"HOW DO I KILL JESUS AT A DISTANCE?" The Lord of the Sicarii had asked the possessed man's demons when he retuned to the tombs in the region of the Gerasenes after the death of his chief assassin and the disappearance of the Devil's dagger.

     Lit by a lantern in the middle of the night, the Lord of the Sicarii shoveled the roots of the lone fig tree on the road to Jerusalem in search for a charm. The demons had told him: "A tree that witnesses a murder crinkles a vein of its oldest root to form a tiny ankh that representents both death and life. It is a powerful conduit for a curse It is irresistible to Qamatayian."

     He found it six feet under the ground. He smiled at the sight of the root shaped like a cross having a loop for its upper vertical arm. Ancient emblem of physical death and rebirth into the spirit life.

     From a branch, the fat vulture jumped down on the mound by the pit that the Lord of the Sicarii had dug to take a closer look at the ankh root. But it misjudged its own weight and landed on the man's head.

     Startled, the Lord of the Sicarii grabbed the vulture by the neck, screaming, "I'm not dead!" Letting go of his shovel, he pressed the bird hard on the ground with both hands, strangling it.

     No matter how fiercely the fat vulture flapped its wings and clawed at him in a desperate effort to flee, the Lord of the Sicarii only tightened his grip, burying his fingers deeper and deeper into the bird's neck. "I'm not dead! I'm not dead!"

     Then the vulture ceased struggling; its body stiffened as it let out a harsh croak—before turning dead limp. 

     It stopped breathing.

     At that moment, it came to the Lord of the Sicarii that someone was watching him. Casting the vulture's body aside, he looked around him.

     Nothing.

     No one.

     Then the apparition.

     He saw a tall, gaunt man approaching him like a stiff statue. Shrouded from head to foot in blood-spattered garment of the dead. Crying tears of blood. Moonlight shining through him. Feet not touching the ground.

     The Lord of the Sicarii recognizes the ghost. "You."

     He freezes. 

     The ghost was levitating down the pit. Then he remembered what the demons had taught him to protect himself from the magick of spirits. Closing his eyes, he made a magical gesture: his left hand forming a fist with forefinger and index finger jutting up; his right hand pointing at it with a middle finger; and he spoke the Devil's secret name.

     It proved to be effective.

     The ghost disappeared.

     The Lord of the Sicarii took out his sica and cut the ankh root. Then he hurried back into Jerusalem, leaving the motionless fat vulture for dead.

     Nothing for a long time.

     "He's long gone," the fig tree said to the vulture lying still in the pit the Lord of the Sicarii has dug. "You may quit playing dead now."

     The vulture remained motionless, its head was pushed down into the earth, eyes unfocused.

     Then it snored.

     "Hey, dead-eater! Wake up! The worms are mistaking you for dead!"

     The vulture sprung up, "Can't a bird take a little break around here? I've just been through a traumatic experience, for crying out loud." It pecked at worms crawling over its feathers. "I'm still alive, you moronic maggots."

     "Exactly the sentiment of that ankh-root thief you tried to eat alive."

     "Oh, excuse me—I know dead when I see one. That's my thing, y'know. Carcasses and piles of shit, I'm deep in it. That guy is so dead. He's just in denial."

     "For a bird, you're a bad vulture."

     "What's that supposed to mean?"

     "Go figure."

     "That man is a walking corpse, okay?"

     "Well, I'm no expert on carcasses and piles of shit like you but it doesn't take a fat stinking bald bird to know that this floating thing below me is the so-dead."

     The ghost. Kneeling in the air toward Jerusalem. Praying.

     "Duh."

     "So, did I ever tell you that I am the smartest tree around here?"

     "You're the only tree around here."

     "I mean the whole Jerusalem, bird." The fig tree sneered, swayed with the wind in a manner that made its leaves stand up in the most condescending manner. "Try not to be a low-life for a moment and look a the big picture, okay?"

     "Okay." The fat vulture feigned pecking worms under its wings to hide laughter. Then, it soared up, landed on a branch, and looked around. "Hmm...big picture, big picture. It's dark. Aha! I see a ghost."

     It was the ghost of the Lord of the Sicarii's brother. Despite the evil that his older brother had done to him and his family, the ghost was still trying to warn him about the devil's work. He wanted to tell him how he had invited demons into his being through the occult, and how they were using him against the Son of God.

     He knew what awaited his brother in hell. But the Lord of the Sicarii's magick had put a chasm between them. They could no longer see each other.

     All he could do now was pray for him:

     "O Lord, the God who saves me, may my prayer come before You. What I dreaded has come upon my brother. His soul is full of trouble; he is now counted among those who lie in the grave..."

     "That's a reliable second opinion, don't you think?" The fat vulture knocked the tree's trunk with its beak as if to drive home the point.

     "Only if he's more specific than 'counted among those who lie in the grave'. There were several loopholes in that phrase. It affirms and negates at the same time, which obfuscates its intended meaning. Being counted among a group doesn't necessarily mean being in identical condition with its members. And those who lie in the grave are not always dead. I've heard passersby talking about this possessed guy in Gensenes who lives in the tombs."

     "You know, for a fruitless tree, you're a bad lawyer."

     "What's that supposed to mean?"

     "Go figure."

     "Listen to my cry for mercy," the ghost continued to pray. "In Your faithfulness and righteousness, come to my brother's relief. Do not bring him into judgment for I feel responsible for what he has become."

     "It's my choice not to bear fruit." The fig tree was sounding so defensive, its branches cracking like it was straining itself against the wind. "I'm unique."

     "Shut up! Listen to the ghost. Sounds like good stuff."

     Tears of blood streak down the ghost's face. "My big brother and I used to be the best of friends. We shared our deepest secrets. We did everything together..."

     "Oh, how predictable. They will have a falling out, believe you me, bird."

     "Sssh."

     "...until bad friends coerced me into asking my father for my share of his wealth. Soon, I set off for Egypt with my friends and squandered all my money in years of wild living. When I began to be in need, my so-called friends disappeared. The woman I was living with also left me. No one helped me. Just to keep alive, I was forced to hire myself out to an Egyptian farmer who sent me to his fields to care for his pigs. No home. Starving to death..."

     "He died. Became worm food. End of story." The tree shook its leaves. "How tragic. Boo-hoo-hoooo."

     "Hey tree, if you don't want to listen, feel free towalk away."

     "Duh, I guess?"

     "As I filled my stomach with the pods that the pigs were eating, I came to my senses..."

     "For a dead man, this ghost seems to have nine lives and a long story."

     "Shut up right now or I'll carve a replica of Jerusalem on your trunk."

     The fig tree settled down.

     "I went home to my father. While I was still a long way off, my father saw me and rushed out to meet me; he threw his arms around me and kissed me. I told him, 'Father, I have sinned against God and against you. I am no longer worthy to be called your son.' He just looked at me the way he did when I was seven, very sick and I almost died, and he smiled. 'I came home to work for you,' I said, 'not as your son but as one of your servants.' But my father turned to his servants and said, 'Bring the best robe and put it on my son. Put a ring on his finger and sandals on his feet...'"

     "Please, just tell me when to start crying," the tree said.

     The vulture nipped at the tree's trunk, ripping out a layer of its bark.

     "Aw. Okay, okay, I'm shutting up, bird. Hey, careful on the skin, yes? Damn, do vultures get menopausal? Your temper sure stinks of it."

     The vulture spat bits of tree skin.

     "My father had a fattened calf killed, summoned the musicians and threw a feast for me. Amidst the singing and dancing, my brother arrived from the fields. He became furious at the celebration of my safe return. He refused to go into the house..."

     "Conflict, now that's what I'm talking about," the tree said. "Humans."

     The vulture's beak rested on the trunk. A warning.

     "...so my father went out, put his hand on my brother's shoulder, and pleaded with him. But my brother pushed him away, screaming, 'Look! All these years I've been slaving for you. I have never left you. I have been a good son, haven't I? Yet you have never given mea celebration like this. But when this son of yours, who has spent your money with bad companions and prostitutes, came home..."

     "Big brother had a point there," the tree said. "If I were the man, I'd kick my prodigal brother's--"

     The vulture pecked.

     "Bird!"

     "Seeing a young goat grazing nearby, my brother grabbed it by the head, drew his sica, and cut its throat. Then, he lifted the dead goat over his head, it's blood flowing all over him. 'Did I ever ask for a goat so I could have a good time with my friends?' He slammed the carcass in front of our father, splattering blood on his feet...."

     The tree's branches cracked, it was struggling to keep silent.

     "Father embraced him, 'Everything I have is also yours, my son,' he said, 'but it is all right for us to be glad for your brother's return. He was dead and is alive again. He was lost and is found.'"

     More cracking of branches.

     "But my brother was never the same after that. He never talked to me again. Soon, he left home to settle in Jericho. And now he is the Lord of the Sicarii. Slave to the devil's dark arts. Lost. Have mercy on my brother, Lord."

     The branches cracked louder.

     The ghost fell prostrate on the ground. "Have mercy on my brother, Lord, for the sin I have committed has hurled him into the abyss of darkness."

     "It's all your fault, you prodigal ghost," the fig tree blurted out.

     The carving on the tree trunk didn't resemble Jerusalem a bit, but the fat vulture found great pleasure in doing it.