Centurion: Mark's Gospel as a Thriller (12 page)

"No," he says, his eyes bright as a child playing at the beach. "I shall tell the world of what you've done to me."

"I'm serious," the Teacher says, a power stroking through his voice.
"You will say nothing."

The leper turns sharply away from the Teacher and darts into the dark woods of the park, running at a blindingly fast speed.

"That man," I say. "He could barely walk. How did.?"

"Enigmatic," Miles repeats from behind me. "The Teacher is...mysterious."

We spend the rest of the evening in quiet conversation, with no further discussion of war or serious matters. The leper's visit has transformed the mood, leaving us to soberly reflect on what we've seen. I still can't believe what my eyes are trying to convince my brain it witnessed.

That man couldn't have been healed by simple touch...could he?

Of course not.

The human body is incapable of that sort of response. I'm not a doctor, but I know enough about physiology to realize that unexplainable healings don't occur within a matter of seconds. These things take time; healing is a process, not a one-off event.

Yet I can't deny the transformation I saw. The way that sickly man ran away—well, it's inexplicable. He sprinted into the distance with the prowess of an athletic champion. I don't know what to make of it except the joy I saw in the leper's eyes. That—I know—was real.

The Teacher and I don't speak with each other again this evening. He spends his time moving among the others, laughing and telling stories of past adventures. Later Maria strums an old guitar with a missing string, leading us in the songs of our ancestors. I know these lyrics by heart but am too enamored with Maria's singing voice to join the chorus. She's a throaty tenor, and her singing is the most sensual sound I've ever heard.

Her voice has the quality of an artist who sings from the most righteously truthful place of the human soul—that spot where falsehood can't exist. That place most of us are too scared to touch, much less sing from. But there she is, doing it as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

I envy that sort of honesty. Sometimes I fear there isn't an honest bone left in my body. And that worries me, rattles me deep within my spirit.

These men and Maria have been together so long that they exhibit the dynamics of a close-knit family. Their conversation follows an easy, natural,
familial flow, with silence feeling as cozy as laughter. They've seen much together, and while they may lack sophistication, they more than make up for it in unity. These are folks willing to go through the fire together. They're one, just as the Teacher said. Yet I wonder whether their cohesion will be able to stand the test of war. This group is kind, but I doubt their toughness and am deeply suspect of their resolve.

Eventually Maria and I break away from the reverie and find a comfortable spot in the grass, where we lie down and recount the day's events. Somehow she finds the humor in it all. She laughs loudly, imitating my horrified expression when she found me in the street.

"You were terrified!" she howls.

"That's because I thought I was going to die," I say, in stitches.

Maria laughs harder. "Well...you were!"

My laughter turns to crying. "I don't know why I'm laughing," I say, wiping away tears. "This isn't funny. They were going to kill us!"

Maria rolls onto her stomach. "You're exhausted." She sighs and throws back her gorgeous black head of hair. "We both are. It's called delirium. How are your hands and head?"

"Fine. Just scratches. Can you imagine the kind of pain that leper was in?"

"Yes," Maria says soberly. "I could see it in his eyes." She pauses to remember something secret. "But physical pain is the easy part for a man like that."

"How so?"

"Physical pain can be dealt with, tolerated, and managed...but not the pain of rejection, of loneliness. That man was pushed outside the gates of society and told he was worth nothing." Maria bites her bottom lip. "I know that kind of pain, and it's inescapable."

"I hadn't thought of it that way."

She twirls a finger through my hair. "Will you do something for me?"

"Anything."

"Get rid of that gun. Throw it in the lake or something."

I shake my head. "I can't do that."

"You just said you'd do anything for me."

"No," I say, trying to smooth the tension out of my voice. "Not that."

She inches her body closer to mine. "Why not?"

I swallow hard, my heart thumping in my chest. "Because...my father gave it to me."

Maria's face tightens. "Does your father know what sort of danger that gun put you in today? It nearly got you killed," she huffs. "He should be ashamed of himself—giving you such a wretched gift."

I inch away from her and sit up in the grass. "I know you saved my life today, and I'll never be able to repay you for that, but that gun helped. You can't deny it."

Maria opens her mouth then snaps it shut. "Yes," she admits, "but it's just that I...you're right. It's just that I
hate
guns."

"It's not like I'm obsessed with them," I say. "I've never even fired one. How embarrassing is that? They're just tools—necessary tools during times like these."

Maria doesn't say anything. She just stares off into the distance, her mind quietly at work on something.

The park is now dark, with the only light coming from white holiday lights haphazardly strung through random tree branches. It's difficult to see beyond the small patch of grass where we lie, which is how I like it. It's just me and Maria, and nothing else.

I reach out my hand and stroke her hair. "Let's talk about something else. You may hate guns, but I hate arguing with you even more."

"What would you like to talk about it?" she says somewhat absently.

"Doesn't matter, as long as it's you I'm talking to. How about this park? Do you sleep here every night?"

Maria's eyes return to mine, and she relaxes into a soft smile. "No. What kind of girl do you take me for? I'm not the Baptist. I can handle only a few nights a week in this park, beautiful as it is. After that I demand a shower and a warm bed with crisp sheets."

"You have a house?"

"I stay with Petra's mother-in-law. I don't have a place of my own."

"Petra?"

I'm shocked at the revelation that he's married. The man seems too large, too utterly filled with vigor to be capable of such a domestically mundane relationship. I can't even picture him having a mother of his own, much less a
mother-in-law. Childhood doesn't fit a guy like Petra. I imagine him walking and talking within hours of his birth, a man-baby.

"Yes, she owns a small house nearby. She lends me a bed whenever I need it. The rest of the brothers board with friends around town, whoever has a room. But Petra's mother-in-law never gives away my room."

"That's kind of her."

"Yes, well, the Teacher saved her life. She's deeply grateful for what he's trying to do."

"She was ill?"

"Strong fever. She was so close to the grave that she couldn't get up from bed. But after the Teacher went to her, she regained strength. It was miraculous. She's served him, and us, ever since."

"How many people has he healed like that?"

"Nobody knows. Hundreds? Maybe thousands? There are no records. I don't even think
he
knows how many lives he's touched. He just does it and moves on to the next person, as if nothing special has happened."

Carefully I say, "Do you think he is of the one true God?"

"Yes, very much so."

"What makes you think that?"

"Besides my own healing, I've seen unexplainable things during the time I've followed him. There's no other way to interpret how they've happened."

"Like what? What have you seen?"

Maria ties her long hair into a loose bun. A single black hair falls lightly across her face. "There was an evening on a boat," she says, "out at sea. The Teacher wanted to escape the crowds, but other boats set sail and followed us. Soon after, a great windstorm arose, and the waves beat into the boat. It was quickly filling with water. I thought we would die—we all did."

"And the Teacher?"

"Asleep. He was reclining in the stern of the boat, his head on a pillow, sleeping like a child. We—somebody; I don't remember who—shook him awake. Petra asked him if he cared that we were going to drown. I remember that clearly, the fire in Petra's eyes. One of the other boats on the water had just capsized, and we heard screams over the driving rain. It was awful. I told Miles we had to do something, but he said we'd drown if we tried to save them. That's
when the Teacher sat up. He looked frustrated and tired, and then he stared out into the storm for what felt like a very long time. Calmly he said, 'Peace. Be still.' Not a second later, the storm died, giving way to the deadest calm I've ever seen on the water. We were all stunned. Then the Teacher looked at us like we were the crazy ones, and said, 'Why are you afraid? Have you still no faith?'"

"What did you say?"

"Nothing. No one said a word. That was the first time I was afraid of him." Maria's eyes cut away from me. "We all were." She lets out a long sigh and lies flat against the earth. Reliving this tale has sapped her of energy. After a time she adds, "What sort of man commands the wind and the sea?"

I have no answer to that question. I lie down next to her and close my eyes, trying to imagine all those people tossing about in the rough waters, believing they were about to die. Then, a moment later, the waters were placid. Did they know it was the Teacher? Did they even care?

Maria and I say nothing for a long while, testing the waters of silence between us and discovering we float gently in their current, like two children born of the sea. We're as laidback as lifetime lovers, yet we haven't even known each other twenty-four hours. Despite the tragedies of the last few months, and even today, I've never been happier at any moment in my life. I could lie in this park with Maria until we both turn gray and sink into the soil.

Maria breaks the silence. "What did your father say to you?"

"What do you mean?"

"When he gave you the gun. What did he say?"

"Oh." I fold my hands behind my head and keep my eyes closed. "I wanted to tell you on the train. I tried to, actually." I draw in a deep breath of courage then let out the truth. "My parents were abducted by the Kingdom and sent north. A telegram arrived a few months later, telling me they were dead."

"Oh, my God! That's...no. That's...so awful."

Maria sits up sharply. I don't move. "I left school and traveled home."

"Deacon, I'm sorry. I...I didn't know."

She rests her hand on my chest, and I unlock my hands so I can touch her arm as she leans her weight against me. Her skin is as smooth as anything I've ever touched. It's like touching the skin of Eve seconds after God fashioned her from Adam's rib.
Purity.

"I went to the bank because my father left a key to a safe-deposit box."

"That's
how you got the money?" she says. "The money you believe will keep you off a Kingdom cross?"

"Yes, and the gun."

"But how did—?"

"Jude," I say.

"Oh."

"My father was desperate for me to have this gun."

"Who was your father?"

"That's what I'm trying to find out. He and my mother were a short step up the ladder from poverty. But then I came home and discovered a gun and a fortune."

"That's very strange."

"There's more." I hesitate and ask myself whether I really want to say the next part. I find myself talking before I can decide. "I think my father was involved in the resistance."

"Lots of people around here are."

"This is different." I open my eyes to see Maria's black eyes hovering above me. "Jude was waiting for me at the bank, as if he knew I'd be coming. And apparently so did my father. Now it feels like there's something I'm supposed to do, something important."

"You're making me nervous, Deacon."

"Me too."

"You don't have to do anything you don't want," Maria says. "I'm sure your father wouldn't want you mixed up in this. He'd probably be furious if he knew you abandoned your studies to come here."

"I'm not sure about that."

Maria grabs my shirt and pulls me up by the collar. "I need you to promise me something."

"I think we've established I can't do that, Maria."

"What if I said I'd run away with you?"

"What?"

"I know you've thought of it. I feel it in you."

"I...don't know what to say."

"Say you'll do it. We can go south, to my old country."

"You'd leave the Teacher? Abandon the way?"

"For you? I'd do anything."

I don't hesitate. "Yes. Let's do it. We can leave at first light!"

"But you must promise."

"Promise what?"

"That you'll leave the gun. I know your father gave it to you, but you won't need it if we're leaving the South."

I've arrived at the crossroads my father often spoke about. He said there comes a moment in a man's life when he must choose the direction in which he will go, and everything will hang in the balance. Some paths lead to peace, while others only despair and destruction. Some lift a man up to the heavens, and some take him down to the pit. It's all in the decision; the decision determines the destiny.

I make mine with an ease I didn't expect. I've come home for a war I won't attend. Instead I'll follow love south.

"OK," I say, pulling the gun from my waistband. "I'll throw it in the lake."

A breath of excited air escapes Maria's mouth, and she pulls me in. Our lips crash against each other in a cosmic celebration of our future, which is now as wild and free as the air of Geth Park.