Centurion: Mark's Gospel as a Thriller

by Waller, Ryan Casey

  "But I was," she says. "Not as powerful, no, but I was cruel, angry, and. dark. We both entangled our souls in the dark arts, and I...we...I lost control. It's as stupidly simple and pathetic as that. We needed a refuge," she says matter-of-factly. "Badly. Alejandro was always a gentle spirit, but his work ethic was never that of a respectable man. He was lazy, and we were drifters. A few months here and a few more there...wherever. Alejandro did manual labor, and I sang in cafés." A trace of a smile flashes across her face. "I had a lovely voice, and it was fine for a time. We preferred transiency to a conventional life. We adored the freedom. But the Kingdom's invasion of the South changed everything. Because of his size, Alejandro was drafted into the Kingdom's foreign army. A month later his orders came in. He would be sent across the sea, and we'd never see each other again. That's when we opened ourselves to...other possibilities."

  The train lurches hard as the incline of our ascent grows steeper. We're traveling much faster than I'd expected on this old line. I take another look through the doorway and discover the eyes of the demons have disappeared, their muted effervescence replaced with nothing but darkness. I'm growing tired of the dark but prefer it to the spying eyes of those wretched creatures hiding beneath its cover.

  "Those in the underground," Maria says, "granted us asylum from the Kingdom. But we soon discovered their hospitality came at a high price. Before we knew it, we'd lost control of our lives."

  "So you were both...what? Possessed?"

  "Seven times—for me, that is. It was more for Alejandro. I...can't explain it. The torture is inexplicable. It's like hell itself has taken residence inside your body, in your spirit. I hated myself, and I wanted to die."

  "How did you escape? How did you defeat them?"

  "I didn't."

  "I don't understand."

  "I was saved."

  "How?"

  Maria smiles as a soft beam of light splashes into the train. The car levels out, and the train slows down. She stands and says, "You're about to find out."

  The train rolls into the park and stops at a makeshift station consisting of a single bench and a battered sign that reads, GETH PARK. I stand and take Maria's hand as she moves toward the open door. "We're here," she says. "Time for you to meet the Teacher."

  "Won't the Kingdom look for me here? I'm a wanted man. And...Maria, I'm afraid you are too. That bank guard saw you; he heard your voice. Nothing will be the same for you now; we're in serious trouble."

  "It's a possibility, yes," she admits casually, as if discussing the chances of evening rain showers. "Which is why we must find the Teacher as soon as possible. He'll know what we should do. Don't worry," she says with a wink. "I was hoping nothing was going to be the same."

  That does it. I would abandon the war and run away with Maria, should she ask me to. Her dark eyes light my own with a force so potent that I could forget everything but her. We could escape to Mexico, return to whatever small town she's from, and live peacefully by the sea. I could forget the oppression of my people. I could maybe even release the memory of my parents—with time. We could simply vanish and hold each other forever. We could drop all these burdens and leave them for someone else to carry.

  I could do this.

  I think.

  I return Maria's wink. "Whatever you say."

  The sun is setting as we crawl off the train, the sky a magnificent blend of flaming oranges and soft purples. The air is sweet with magnolia blossoms. The beauty creates a calm in me that couldn't be more opposite than the feelings of dread, fear, and terror I've experienced today. I close my eyes and inhale a deep breath of fresh, warm air. It swirls in my lungs before plunging into my soul, where it does the real life-giving work.

  I open my eyes and take in my surroundings. The park is dense with Lacey oaks, trees native to my homeland. Despite the intensity of the summer's heat and the severe lack of rain, the leaves are a rich green due to the oaks' ability to survive drought and high temperatures. Complementing the oaks are large collections of wild shrubs that explode with vibrant colors, making the park an exotic sea of yellows, greens, browns, blues, and pinks.

  The landscape is small rolling hills upon which groups of people are gathered. Some sit on wooden benches; others lounge lazily on the ground, their backs flat against the warm earth. All of them, I notice, are smiling, laughing, and enjoying one another's company on this serene evening. This park is a happy place, and it reminds me of the South I hail from—the one I thought had been erased by the presence of the Kingdom and its Centurion Guard.

  But it hasn't been erased. It still exists, if only in this small, hidden oasis between the trees. "This is wonderful," I say to Maria.

  I'm grateful to finally find myself in a space that feels like home—home, as I've known it only in my dreams for the past three years. Home, as I remember it in the quiet corners of my heart and my mind. Home, as I experienced it as a child whose parents loved him and cared for him.

  Maria, too, fills her lungs with the clean air then exhales. "I found truth in this park," she says, lost in a delightful memory I hope she'll tell me about when the time is right.

  "This park is the truth," I say.

  "Yes," Maria agrees. "The only question is what you'll do with it, what you'll do in it."

  "Who are all these people? They don't look like Kingdom loyalists, but they don't strike me as resistance fighters either."

  "We're a blended community with no one credo," she says. "This park is open to anyone who wishes to come. No soul is rejected in this place."

  "Even the English?" I say, disgusted by the thought of those people in this Southern sanctuary.

  "Even the English," Maria says, a tenor of pride in her voice.

  This buzzes me with challenge. "I don't understand. Why would anyone from the Kingdom be welcome here?"

  "Don't get spiky," she says. "The Teacher's fame has spread tremendously during the past three years. People come from all around to sit at his feet. He also travels but always returns here, to this park, which is near his hometown. There are no secrets with him. He moves openly and without regard to who may be listening. In one city I saw resistance fighters, American religious authorities, and the Centurion Guard all in his audience, listening intently to his stories. It's an astonishing sight to behold."

  "And they all enjoy his teaching?"

  "Oh, no!" Maria gasps. "Not at all. Some do of course, but he outrages many, which is why he's grown so popular. He teaches, they say, 'as one with authority.'"

  "Why hasn't he been arrested? I'm shocked the Kingdom would allow it."

  "There have been many close calls—many. Yet he remains a free man." Maria shrugs. "It's a mystery."

  "But he's sympathetic to the cause?"

  "Which cause is that?" she asks.

  "The cause of the South and the American resistance, the cause of our religion, the cause of the one true God." Righteous anger drenches my voice. "My cause"

  "You've come here to fight?" Maria says, clearly stunned by the bruising nature of this truth.

  I want to kick myself. Of all the ways to tell Maria, this is the worst. I had hoped to tell her about my parents, to explain I had no choice but to travel home and avenge their deaths. She would understand that. She would see this is the right thing for me, as a son, to do. On the train ride, I nearly spat it all out. I nearly confessed my motives, but then she poured out her past to me, bonding us together. How could I tell her I only came home to die?

  I can't look at her; I'm so ashamed. I gaze at the hill closest to us and see a black man with long dreadlocks pouring wine from a large bottle. He smiles and raises the bottle of red in my direction. I look away.

  "Yes," I say, hanging my head low. "I came home to fight."

  Maria wipes a stray tear from her cheek. "The gun," she says. "I should have known. That's why you were being chased." She stiffens. "What have you done, Deacon? Are you a bandit, a rebel?"

  Maria's dark eyes laser me criticall
y, questioning everything about me, probing my face as if I'm a monster charged with a heinous crime.

  "Yes," I mumble, "but I've done nothing wrong. Not yet. The gun was given to me. I had no choice but to run from the guards."

  Maria's eyes are glassy and removed. She's already placing a veil between us; I feel our connection being disrupted, the innate line of communication destroyed.

  I can't let this happen.

  "So...what now?" she says. "Will you join that snake pit of conspirators who plot death beneath the stars? Is that what you want? Is that who you are, Deacon? Another angry man thirsty for war?"

  "I don't know who I am," I say in a panic. "But why are you so dogmatic about this? You don't understand how complicated it all is."

  Maria puts her nose in my face. "Oh, yes, I do! Don't you dare try to tell me how bad it is. I've known pain you can't imagine."

  "Is that right? Then tell me. Explain away!"

  "If I didn't rescue you in the street—two bloody hours ago—you'd already be dead. Muerto! Comprende?"

  I start to respond, to yell something back at her but snap my mouth shut. I bite the inside of my cheek. There's no reply. She's right.

  "That's how these fights end," Maria says. "With you dead." She pauses then adds, "Every American who comes here hell-bent on war finds himself hanging on a Kingdom cross. All of them. You live by the sword, you die by the sword. It's as uncomplicated as that."

  "Not me," I say, chewing hard on my cheek.

  "Because you're different?" Maria shakes her head and wipes away more tears. "God! That's what they all say!"

  I take her by the shoulders and shake her as I speak. "I. Am. Different."

  "Why is that?" she says, her voice frail and brittle. "What makes you so special? What is it that will keep you off that cross?"

  "Money. I have a lot of money."

  Maria's lips arc downward. "Money can't save you from the Kingdom's cruelty."

  "Maybe not," I say, taking her tanned face gently in my hands. "But it can build an army."

  Then I kiss her before she can stop me.

  I draw Maria into me, and she wraps her arms around my neck, running her fingers through my hair. I kiss her slowly, tasting the salt on her lips. She's only the third woman I've kissed, and my lips tremble with the nerves of naïveté. Maria, who's far more relaxed, opens her mouth wide and bites my bottom lip.

  We continue to kiss, exploring the wild landscapes of our faces and mouths for long enough to know we're in love. If our hands had felt designed for one another, this kiss proves the primordial pairing, sealing the fate of our union.

  She is mine and I am hers.

  For the first time since my parents were killed, I truly reconsider my decision to go to war. For real. Not as some fleeting thought.

  I hadn't anticipated Maria in my life. But who could? Everything about her is exquisitely novel and as such changes everything.

  When the time is right, we stop kissing and look at each other in the way only new lovers can. We're pristine creatures holding secret knowledge about the other. "What would you suggest I do, if not fight?" I ask her. "If not go to war? What choice do I have? Something must be done to free our people from these tyrants."

  "There's another way to freedom. The Teacher speaks of it often."

  "Does he support the American cause?"

  "Of course, but the Teacher wishes all people to be free."

  "All people can't be free. Freedom doesn't work that way."

  "You were right," Maria says.

  "About what?"

  "You are different. I know it." She moves her fingers gingerly across my chest. "You don't see it now...but you will. You have the eyes to see. It's all about the eyes—about how we choose to see the world."

  "See what?" I say, suddenly growing weary from the adventure of the day. The fatigue settles fast across my shoulders like the burden of a heavy yoke.

  "I'm not sure I fully understand it all myself, but I'm beginning to, and it's marvelous. It's just...it's all going to be OK."

  "That doesn't answer my question."

  "I'm sorry," Maria says, grinning. "That's the best I can do for now. I can't put it in words. But I will."

  "I need you to. I want to understand what you're talking about."

  "Then you'll have to ask the Teacher yourself." Maria jumps and points at something behind me. "There! I see Jude. They're coming now." She grabs hold of my face. "Now kiss me again."

  "Jude! The bank teller?"

  Maria laughs playfully and kisses my ear. "Have you met him?"

  "Uh.. .yeah! I absolutely cannot—"

  Maria's lips are on me before I can finish my sentence. And then there's nothing in the world but her mouth kissing mine.

  omeone calls Maria's name, and I turn to see a group of men marching merrily toward us. They're a motley crew of unmerited bravado. They come in all shapes and sizes and are horribly disheveled, even by poverty-induced Southern standards. The men are unshaven, and their clothing is old and wrinkled. One of them is barefoot. If I didn't know better, I'd take these men for a gang of vagabonds.

  Which might be exactly what they are.

  But the expression on their faces is anything but the gnarled look of the seriously poor. These men smile and laugh wildly as they walk, their faces brightly lit with mirth. Their happy voices roll out before them like trumpets announcing their arrival.

  Only one man in the group doesn't smile, and it's Jude.

  I avert my eyes and regard the others. I'm shocked to see another face I know...Miles, the cab driver. He laughs loudly, and his white teeth contrast marvelously against his black skin. All the men look happy, but Miles stands out. He walks with the enthusiastic bounce of a child tramping his way through a forest of make-believe.

  I count twelve men in total and pray these men don't represent the true resistance. This can't be them; these men aren't fighters.

  "These are your friends?" I say.

  Maria watches the men with pride. "The best I've ever had. They're my brothers now."

  Panic floods my chest, but I manage to say, "A brother to you...is a brother to me." I drape my arm around her shoulder and pull her close. Just touching her skin staves my fear and makes me wonder how I lived a day without her. No matter what disaster lies ahead, at least I've found her.

  Maria's "brothers" arrive. One of them breaks away from the group and runs to meet us. Maria lets go of me and rushes to the man with open arms. He lifts her in the air and swings her around as if she's a child, both of them laughing like school kids on summer vacation. Maria's still wearing the dress from her meeting at the Office of Record, and it fans out like a sail as she twirls gracefully through the air. Eventually the gregarious man sets her down. Then the others take turns hugging her and take their time doing it. Some of them kiss her on the cheek.

  I don't like these brothers very much.

  These men know Maria; they share bonds and memories I'm not privy to. The thought of it drives me wild, which I know is unreasonable. But I can't help it. I've never felt this way before.

  These men are so ecstatic to see Maria that I recognize at once how inexplicably bound to this ragtag team she is. I'm clearly not the only man who understands her value. This sets off an alarm in my head, but I do my best to ignore it.

  The men file past me, one by one, and introduce themselves. They're kind and polite, each man saying he's been eager to meet me. I'm taken aback by their enthusiasm—and their knowledge of me—and can offer only a simple "Thank you" in return. I try to keep up with the names, but beyond Miles and Jude, I catch only a "John" and a "Lucas."

  Miles greets me with a bear hug. "I see you've met our Maria!" he practically screams. He sets me down and wags a long finger. "Behave yourself with her, young man. We're quite the protective group of big brothers. She's our princesa, and we're her caballeros. Isn't that right, boys?"

  The men cheer in affirmation.

  Jude has waited to greet me
last. We shake hands firmly. He leans close to my ear and whispers, "What in the name of the gods was that stunt about?"

  Through clenched teeth I say, "I reacted to the situation. It's not like you gave me time to prepare."

  "I told you to walk out of the bank, not start a war in the streets. You could have gotten us both killed."

  "I did what I thought was best. Are they searching for Maria and me?"

  Jude pulls away. Up ahead the group has begun to drift farther into the park. Maria has joined them, walking arm in arm with one of the guys whose name I can't remember. We move slowly in their direction but linger back so we can speak in private.

  "No," Jude says. "I told the bank manager about your parents. Explained that you're a distraught kid who's already being watched closely by the Kingdom. Lucky for you, I convinced him not to file a report with your supervisor at the Office of Record. I had to call in all my favors to avoid it. You broke that guard's nose. The other one has a concussion, says he barely remembers what happened."

  "Thank you," I say.

  "Men have been hanged for much less than you did today."

  "I know."

  "If you're going to survive long enough to get this war off the ground, you'll have to be smarter. No more flying off the handle. There's ample time for fighting. You'll get your revenge. But for now you must be patient. Do you understand?"

  "Yes."

  "Good."

  "Did the guard say anything about the gun?" I ask him.

  Jude stops walking. "Did he see the gun?"

  I nod. "I hit him with it. That's how he got the concussion. It was our only chance out of there."

  "Lord have mercy," Jude says, wiping something invisible from the corners of his mouth.

  "I threatened him," I confess. "I told him if he breathed a word, I would come for him."

  Jude's eyes search me. "You're a feisty one, aren't you?" He chuckles. "Your father chose well."

  "Chose?" I say.

  "The guard is a pathetically fearful man—not much of a spine in that one. If he hasn't mentioned it by now, he probably won't. He's probably faking the amnesia, which is a smart move on his part."