CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX: Crisis
Mark stood on the steps of St Peter’s – and stared down at the street.
The Governor General had just dissolved the Government! Connor was standing there, next to Mayes – his face white, and rigid. The people were shifting about, muttering backwards and forwards. Mayes was ordering the Army, now! Ordering the Army to dismiss the people – to send them home. They were dispersing – in only a few minutes, most of the people were gone.
Tristan had fallen to his knees – thrown the rifle down, away from himself. He was staring at the ground. His eyes – Mark swallowed – looked haunted.
Selena was there! What was she doing? Smiling! Smiling, circling the body, holding the crown. Her eyes lifted, and now she was looking directly at him: her black eyes penetrating.
Chills crept up his back. He tore his eyes away from her – tried to find some kind of refuge in the other woman, kneeling next to the body. Was that Rachel, Connor’s daughter? Surely not! She had tried to save him – a doctor, that’s right! A doctor.
Another man was there, also – someone Mark did not know. He wanted to avoid looking at him – but somehow could not. He was sitting very close to the body – he was crying. Mark had never seen a man cry like this before. His entire body was shaking hard – gripped, immersed in some terrible tragedy.
Mark felt numb. He didn’t look at the body – he could not. And yet, he couldn’t leave it, either.
Choo was beside him. “One of us should go to him,” she said quietly.
Mark swallowed, and could not answer her.
“You dismissed me,” she said. “It has to be you.”
Mark stared at Rachel, the doctor, on her knees – the one who had tried to help.
“I’m not fit,” he whispered to Choo. “I just murdered him.”
His body began to shake – slightly, only the earliest tremors of a catastrophic explosion. Selena was there now! Selena’s voice was whispering in his ear:
“Look at him,” she said. “Look at what you have done.”
She took his hand – she led him down the steps of St Peter’s Cathedral. She led him where he dared not go, but where he no longer had the strength to resist.
The body was there, now, at his feet. His eyes moved, against his will, over it. There was blood! He was standing in it! It was soaking into his purple tunic, and into the red and white. The white shirt was torn from the chest. There were bullet holes! Five! Five, to his chest.
And…and the face…
Mark contorted, as he looked at the face. It was peaceful.
“He was innocent!” Tristan’s voice wailed behind him. “We just killed an innocent man!”
But there was more – Mark knew, so much more!
“The scape goat,” Selena whispered into his ear. “You know who this is!”
Mark looked down to his feet – his robes, soaked in blood. He looked at the man’s face.
“Joshua,” the crying man next to him said. “You know his name is Joshua. You know him!”
“Even the name is the same,” Selena whispered – and Mark ran.
Away from the body, away from the grieving man, whose presence was so true, away from his son, wretched, on his knees after his crime, away from…from the One…
Joshua…‘The Lord saves!’ Joshua…
Mark ran up the steps of St Peter’s past Choo, thrust his way through the glass doors, and emerged into the nave. He was standing in the aisle, between congregational chairs.
The cross was before him – distant, in the inner sanctuary. Jesus, on the cross…
Mark’s shaking intensified. He forced himself to approach the cross – one shaking, unsteady step at a time. What had he done? What had he done?
The glass doors sounded behind him. Who was it? Which one? The accuser? The faithful friend? Choo? Which one would reach him first? Which one would try to dictate his fate first?
“You know who I am,” Selena’s voice said. “You know what you deserve.”
Agony crashed upon his heart – more than powerful enough to sweep his life away.
“I know,” he whispered. Hell whispered to him: torment, judgement – an eternity of retribution. “I know.”
“An eye for an eye,” Selena said. “Death for death. There is no grace – only justice! Only judgment. Only the Law.’
Now she was behind his back – now she was putting something into his right hand.
“Why be a hypocrite?” she asked. “Death for death! Execute justice! Execute judgment.”
He looked down, and found himself holding Tristan’s rifle. With horror, he stiffened, staring at it – and then he looked up again at the cross. He was half way down the church – only half way to the inner sanctuary.
The door sounded behind him again. He turned, with pain, to look – and saw Choo’s face, suddenly changing into dismay.
“Mark!” she whispered, tears suddenly filling her Korean eyes. “No!”
Her tears unleashed his – his eyes filled, and he blinked the tears away, and his eyes filled again and again.
“Everything I am,” he whispered, “is lost.”
“No!” she pleaded. “There is always a way back!”
“Not always,” he said. “There is a point of no return.”
Her face was kind; her eyes forgiving. He regretted dismissing her – at least this crime could be undone.
“Maybe you’ll get my job,” he whispered, smiling whimsically – and then he left her face behind, and turned back to the cross.
The rifle was heavy in his hand. He gripped it, awkwardly but tightly – he walked closer to the cross. Death! Death…
The door sounded: painfully pricking his heart – interrupting his melancholy.
“Leave me alone,” he called out, his voice resonating all around him in the cathedral and behind his back, without turning.
“Selena!” Tristan’s voice sounded, loud, authoritative. “Get that rifle off him now!”
Her voice resonated laughter. “Get it off him yourself!”
Mark heard loud determined footsteps walking down the aisle – Mark turned, and raised the rifle to point it at Tristan’s chest.
Tristan stopped short, staring at him: Mark’s own gaze locked with his.
“You’re not going to shoot me,” Tristan said, his eyes filling with tears. “I know that for certain.”
Mark’s eyes also filled with tears. “You’re right,” he said, “but…” And now weeping threatened to overpower him. “…don’t make me kill myself in front of you.”
Now Tristan’s eyes widened in grief-stricken terror, and it was agony to Mark’s heart.
“I’m so sorry,” Mark whispered to him, “you’ve seen too much already! I’m so sorry, Tristan, but…even protecting you isn’t enough to keep me alive anymore.”
Tristan began to weep – and Mark hurriedly shook his head.
“Leave,” he whispered. “Leave.”
“If I leave, you’ll kill yourself!” Tristan said.
“I’ll kill myself anyway!” Mark said. “Please, Tristan: leave!”
Dismay filled Tristan’s face. His eyes moved, to Selena, and back again to Mark.
“She did this!”
“She did this?” Mark laughed with pain. “No, Tristan! Life did this! And…and I did it. I’m so sorry!”
“Selena…”
“She’s too far gone, Tristan. But you – you can still live.”
Tristan’s eyes held his. He was strong, in that moment! Mark was relieved to see it. He was strong. Tristan swallowed – and then he nodded.
“All right,” he said.
“I…” Mark choked on the words – they cost him: they hurt him. “I love you.”
How much he had failed him! How much!
Tristan’s face contorted, with tears, and, somehow, he found a sad smile.
“I love you too,” he whispered – and then, swiftly, he turned, and walked down the aisle, and out of the doors.
Mark fleetingly saw Choo. She was on her knees in the last row, her lips moving – her eyes open, her face stricken. Mark smiled sadly at her, and then he turned again to his purpose.
He was almost there – at the altar! Before the cross. He had arranged the execution of Joshua! He had demanded his death.
The scape goat…All of Mark’s anger! All of his hatred, he had poured over Joshua’s head! All of his guilt! All of his rage, at…at…
And now, Mark trembled. His rage at whom? At God? Yes! All of his rage at God, he had unleashed upon Joshua! When…and this admission was agony…when he had known all along Joshua was an expression of Christ. When he had known that Joshua was seeking to open a way to God.
Mark had betrayed him: the one he had vowed to follow – the one he had vowed to serve.
He had killed a son of God.
Mark sank to his knees now. He had reached the communion rail – he leaned heavily over it, his right arm hanging loosely, clinging to the rifle: his blood stained robes spread out over the polished wood.
“Hypocrite,” Selena said, and Mark tightly closed his eyes.
“I have sinned,” Mark whispered, and Selena laughed.
“You have sinned?” she said. “By killing a son of God? Without doubt. But why should we be surprised? After all, you killed her!”
Selena’s grip was on his shoulder – and then, suddenly, he was thrust back into the memory again: the car, upside down. Teresa, trapped! Her face, dripping blood! Her breathing, stopping…
Agony took him – his voice was thrust up into a scream – but then, suddenly, Selena’s hand was forced away.
Mark clung to the railing, trembling as he saw the man, the one who had loved Joshua, grip Selena’s shoulders with both of his hands.
“Get out!” he ordered, his eyes fire – a kind of pure rage Mark had never seen.
Selena’s face contorted, and her voice rose to a shriek.
“Who do you think you are?” she shouted, “John of Whangarei? If I can kill Joshua, I can kill you!”
“Get out!” he said again. “I don’t care about my death anymore – only his death! Only him! Leave now!”
Mark stared – she was screaming! Screaming under this John’s hands, as she had screamed under Joshua! Her body jerked. Mark stiffened, with her – gripped the rail, without resisting – and then, suddenly, she collapsed.
Bewildered, Mark watched as John caught her body. She was stirring, now, in his arms! She was staring up at his face! Her eyes were blue – wide, as they had been as a child: afraid! Tears flowing…
He longed, now, to rush to her – he longed to care for her. But he could not.
Choo was there. John lifted Selena across to her arms. What had just happened?
“Maybe I should have been Catholic,” Mark muttered, “or Pentecostal, or something…” Some kind of evil spirit? A demon? What did he know of this? For a strange moment, he imagined asking Father Andrew, or Pastor Luke. Then his own guilt descended back upon him, like a black cloud.
He buried his face in his arms, over the railing. The rifle was still in his hand. It was a comfort, somehow – his own control over his own fate: his own power to undo his own guilt.
A hand was on his shoulder again – a very different kind of touch.
“You didn’t kill her,” John’s voice said, and his words were agony to Mark.
“I was speeding,” Mark whispered, lifting his face from his arms, looking up at Jesus’s face – the sad expression – on the cross. “I was speeding, and I killed her.”
“You were speeding,” John murmured over him, “but the rest was a terrible accident.”
An accident. Grief flooded his heart. An accident?
“If I’d been going at the right speed…”
“…she wouldn’t have died,” John finished. “But God wants forgiveness, not condemnation! God wants forgiveness!”
Mark felt weeping threaten him. “What do you know about God’s forgiveness, ‘John of Whangarei’?” he cried out. “What do you know about God’s Law? Have you even stepped in church twice since you left childhood? What do you even do in Whangarei: herd sheep?”
Tears filled John’s eyes, now – the grieving man.
“I know as much about it as anyone!” he cried. “Maybe it’s you who knows nothing!”
Mark shifted uncomfortably as John’s words continued to pour out.
“Joshua chose to die!” he said. “He chose to die, to carry all of our mess! Don’t you get it? You’ve been in church all your life! I saw him die! I saw what he was doing!”
Now John grasped his arm
“All the crap that goes through our heads, and our mouths, and the ridiculous things we do sometimes,” he said, “onto him! So we could be free of it! So God’s anger at us could be relieved! So some kind of justice could be done! So…” And now John hesitated, as if he was considering his own words. “So we could be fixed.”
Mark gazed at him for a moment. “‘The punishment that brought us peace was upon him,’” he quoted, “‘and by his wounds we are healed.’[22]” Mark enjoyed John’s ignorance of the old, even as the new was thrusting Mark into utter humility.
The cloud re-emerged: it was still deep – it was still dark. Mark took a deep breath.
“Even if I was innocent of her death,” he said with pain, “or even forgiven of her death,” How the pain intensified with the thought! “I killed him! I killed Joshua!”
This was the bottom line. He rose to his feet, now, holding the rifle – leaving John behind, entering into the inner sanctuary where John was not free to follow.
The altar was before him – wooden table, sacred, covered with white linen for purity. In ancient times the priests had sacrificed animals, to carry the evil of people – to save the people from judgment from God.
Someone had left a silver chalice and plate on the white linen. Wine was in the cup, and white wafers on the plate: the body and blood of Christ – the lamb of God, to take away the sins of the world.
Behind the altar was the cross. He was very close now. Mark stood at the foot, looking up the fading tiles, to Jesus. Sorrow…sorrow, for the sins of the world…
Mark felt his face contort, as he lifted the rifle and pointed it at the head of Jesus.
“It’s as though I shot him myself!” Mark said. “I did! I handed him over! And…and…” How unbearable to actually say it! “…and that makes me Judas!”
The dark cloud descended. It filled his feeling, his thought, and his body – the deepest part of him. Judas – the one who had betrayed Christ to his enemies, with a kiss! The one who had handed him over to be crucified.
Mark had believed! And he had betrayed. He had believed, and he had executed the one he had professed to love.
“I am Judas,” he whispered. “My God! My God…”
Judas had killed himself.
Mark had been pointing the rifle at Christ. Now he drew it down, and turned it backwards, toward himself. Through the mouth – that must be the way. Upwards, into the brain…
He swayed slightly, his heart pounding. He felt afraid of death – but that fear was not enough. It was right – it was fitting. A second Jesus; a second Judas, offered at the altar. John from Whangarei could not begin to speak to the depth of his understanding.
But then there was another interruption.
Mark felt he might go mad. Quiet, please! Solitude, in the last moments before his death. But God would not give him solitude.
Rau Petera was bursting into the inner sanctuary.
Mark stared at him. His Maori face was wet with tears – his eyes red. He was still weeping, even now, as he grasped Mark’s blood stained robes and gazed into his eyes.
“Don’t be like Judas,” Rau implored him. “Be like Peter!”
“Like Peter?” Mark breathed. Peter was the one who had denied three times even knowing Christ! The one who had denied him, and had wept with remorse, and had returned, and had later died for him.
/> “Be like Peter!” Rau pleaded. “Come back! Come back!”
Mark found himself grasping for Rau’s arms – found weeping erupting from within him. They had both failed! They had both failed! Mark could see it so clearly now in Rau’s transparent face – he had denied him! He had left him to die! Rau’s regret was flowing continually in his tears, Mark could see – he had known him, and had left! But he had returned. Seen his body! Returned to the altar – returned to his position.
Mark sagged down to his knees now before the priest of Kerikeri.
“I was worse than you,” he choked. “Much worse.”
Rau’s warm brown face was over him. “I was closer to him,” he whispered. “I knew him, without a doubt, and still I denied him.”
The rifle…Rau was touching it! Mark’s body shook hard.
“Don’t,” he pleaded.
“Let it go,” Rau murmured over him.
“You don’t know what I’ve done.”
“Tell me.”
“I convinced Connor to kill him.”
Now he had confessed it. Rau’s face contorted, but then he shook his head.
“What else?”
“I played on his fears!” Mark writhed. “Manipulated him into it! I hated God…”
Now Mark closed his eyes as everything began to pour out.
“I sped, and Teresa died, and I blamed God, and then I shut out my children…” He trembled. “Tristan was in the Army – I never knew! He could have been killed! And Selena…” He began to sob. “Useless father…”
Rau was pressing his forehead to him, now – murmuring a prayer in Maori. Mark clung to him, vulnerable, eyes still closed. The rifle was gone! Mark was afraid, but didn’t want to die – Rau’s words soothed him. He felt something stirring, in his heart – something new: something spiritual, that felt like…like love…
“God loved us so much that he gave his son, [23]” Rau murmured. “This is Christ’s body, given for you. This is Christ’s blood, given for you.”
Mark opened his eyes, to look up into Rau’s.
“Christ’s body and blood?” he whispered.
“Given for you,” Rau said, “for the forgiveness of sins.” [24]
His eyes were offering, inviting. Mark trembled. No death, but a road to forgiveness? That would mean facing the full grief of everything he had done! That would mean living with it, day by day, until…until one day the grief was finally gone…
Grief…but no burden. No judgment. No condemnation. No hatred, no anger, no murder, no neglect, no…sin…
Rau was turning to the altar, now – and he returned, with the body and the blood of Christ.
Mark reached out his hands, and Rau placed a wafer in them.
“The body of Christ, given for you.”
Mark closed his eyes, and took it to his mouth, and swallowed it – and received it. Christ’s death, for him! To carry his guilt! To carry his darkness.
“The blood of Christ, given for you.”
Mark received the silver cup, and drank from it – the strong sip of alcohol warmed his chest, even as he felt another kind of warmth penetrating through his whole body.
Rau’s hand was on his shoulder now.
“The blessing of God, the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, be with you now, and forever more.”
“Amen,” Mark whispered.
It was finished.
Peace. On his knees, Mark felt peace – a kind of peace that wholly filled him: a kind of peace he had never known.
“And you?” he murmured gently, looking up into Rau’s face. “Will you receive communion from me?”
Rau smiled sadly. “I would,” he said, “but I’m not yet ready.”
Mark tilted his head, looking at him. “Not ready?” he said, surprised. “But…you just helped me…”
Tears filled Rau’s eyes again. “I’m willing,” he whispered, “but I’m not yet ready.”
In humility, Mark reached up to touch his face. “May God bless you,” he said, “for the right time.”
“For the right time,” Rau whispered – and Mark rose to his feet.
Rau bowed to the cross, and then turned and stepped out of the inner sanctuary. Mark watched him grasp John’s hands – both men cried freely with each other.
“Tristan,” Rau said, and John glanced up at Mark.
“Go,” Mark said, and both Rau and John quickly walked down the aisle and out of the church.
Mark hesitated, for a moment, in the inner sanctuary. He looked at the altar, with the left over wafers and wine. He wandered up, murmured prayer over the emblems, and took them into himself – sacred! They were not to be randomly discarded. That was their tradition, and he agreed with it.
He looked up to the cross – to the eyes of Christ.
“‘By his wounds, we are healed,’” he murmured – and a new kind of joy filled his heart, like the glory of a very first sunrise seen on a clear, fresh morning.
He bowed to the cross, his heart and tradition as one, and turned, and walked out of the inner sanctuary. Then he saw Eun Ae Choo, sitting with his daughter. Selena’s face was hidden away in her shoulder.
Eun Ae’s eyes were filled with tears. He went to her. He took off his bishop robes, before her – down to his normal shirt and trousers beneath.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I was a fool to dismiss you.”
She bowed her head graciously. “Then I am reinstated?”
“So far as I’m concerned, you never left.”
She smiled sadly – and now his eyes moved to Selena.
Eun Ae moved her arm, from around Selena – and Selena lifted her feet to the chair, wrapping her arms around her legs. Mark was drawn, now, to her – drawn to protect her, as he had felt before…before Teresa had died.
Eun Ae stooped to lift Mark’s robes from the ground, and he grasped her arm.
“You don’t have to do that,” he said. “You’re not my servant – I’ll deal with them later.”
“No,” Choo said, “it’s all right – I’ll deal with them.”
“Joshua’s body,” Mark said. “He might still be outside.”
“We’ll give him a service?”
Mark took another deep breath – guilt! Could he attend Joshua’s funeral? And yet, yes…
“If God wishes it,” Mark said.
Eun Ae walked to the side of the church, and slipped out of sight into a changing room. Then she appeared again, and walked down the side aisle and out.
Selena was in front of him. Mark’s full attention now was for her.
Her face was buried in her bare knees. The green shirt was dishevelled, her long black curls thrown around her legs. She was shivering.
Mark sat himself next to her. “Selena…”
She didn’t respond. Sadly Mark laid a hand on her shoulder – she flinched.
How long had it been? How many years had they lost?
Nine. Nine years…
Mark wanted to hang his head in shame – but he lifted his face back to the cross, prayed for her under his breath, and tried again.
“Selena,” he murmured, “I’m here for you now.”
“Don’t,” she gasped.
“I’m so sorry,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry.”
“It’s not your fault,” she moaned. “It’s my fault.”
“No,” he breathed, “not your fault…”
She stiffened now – she lifted her head, and her face was contorted. Her teeth were gritted together, as she started to dig her nails into her arms.
“My fault!” she said. “It’s my fault! It’s my fault, it’s my fault…”
And she dug and dug, until she was bleeding.
Mark reached to grasp her hands – to grasp her arms. She fell off the chair – she started to hit him. Mark held her to his chest – held her, and started to rock her, and started to sing to her, as he had done when she had been hurt at seven. She struggled against him! She fought him! Mark felt her adolescent rage! But
he knew there was more – knew to look deeper.
“Oh, Selena,” he whispered with tears, “I’m so sorry! Mummy’s gone! Mum’s gone…”
Now her voice lifted into a wail, and her fighting ceased. “I know Mum’s gone!” she cried. “But where’s Daddy? Where’s Dad?”
The words were a knife to his heart – a knife he knew he must endure.
“I went away,” he whispered, shaking hard. “I had to go away! I’m so sorry, Selena! But now I’m back! Now I’m back…”
She lifted her head from his chest – she looked into his eyes. She was sixteen – the blue eyes intelligent, insightful, and haunted with agony.
Mark touched her face. “My beautiful daughter,” he said, and she closed her eyes tightly, shaking her head.
“I don’t believe you,” she whispered.
“I was a fool,” he said. “A fool to leave – I didn’t even see.”
“I…” She choked, and opened her eyes again: held his eyes again. “I hated you.” The blue eyes filled with tears and pain. “I hated you, and I became Satan incarnate, and…and now I want to die.”
Now tears filled his eyes. How similar they were!
“I know you want to die,” he said, reaching to stroke her black curls, “but I want you to live.”
Her face contorted with her struggle. “Please,” she whispered, “don’t preach to me!”
Pain seized him. “I won’t,” he whispered.
“I couldn’t stand it…”
He wanted to cry. “I won’t!” he insisted. “I promise.”
“I don’t need you to be a priest right now.”
“I know…”
“I need you to be…”
“Dad.”
The word made her stiffen. He reached to hold her face in both hands – to press his forehead against hers.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry.”
Sobs began to erupt from within her. “I’m so sorry, Daddy!” she gasped – and he felt her pain as his own.
“It’s all right!” he murmured. “It’s all right…”
Her face was in his shoulder now – her head lolling on his chest. Torment! Her voice was rising to a wail – he ached with her agony, but he remained.
“It’s all right,” he kept murmuring to her. “It’s all right…”
Her fingers were digging into his arms now – he closed his eyes tightly, but still held her: and now he began to rock her again. The song came to him again – one he had sung around the time of the accident.
She straightened, suddenly – she looked into his eyes.
“Dad?” she whispered.
“Selena,” he whispered back, “I’m going to look after you now.”
She trembled. “Really?”
The tears pricked his eyes again. Fatherhood! He hadn’t grasped it! He hadn’t understood it.
“I’m here now,” he said, and a kind of painful wonder lit up her face.
She touched his face.
“I’ve missed you, Daddy,” she said – and then, suddenly, she curled up on his chest.
Mark looked down at her black curls.
Daddy…
This was another deep truth he had locked tightly away.
“I’ve missed you too,” he whispered – and Selena closed her eyes, and soon Mark found she was actually sleeping on his chest.
Mark sat there in the first row of the church, holding his daughter. What had happened to her? Some terrible thing: isolation, desperation – evil! But it hadn’t finished there! It wasn’t over! There was still time.
He trembled, carrying her – he stared at the cross. He murmured over her, drawing her closer – and closed his eyes to pray for her.
Selena stirred. She was in a haze – almost in sleep.
Something had happened to her. What was it? That man, John, of Whangarei – he had pulled her! He had grasped her shoulders – he had felt just like Joshua!
The light! The same burning light – it hurt! She clung to the light, and the darkness couldn’t stay! And…and then, suddenly, with a scream, he was gone.
Emptiness swallowed her. She was alone! But…but, no: not alone. Someone was there – home was there.
Her head was on his chest, now. He was praying! Light! Light…
“Daddy,” she whispered, still in sleep. “Daddy…”
“I’m here,” he whispered, “I’m here.”
The light was stronger than the darkness! Stronger! She tried to touch it, but sleep was taking her – she was so tired! So very tired…
“Sleep,” Mark whispered over her, stroking her hair. “Sleep, my beautiful girl.”
“Sleep?” Selena whispered back, shifting in his arms – hiding her face in his neck.
“Sleep,” Mark murmured, shifting his arms around her. And she obeyed him, and sank straight into a deep sleep.
In wonder Mark gazed down at her. In wonder he gazed at the cross. Then, suddenly, he remembered his other child.
Carefully he lifted Selena in his arms, rising to his feet, and walked down the aisle.