikas

T-potion by Lina Theodorou
Part One


Unwilling to lose his orientation, Gabr closed his eyes tight and moved in response to the acoustic sensors of the centre. All his life, until the horrific event that had befallen him, his orientation in ordinary space had been good. Ordinary space consisted of turns of allowed complexity: just like his contemporaries, Gabr sensed an obstacle at a distance of 1.3 metres. It was a valid level in the final exam. At a competition of the sixth category college from which he had once graduated, he had guessed an obstacle at a distance of 2.05 metres. It was not the world record – 17.33 metres – yet Gabr was proud of this achievement. At half a metre he could determine an object's general shape, and at twenty centimetres – the material it was made of. All this was part of the curriculum of a sixth category college, and Gabr had been a talented student.

Now, however, he was walking along a narrow corridor, turning to the left and to the right, and responding to the acoustic sensors. They were guiding him and affecting his body from around every corner. The health centre of the Ministry of Control was constructed in the shape of a maze, of the sixteenth-level complexity: buildings with a complexity exceeding the normal had Obras' acoustic sensors installed everywhere.
Gabr was moving slowly, following the chain of transmitted signals: they were leading him according to the route he had requested at the checkpoint, straight to the psycho-diagnostic centre. He did not have to keep his ears open to the approaching space: the sensors informed him if anything was drawing near, and Gabr would turn towards the left wall in advance. He was flowing along the corridors, totally switched off and relying on the guiding force.

At last a powerful flux of delta rays rippled over the skin of his face, and Gabr stopped. He reached his destination.

'Come in,' he heard somebody's voice, together with the gentle sound of the opening door.

Several minutes later an authoritative and self-confident voice was talking to him.

'You do not have to worry. You've done all that has been required of you. It was only the District Controller who could have helped you. Calm down, you are in reliable hands now.'

Gabr was sitting with his hands on his knees and his head bowed.

'So what should I do?'

'Your condition is rare yet known to medicine. Above all, you should follow the instructions of the Ministry of Control. And you should tell nobody about it. You ought to realise what awaits you otherwise. There are diseases that patients do not discuss with anyone.'

Gabr was listening attentively.

'Your horror relating to the perception of space is logical,' the voice carried on. 'Spatial hallucinations have been known to psychiatry since ancient times. Moreover, I will not hide the fact that cases of mass psychosis are known.'

'But space does exist, doesn't it?' Gabr remarked.

'Yes,' the voice said, ‘closed space does, and you should know that as well as I do. There is closed space between you and me, now. And wherever you find yourself, you will always be in the zone of closed space. Cosiness and a sense of security – feelings so characteristic of humans – are related to it. Your diseased sensory organs give rise to hallucinations that in medicine are known as "distant space". It is a serious disorder of world perception. Even such unnecessary rudimentary organs like the appendix or hair sometimes suppurate and start damaging a human's body and soul, to say nothing about the eyes.'

'Eyes aren't a rudiment,' Gabr observed.

'You are totally right,' the voice agreed. 'They have always been a receptacle for the tear ducts, and nothing more. Thus, the eyes are a pair of lachrymal glands. Yet, as we know, words can be uttered by the stomach, like ventriloquists do. The only difference is that ventriloquism doesn't harm the human psyche; in your case, the psyche has been severely damaged. To be honest, is that what prompted you to come to us?’

'It is,' Gabr agreed.

'You have to understand,' the voice continued persuasively, 'that the State Amalgamation and its institutes have existed for seventeen calculations, and they've been working for the benefit of humanity for all these years. The horror that you experience when the hallucinations occur... it makes you suffer strongly, doesn't it? We will relieve you of those unpleasant sensations. However, you must fulfil our two conditions: take all medication scrupulously and wear eye fillings until recovery is complete.’

'What are eye fillings?' Gabr asked.

'It is an exceptionally rare and ancient method of dealing with the psychosis of distant space. A long time ago, when active brain agents for suppressing the hallucination centres had not yet been invented, it was the only means of preventing ravings. Purely mechanical. For several centuries the fillings have been stored, untouched, in the Main Repository of the Third department of our Ministry: for such rare cases as yours.’

'Is mine an exceptional case?' Gabr asked.

'Unequivocally. In my practice as a doctor it is the first time. To be honest, I haven't heard anything of the sort from my colleagues either. Nor have I read about it in our papers. All that I have been telling you about the psychosis of distant space is professional information hardly known to anybody, and forgotten as irrelevant. In my early days, however, when I was getting ready for the defence of a thesis on historical psychoses, I spent countless nights in archives studying the psychosis of distant space. So, young man, our encounter is not coincidental. When the District Controller telephoned, they had had difficulties finding me in the Chief Statistics Board. I would even say that there are only two professionals in this field in the entire State Amalgamation: me and a certain Rodzh from the A2-megapolis. Only he and I can understand what is happening to you, what you feel.

'Thank you,' Gabr stood up.

'Have you stood up?' the doctor asked.

'I have,' Gabr replied.

'A pity the fillings have not been brought from the repository. They are hard to locate there. So for now we will just put ordinary pads on your eyelids, and next week we will fill the gaps of your eyes for half a year.’

'For half a year?' Gabr asked.

'Yes. This is the time needed for the gradual and safe-for-health suppression of the hallucinatory centres in your brain.'

'Surgical intervention won't be necessary, will it?'

'This would be an extreme case. Bicephrasol, which has been prescribed to you, has an almost perfect effect.'

Gabr heard the door open and somebody came close to him: somebody's careful hands put soft pads over his eyes.

'When you wash yourself, see that water does not get inside,' a female voice said. 'They usually stick well.'


Gabr went out and took the pedestrian path which led to the station of the Closed Express. He could hear and feel people moving around him: without bumping into each other they walked around one another. Gabr had always received good marks in orienteering practice at the college, and later at the primo-university. Having mastered the sensing an object obstacle at a distance of almost two metres, he could sense a living body at a whole four metres. Only occasionally – when pushing through an Express car – would he collide with somebody's rushing body. He inserted his card into the jaws of the automatic gate, felt the floor moving under his feet and then heard the voice of the automatic speaker-guide: '6-0-3-0-0-X-Gabr, you are closed in the Express car.' Gabr retrieved the card, listened and went on, overtaking some people, and guided by the signal of the indicator fitted in his chair.

The Closed Express functioned in the usual regime of a pneumatic train. Gabr disliked pneumatic trains: there, he could not feel the fresh wind through the open top hatches. The sickly smell of flowers lingering in the car was unnatural. Today, however, he wanted to get to Michhock as quickly as possible.
One jerk, and the train was whizzing along the pneumatic tunnel. The woman next to him – Gabr could smell her hair and skin – was listening to a film. Barely audible dislocated phrases reached his ears. He opened a newspaper and started reading: his fingers moved fast along the perforations of letters and words, lingering only occasionally on the more interesting places.

Professor Mokr met Gabr with open arms. It turned out that not only did he remember the talented student, but had also followed his infrequent yet significant publications. As they were stepping towards the balcony, the professor even put his arm on Gabr' shoulder:

'You shouldn't have gone to the Ministry,' he said thoughtfully.

'Why not?' Gabr asked.

'You can't be so naïve. What you've just told me is not quite so innocent.'

'Not innocent?' Gabr turned towards the professor. 'Have I done something?'

'You see,' Mokr said, 'over there at the Ministry they would never tell you openly what they are thinking about you or what they are planning.'

'But I am scared,' Gabr said. 'I can't understand it – it was as though I was vanishing. I was trying to escape the horror.'

'Try to explain.'

'It is impossible to describe it,' Gabr turned his face to the west wind. 'It's as though the world is becoming totally different from what is used to be. Everything is quivering, subsiding, everything is something different.'

'Do you hear unusual sounds or what?'

'They are not sounds, not sounds at all, I can't explain it. I can hear... no, it's not hearing, it's something different and horrible. When it first happened I was frozen with horror. No, it's sickening, sickening!'

'It is indeed difficult to understand you. I can see these are some extraordinary feelings,' said the professor after some reflection. 'I've been listening to you intently for two hours. And do you know what I am about to tell you? Once I worked in the Secret archives of the Microbiology Board. Each Board has its own Secret archive. Any idea why they are secret?

'I don't know.'

'I can't figure it out either. What can be secret in your and my science? Yet this is what I want to tell you: while still a doctoral student, I came across some strange books there. I thought about those books, and then got tired. They were very old books, thousands of years old.'

'What was strange about them?' Gabr asked.

'They were blank – totally blank: nothing was written in them. Thousands of completely blank pages.'

'And how should it be understood?'

'I couldn't answer that question either.'

'Could it be electronic reading?'

'That's the whole point – they were not plates, just ordinary paper, not stuffed with anything. No radiation. And then I thought, what if long ago people had some sensory organs unknown to us? We simply cannot access the symbols that are quite likely there.'

'Nonsense,' Gabr said.

'Why nonsense? We cannot reject the impossible, if we consider ourselves free. Why should we limit our fantasy? Then, perhaps, what you hear all around, with your lachrymal glands, is true? You perceive something that nobody else does.'

'How horrible,' Gabr said. 'I shall go now. Your reasoning, Professor, has always been unrestrained and paradoxical.'

'Wait,' Mokr caught Gabr by his sleeve. 'I am already old, and you are young. But why do I believe you more than you believe yourself?'

'You simply do not know what I feel when... No, you won't understand... Why is it happening to me, where did it all come from?'

'Wait, my friend. Another minute. Try to explain what you feel, after all.'

'Loneliness,' Gabr said. 'Excruciating loneliness, horrifying longing. Against my will, a wave rises in me: distant space invades me. I become as though alien to everybody and to myself. And then… the sound penetrates me, weakly. I am entirely focused on the other, I cannot do anything.'

'Whatever the case, the Ministry will hardly like it. If a human is not focused on the sounds that penetrate him, it means he can dissociate, digress.'

'Towards what?'

'Well, I don't know what hallucinations you have. In principle, you might not even be reached. If you leave closed space you are inaccessible, both to the Control Ministry and to the State Amalgamation. So if distant space is considered "a psychosis", as you say, then it is not just a reflection of some fact; in any case, it is also useful – useful to the Ministry.'

'What are you talking about?'

'My boy,' the professor said, 'do you really think that thoughts don't swarm in my head, or in many other heads? Impossible thoughts, too? Outwardly, we all love the State Amalgamation and its institutions: we are grateful to them for our well-being, for care. Yet thoughts stir up deep within us, do you understand? I have lived a long life and understood something in that system. Just don't tell anybody about it.'

For several days after this conversation Gabr stayed locked in his flat. He decided not to go to work: his life, understandable and harmonious until now, had collapsed. If only he could completely believe the Ministry! Or Professor Mokr. The professor had just stirred his own suspicions in him, and that was why he had argued with him so fiercely. Yet nobody could tell him precisely what was happening to him and where the truth was.

At last, unable to bear it any longer, he made up his mind to take a walk along the Central Boulevard. He did not take a single pill that had been prescribed to him, and now he felt like a criminal. Indeed, why had he gone to the District Controller, why had he resorted to the Ministry? Now he was under some obligation. In a few days they would put in the fillings, for half a year. In half a year, he would be like all the others. So what did he want? What was he afraid of?

Gabr was walking along the Central Boulevard listening to the shuffling of feet and the voices of people passing him. Suddenly, and unexpectedly to himself, he tore both pads from his eyes. All around him, some monsters were moving like in an ant-hill. Wrapped in bizarre rags, hunched, they were traipsing here and there, for some reason very slowly as though drunk. Gabr was standing among them unable to understand: a metre from him, the monsters would turn, overtake him and continue on their route. Their bent-down faces displayed inner concern. Those incomprehensible creatures would emerge and vanish at the end of the boulevard, so far away that Gabr immediately experienced that excruciating loneliness. He quickly swallowed a Bicephrasol and stood there, growing calmer and sinking into darkness. Slowly, the world was shrinking to fit the dimensions of closed space. At last he felt himself. He walked away with his eyes enveloped in mist and focused on the sensation of those moving in the opposite direction.

Compiled by the Academy of General Disciplines of the State Amalgamation

Memorize ten theses of general geosophy:
1. Space exists.
2. Space is subjective and surrounds everyone like an aura.
3. Space moves together with the human.
4. There are no distant spaces, there exist only closed spaces.
5. There cannot be movement in space; there can only be the movement of (closed) space together with the human.
6. The human is at home at any point. It does not move.
7. The so-called 'long distances' are the fruit of the imagination.
8. Time spent 'on the road' does not indicate anything.
9. Distant space is time, not space.
10. The emergence of new people or objects in the human's closed space does not mean that he has changed his location in space.

DISTANT SPACE - A Novel: Synopsis

Gabr is suffering from hallucinations and consults the Ministry of Control, which promises to cure him. However, Gabr is approached by Okks who reveals a terrible secret to him: what he is seeing is not hallucination. Gabr simply started seeing reality, while the all others are in a world of the blind from which reality is hidden. When he was young, Okks also believed he was seeing hallucinations and the Ministry of Control blinded him. Later Okks organized a group of blinded terrorists, with the aim of demolishing this ‘world of lies'. To achieve this purpose, however, Okks needs a sighted man.

Realising that he possesses some extraordinary sensory organs, and that they are about to be removed, Gabr goes into hiding but is caught by agents of the Security Services. However General Okks' people arrive in flying machines, demolish the wall of the prison hospital and free the only sighted man (many perish during this operation). They transfer Gabr to the Transparent Spot that cannot be detected by the Megapolis services as the Transparent Spot is invisible to their locators. Rescued from blinding, Gabr is bound to help the terrorists to annihilate the Megapolis. He is required to substitute a block in the Electronic Control Centre, after which the Megapolis would issue false instructions to its blind residents, life would be paralysed and all would die. 'A world based on lies must not exist.'

Gabr is torn by doubt: he is unwilling to ruin the world in which his mother, his beloved and his next of kin live (all blind and helpless). The action is taking place in a monstrous city-state entirely regulated by automatic equipment. This city of millions is a horrendous structure of concrete and glass, obstructing the horizon and disappearing into the clouds. It is a house-state in complete charge of electronics. People in the Megapolis are ruled by sensors. They understand only ‘Closed Space’. They do not attempt to leave the boundaries of the city because of the concept of ‘Distant Space’, which symbolises freedom in the novel, has not been formed in them. They do not even suspect that other worlds might exist elsewhere.

What terrible secret is linked to the origins of this world? Who by and when were those millions of people blinded, who then give birth to blind children? The most horrible thing is that these millions cannot exist in a free world. They have no need for the truth of which they haven't the slightest idea. Nobody knows who created this world or even when, in some distant past many thousands of years ago, or who created the ideology of ‘Closed Space’ – an ideology in which the notion of 'seeing' does not exist.

The adventures are of a hero who attempts to escape from repressive organs, and thrashes between the violence of the State and the violence of Okks' revolutionaries. Also, of his love for a blind girl who thinks he is seriously ill and eventually betrays him by informing the Ministry of Control of his hideout.

Gabr finds his way into the Electronic Control Centre and attempts to replace the block, but the rulers of the Megapolis are watching and able to see him. Gabr is shattered – they are the sighted. In the second part of the novel a horrible secret, of which the blind are unaware, is disclosed: this city-world is ruled by a handful of the sighted residing in a small settlement – the Quiet Corner at the foot of the city-state.

Soon it is revealed that the sighted are not monsters, that they themselves are just a part of the system: from generation to generation they inherit the rule over the Megapolis which cannot exist without being ruled, and they cannot imagine themselves without the Megapolis – they are part of the mechanism.

Despite Gabr's attempts to bring the life of the Megapolis to a standstill, the sighted accept Gabr as one of them and even involve him in the administration of the Megapolis (he becomes a minister). The Megapolis has for thousands of years followed its laws; it has numerous protective layers, and its electronics are impossible to annihilate. The Megapolis is eternal; it is the central character in the novel. A sighted girl, the daughter of one of the leaders of the state, falls in love with Gabr and marries him, yet Gabr is incapable of rupturing ties with his past and becoming one of the 'rulers of the world'.

He again finds himself in the Transparent Spot having again been kidnapped by Okks' people determined to turn him into their weapon of extermination. Niya, a girl who could once see, but was blinded, falls in love with him here. In the end it transpires that Niya only pretends to be blind; she can actually see, like Gabr, and, driven by the idea of freedom she takes Gabr away to look for other worlds... From the top of a hill Niya and Gabr are for the last time looking at the walls of the Megapolis – covering the horizon and disappearing into the clouds. Their near and dear ones, as well as other blind people ignorant of light and vision, remained there. Somewhere thunder is rolling and flashes are seen above the Megapolis. Very likely it is Okks' people in flying machines, having lost their last hope, attacking for the final time the indestructible metal Megapolis and perishing in the protective electronic field.

Suddenly a distant roll made them both turn back. At the same moment some bright flash illuminated one spot of the Megapolis, almost under the clouds. Another roll – and another flash. 'What is it?' Gabr looked at Niya, surprised. 'I don't know,' she said thoughtfully. 'I thought...' 'What?' One more wave of strong rolling sounds. 'Maybe it's Okks...'' she uttered in a strange dull voice. 'What, Okks?' 'Maybe they... Let's go, Gabr. Let us go faster. It's night already.' 'But what is there?' He pointed his hand in the direction of the wall, as though it was not obvious what he was talking about without the gesture. 'Let's go, Gabr, the flashes are no more. Can't you see?' And without turning back, she was almost running down the slope, drowning in the darkness.’
The novel reflects the struggle of ideas. Without the idea of 'distance', without ‘Distant Space’ there can be no great feelings, no idea of God, no freedom, and no far away music. Yet if people are blind, is it not cruel to 'reveal the truth' to them – a truth that they are incapable of understanding and which they do not even need?

As for its structure, the novel consists of a narrative about the hero's fate interspersed with quotations from science books, dictionaries, newspapers, and interviews with politicians of that time, as well as excerpts from the hero's diaries, letters, and the verses by a poet (who was very likely sighted) from the previous millennium, whose work is banned in the Megapolis. Some people in the Megapolis have a hunch that there might exist – and very likely, existed in the distant past – people with some extraordinary sensory organs.
'Distant Space', the idea of 'distance', the visible 'perspectives' embody in the novel the idea of freedom, flight, truth, God, beauty, and higher feelings. In this respect I feel an affinity with the ideological foundation and pathos of Miloš Forman's film One Flew over the Cuckoo's Nest.

Laimantas Jonušys, a literary critic:

In the end, Gabr returns to the Megapolis – this stable associative, majestically horrific creation of Jaroslavas Melnikas' imagination, this technocratic monster overshadowing almost the entire space of the novel's world, And the novel's space: this boundless conglomerate of 'residential containers', expanding not only in width but also to an enormous height. The blind do not need any visual aesthetics, hence endless grey concrete cages stretch in all directions. For the sighted, it becomes a nightmarish prison in which slovenly shaggy creatures plod along – 'rags hanging on their bodies, heads bent down, eyes closed' – and among them monstrous pneumatic trains and magnetic blocks are whizzing past, and menacing helicopters diving into the spaces between the 'squares'. I take another lateral step of imagination: what a horrific and effective spectacle could Hollywood make of it... Indeed, the adaptation of this novel to the screen would be far beyond the means of Lithuanian film industry'

(METAI (the magazine of the Lithuanian Writers' Union), No 9, 2009)

Christ – a short story
From The End of the World, Nine New Works of Prose from Lithuania Lithuanian Writers' Union Publishers, 2006, 221 pp. Translated by Medeine Tribinevicius

The short stories and novellas of The End of the World are united by the dramatic theme of human solitude. The characters' existential despair in a mechanized world and the anxiety and psychic trauma it creates are conveyed surrealistically. An imaginary world is generated by the inventive comparison between real and altered psychic states, transforming archetypical cultural images such as God, Christ, father, mother, and son.

It can all be easily explained. They didn't crucify Christ, but someone who looked like Christ. Pontius Pilate didn't sully his conscience (of course he didn't want to kill Christ), but instead found an actor (there were a lot of them in ancient Rome), and, for a bit of money, asked him to act 'crucified and dead'. It's not so hard now, is it, to fool an excited, blood-thirsty mob? When the actor 'died' on the cross, the mob dispersed. The show was over. The guards laid the 'body' into the casket – they were easier to pay off than the actor. What was it to them? What difference did it make? They needed the money.

So that's the solution to the 'vanished body' and the supposedly 'risen' Christ appearing to his apostles. Sure, they touched him and acknowledged that he was living, not a spirit. But he was alive! He made his appearance, then walked off and left a faith.

Now, about the 'healing', the 'miracles'. Would they be that difficult to stage? You pay someone, give them some direction – this is your 'dead daughter'. Who among the gawking crowd checked her pulse? Tears and despair are easy to perform. Elementary tricks, the 'healing of the sick', the 'raising of the dead'.

But then arises the question, why? Why the conflict? Why the lies? Easy: so that there would be a faith; so that there would be my, and your, Christianity. Think about it. It's like this: Christ, he understood everything. He himself believed in God. But there was no proof. He believed blindly, like everyone else. Intuitively. So he thought all of this up, cunningly created a new religion, better than that of the Israelites, a religion for the common man. It even seemed to him the whole time that God was leading him through his well thought-out mystifications.

He even explained everything to Pontius Pilate face to face, during their long talk, this noble undertaking of his. Pontius, a man no longer of clean conscience and no longer wise, assessed the situation. He agreed to play 'Pontius Pilate'. Christ's ideas seemed familiar to him, so he interceded, and assured Christ incognito.

Now, about the disciples. A few of them figured it out, but didn't dare say anything. But most of them genuinely believed everything, and that fact persuaded the suspect. Christ tried his best to mystify them, not the crowds, to make them believe, because he knew that they, the apostles, would spread his ideas around the world, and that if they didn't believe one hundred percent, there would not be sufficient fanaticism or strength for his ideas to spread.

So when he showed himself to them, seemingly 'after death', he put on a good show, Christ. Risen. He saw that they believed his words; in truth, he himself believed. He incarnated into his character and experienced ecstasy. Afterwards he would walk away, as if returning to the godly realm. But in reality he returned to a secret refuge provided by Pilate.

It was only there, left alone, that he came face to face with his two-facedness. With his lies and mystifications. And he cried, Christ did, praying to God. Asking for help. Help and forgiveness: he admitted that he was an actor (though a great one); that he lied, lied to people, made as though he was talking to God, that he could hear his voice (really, who could verify that?); that he busied himself with tricks, 'transforming' water into wine, 'multiplying' loaves. Tricks within reach of any illusionist.

Having created a new religion, he began to create the first Gospels: he knew that the gullible recorded accounts of his appearances, the results of his mystifications. Christ alone knew to whom, and how much, he (or Pontius Pilate) paid for every staged 'healing' and 'raising from the dead'. Is it hard to make people believe who already thirst for belief?

The only thing that really belonged to Christ were his words. Parables. But unverified 'miracles' – who would they have convinced? Who would they teach?

And so Christ sat in his cave on his mat and dreamed bitter dreams, watching the tide. He was lonely, Christ, so unlike that 'lonely' Christ hearing his Father's voice, waiting for help from that voice. It suddenly began to seem to him, a believer, as though the Father did not exist, that he, in a word, was simply a charlatan – though one leading with noble purpose. Christ would fall on his knees and pray:

"God, our Father, show yourself to me! Anything, but show yourself! Give me strength!"

But no one appeared. No one answered his prayers. Just a mouse squeaking in a dark corner. Waves hitting the shore.

And Christ would come out of the cave, walk along the sea, the deserted shore. What did he feel, bearing such a terrible secret all by himself? Concealing a lie within him that little by little was becoming truth and faith in the world? Because the Gospels were already being written, his picture was already being laid out in thousands, hundreds of thousands of minds.… His disciples were already scattering in all directions, carrying the news: about him, his life and death, about his rising from the dead …And he?

Most would want to suffer the way the narrated Christ did – harmoniously, always hearing his Father's voice, knowing, from him, from his father's lips, that he will go to him. Desiring to cross death's threshold quicker. It couldn't be easier! Straight into an open embrace. For just a second his Father 'abandoned' him, on the cross, and right away:
"God, why have you abandoned me."
Terrible, isn't it? Difficult? A moment without his father, and right away:
"Why have you abandoned me?"

And what to say about the real, non-narrated Christ – abandoned for not a minute, not an hour, not a day, not a year? With what can we compare his suffering – a doubled suffering, his whole life doubting if it was right in how he acted with other people and with the world.

"See how everything came together" said Pontius Pilate to him, after many years. "Now you're God."

"Yes, I'm God," Christ smiled bitterly. "Me, God."

He cried, silently. Without people around him and without a visible God, all he felt was emptiness. He could not go out among the people and live somehow; to do so would destroy his life's work. Someone could recognize him. And God, the real one, did not want to show himself to him. And the thought of all the deception in his life, inspired by God, weakened him more and more, making room for the feeling that he was only a charlatan, a liar. And Pontius Pilate, knowing his secret, mocked him. 

"Hello God", he would say to him when coming to visit.

Many followers from many countries were already praying to Christ. Pilate thought, and not without reason, that he, Pontius Pilate, had created a new God and a new religion.

Christ lived a long life and died in his self-imposed exile having reached a ripe old age. A life that was in no way similar to the young Christ depicted in icons. Only when he lay dying, alone, did God appear to him in the cave and put his hand on his forehead. He said to him, for the first time:
"My Son." And finally relieved his burden: "You did everything as you should have."
And so Christ, it seems, was right. All of this is just my guess. How it really was – I don't know.

And no one knows.

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