by Ted Dekker
“Sir . . .” The objection came from Janjic’s throat before he could stop it.
Stop, Janjic! Shut up! Sit back!
But he did not. He took a single step forward. “Sir, please. This is enough. Please, we should leave these people alone.”
Karadzic shot him a furious stare, and Janjic saw hatred in those deep-set eyes. The commander looked back at the girl, who was staring up at the priest through the pools of tears that rimmed her eyes.
“I think I’ll shoot your priest. Yes?”
Father Michael gazed into the little girl’s face. There was a connection between their eyes, shafts of invisible energy. The priest and the girl were speaking, Janjic thought. Speaking with this look of love. Tears streamed down their cheeks.
Janjic felt a wedge of panic rise to his throat. “Please, sir. Please show them kindness. They have done nothing.”
“Sometimes love is best spoken with a bullet,” Karadzic said.
The girl stared into the eyes of her priest, and her look gripped Janjic with terror. He wanted to tear his gaze away from the girl’s face, but he couldn’t. It was a look of love in its purest form, Janjic knew, a love he had never seen before.
Nadia spoke softly, still staring at the priest. “Don’t kill my priest.” Her voice whispered across the courtyard. “If you have to kill someone, then kill me instead.”
A murmur ran though the crowd. The girl’s mother clambered to unsteady legs, gulping for air. Her face twisted in anguish. “Oh God! Nadia! Nadia!”
Nadia held up a hand, stopping her mother. “No, Mother. It will be okay.You will see. It’s what Father Michael has taught us. Shh. It’s okay. Don’t cry.”
Oh, such words! From a child! Janjic felt hot tears on his cheek. He took another step forward. “Please, sir, I beg you!” It came out like a sob, but he no longer cared.
Karadzic’s lips twitched once. Then again, to a grin. He lowered his gun from the priest. It hung by his waist.
He lifted it suddenly and pressed the barrel to the girl’s head.
The mother’s restraint snapped, and she launched herself at the commander, arms forward, fingernails extended like claws, shrieking. This time the second in command, Molosov, anticipated her move. He was running from his position behind Janjic as soon as Ivena moved, and he landed a kick to her midsection before she reached Karadzic. She doubled over and retched. Molosov jerked the woman’s arms behind her and dragged her back.
Nadia closed her eyes, and her shoulders began to shake in a silent sob.
“Since your flock has failed to prove its faith, you will renounce your faith, Priest. Do that, and I will let this little one live.” Karadzic’s voice cut through the panic. He looked around at the women. “Renounce your dead Christ, and I will leave you all.”
Ivena began to whimper with short, squeaky sounds that forced their way past white lips. For a moment the rest seemed not to have heard. Father Michael stiffened. For several long seconds his face registered nothing.
And then it registered everything, knotting up impossibly around his shattered cheekbone. His tall frame began to shake with sobs, and his limp arm bounced loosely.
“Speak, Priest! Renounce Christ!”
CHAPTER NINE
MARCI STARED at Eve, unable to tear her eyes free. At any other time, if anyone had told her that she would be so affected, so completely taken in by an old lady telling a story about soldiers playing games with a priest and some women in the war, she would have rolled her eyes.
But there was something about this story that had put talons into her heart and refused to let go. She was having a hard time breathing, and her heart was pounding loudly enough for anyone in the room to hear.
Something was happening to her. She was almost certain that she knew who she was in the story, but she couldn’t bring herself to admit it. Not yet.
She could hear the priest’s song, and she could see the field, and she was sure that what Father Michael was seeing was real, and not just in his mind. But none of that made sense, because it was just a story.
Or was it?
It didn’t feel like just a story. The world Father Michael was seeing didn’t feel like a fantasy. In that world he was beautiful, and the children were beautiful, but he was the only one who could see into that world.
Except Marci. She could see into the world right now. Not with her eyes, but with her mind’s eye. But it was real.
For that matter, her own life was no more real. It was just a story, in some ways. Filled with pain and her own kind of suffering.
Eve was reading. Marci shifted in her chair and carefully wiped her sweaty palms on her red plaid skirt.
FATHER MICHAEL’S world kept blinking on and off, alternating like intermittent static between this ghastly scene here and the white-flowered field there. He was jerked back and forth with such intensity that he hardly knew which scene was real and which was a figment of his imagination.
But that was just it. Neither world came from his imagination. He knew that now with certainty. He was simply being allowed to see and hear both worlds. His spiritual eyes and ears were being opened in increments, and he could hardly stand the contrast. One second this terrifying evil in the courtyard, and the next the music.
Oh, the music! Impossible to describe. Raw energy stripping him of all but pleasure. The man was only a few hundred meters distant now, arms spread so that his cloak draped wide. An image of Saint Francis, but more. Yes, much more. Michael imagined a wide, mischievous grin on the man, but he couldn’t see it for the distance. The man walked toward him steadily, purposefully, still singing. The giggling children sang with him in perfect harmony now. A symphony slowly swelling. The melody begged him to join. To leap into the field and throw his arms up and dance with laughter along with the hidden children.
Across the courtyard, the tall cross leading to the cemetery stood bold against the other world’s gray sky. He had pointed to that very cross a thousand times while teaching his children the truth of God. And he had taught them well.
“You may look at that cross and think of it as a gothic decoration, engraved with roses and carved with style, but do not forget that it represents life and death. It represents the scales on which all of our lives will be weighed. It’s an instrument of torture and death—the symbol of our faith. They butchered God on a cross. And Christ emphasized none of his teachings so adamantly as our need to take up our own crosses and follow him.”
Nadia had looked up to him, squinting in the sun—he saw it clearly in his mind’s eye now. “Does this mean that we should die for him?”
“If need be, of course, Nadia. We will all die, yes? So then if we have worn out our bodies in service to him, then we are dying for him, yes? Like a battery that expends its power.”
“But what if the battery is still young when it dies?” That had silenced those gathered.
He reached down and stroked her chin. “Then you would be fortunate enough to pass this plain world quickly. What waits beyond is the prize, Nadia. This”—he looked up and drew a hand across the horizon—“this fleeting world may look like the Garden of Eden to us, but it’s nothing more than a taste. Tell me”—and he looked at the adults gathered now—“at a wedding feast you receive gifts, yes? Beautiful, lovely gifts . . . vases and perfumes and scarves . . . all delightful in our eyes. We all gather around the gifts and show our pleasure. ‘What a glorious scarf, Ivena.’”
A chuckle ran through the crowd.
“But do you think that Ivena’s mind is on the scarf?” A run of giggles. “No, I think not. Ivena’s mind is on her groom, waiting breathlessly in the next room. The man whom she will wed in sweet union. Yes?”
“I don’t recall seeing a cross at the last wedding,” Ivena had said.
“No, not at our weddings. But death is like a wedding.” The crowd hushed. “And the crucifixion of Christ was a grand wedding announcement. This world we now live in may indeed be a beautiful gift from God, but do not forget
that we wait with breathless anticipation for our union with him beyond this life.” He let the truth finger its way through their minds for a moment. “And how do you suppose we arrive at the wedding?”
Nadia answered. “We die.”
He looked down into her smiling blue eyes. “Yes, child. We die.”
“Then why shouldn’t we just die now?” Nadia asked.
“Heaven forbid, child! What bride do you know who would take her own life before the wedding? No one who understands how beautiful the bride is could possibly take her life before the wedding! It is perhaps the ugliest thing of all. We will all cross the threshold when the Groom calls. Until then, we wait with breathless anticipation.”
One of the women had sighed with approval.
Somehow, looking at the large concrete cross now did not engender any such mirth. He looked down at the child and felt as though a shaft had been run through his heart.
Nadia, oh my dear Nadia, what are you doing? I love you so, young child. I love you as though you were my own. And you are my own. You know that, don’t you, Nadia?
She looked at him with deep blue eyes. I love you, Father. Her eyes were speaking to him, as clearly as any words. And he wept.
“Don’t kill my priest. If you have to kill someone, then kill me instead,” a voice said.
He heard the words like a distant echo . . . words! She had actually said that? Don’t be foolish, Nadia!
A flash of light sputtered to life about him. The white field again!
The music flooded his mind, and he suddenly wanted to laugh with it. It felt so . . . consequential here, and the silly little game back in the courtyard so . . . petty. Like a game of marbles with all the neighborhood children gathered, sporting stern faces as if the outcome might very well determine the fate of the world. If they only knew that their little game felt so small here, in this immense white landscape that rippled with laughter. Ha! If they only knew! Kill us! Kill us all! Put an end to this silly game of marbles and let us get on with life, with laughing and music in the white field.
The white world blinked off. But now the commander had the gun pushed against Nadia’s forehead. “Renounce your faith, Priest and I will let this little one live! Renounce your dead Christ, and I will leave you all.”
It took a moment for him to switch worlds—for the words to present their meaning to him.
And then they did with the force of a sledge to his head.
Renounce Christ?
Never! He could never renounce Christ!
Then Nadia will die.
This realization cut through his bones like a dagger. She would die because of him! His face throbbed with pain; the muscles there had gone taut like bowstrings. But never! Never could he renounce his love for Christ!
Father Michael had never before felt the torment that descended upon him in that moment. It was as if some molten hand had reached into his chest and grabbed hold, searing frayed nerves so that he could not draw breath. His throat pulled for air to no avail.
Nadia! Nadia! I can’t!
“Speak, Priest! Renounce Christ!”
She was crying. Oh, the dear girl was crying! The courtyard waited.
The music filled his mind.
Fresh air flooded his lungs. Relief, such sweet relief! The white field ran to the horizon; the children laughed incessantly.
“I will count to three, Priest!”
The commander’s voice jerked him back to the courtyard.
Nadia was looking at him. She had stopped her crying. Sorrow overcame him again.
“One!” Karadzic barked.
“Nadia,” Father Michael croaked. “Nadia, I—”
“Don’t, Father,” she said softly. Her small pink lips clearly formed the words. Don’t, Father. Don’t what? This from a child! Nadia, dear Nadia!
“Two!”
A wail rose over the crowd. It was Ivena. Poor Ivena. She strained against the large soldier who held her arms pinned behind her back. She clenched her eyes and dropped her jaw and now screamed her protest from the back of her throat. The soldier clamped a hand around her face, stifling her cry.
Oh God, have mercy on her soul! Oh God . . . “Nadia . . .” Father Michael could barely speak, so great was the pressure in his chest. His legs wobbled beneath him, and suddenly they collapsed. He landed on his knees and lifted his one good arm to the girl.“Nadia—”
“I heard the song, Father.” She spoke quietly. Light sparkled through her eyes. A faint smile softened her features. The girl had lost her fear. Entirely!
Nadia hummed, faint, high-pitched, clear for all to hear. “Hm hm hm hmhmm . . .”
The melody! Dear God, she heard it too!
“Three!” Karadzic barked.
“I saw you there,” she said. And she winked.
Her eyes were wide open, an otherworldly blue penetrating his, when the gun bucked in the commander’s thick, gnarled hand.
Boom!
Her head snapped back. She stood in the echoing silence for an endless moment, her chin pointed to the sky, baring that tender, pale neck. And then she crumpled to the ground like a sack of potatoes— a small one wrapped in a pink dress.
Father Michael’s mind began to explode. His own voice joined a hundred others in a long epitaph of distress. “Aaaaahhhhhh . . .” It screamed past his throat until the last whisper of breath had left his lungs. Then it began again, and Michael wanted desperately to die. He wanted absolutely nothing but to die.
Ivena’s mouth lay wide open, but no sound came out. Only a breath of terror that seemed to strike Michael on his chest.
The priest’s world began to spin, and he lost his orientation. He fell forward, face first, swallowed by the horror of the moment. His head struck the concrete, and his mind began to fade. Maybe he was in hell.
CHAPTER TEN
EVE WAS reading through tears now, wiping at her eyes with the back of her hand, and sniffing, and trying to keep the page clear enough to read. The sorrow—a deep, healing balm—washed through her chest in relentless waves.
Do this in remembrance of me.
Marci sat in her chair like a rag doll, struggling to maintain her last ties to self-restraint. Tears streamed down her cheeks, and her lips quivered.
She is changing, Eve thought.
If she wasn’t mistaken, Marci was playing the part of Nadia. But Nadia’s part wasn’t over, was it? Not even close.
Hold on, dear Marci. Just hold on. Everything will turn out; you’ll see. The best is yet to come.
Eve’s fingers trembled as she turned the page. The pages were worn ragged on the corners. In every truly life-changing story is a mountain that rises to the heavens. But before the mountain is a valley that descends into the depths. In all honesty, Eve didn’t know whether Nadia’s death was a mountain or a valley. It really depended on perspective.
And truly, the perspective was about to change.
JANJIC STARED, his eyes wide and stinging. All about him voices of torment screamed; pandemonium erupted on the courtyard floor. Father Michael lay facedown, his head not five inches from the girl’s shiny white birthday shoes.
Karadzic reached out and snatched another child by the collar. The boy’s mother wailed in protest, started forward, and then stopped when Karadzic shoved the gun toward her. “Shut up! Shut up! Everyone!” he thundered.
Janjic was running before his mind processed the order to run. Straight for the priest. Or perhaps straight for Karadzic; he didn’t know which until the last possible second. The man had to be stopped.
How the commander managed to get his pistol around so quickly, Janjic had no clue, but the black Luger whipped around and met him with a jarring blow to his cheek.
Pain shot through his skull. He felt as if he’d run into a swing- ing bat. His head jerked back, and his legs flew forward, throwing him from his feet. Janjic landed heavily on his back and rolled over, moaning. What was he doing? Stopping Karadzic—that’s what he was doing.
Jan
jic dragged himself from the commander, urged by a boot kick to his thigh. His mind swam. The world seemed to slow. Five feet away on the ground lay a girl who’d just given her life for her priest. For her God. For Christ’s love. And Janjic had seen in her eyes a look of absolute certainty. He had seen her smile at the priest. He had seen the wink. A wink, for goodness’ sake! Something had changed with that wink. He was not sure what it meant, except that something had changed.
Dear God, she had hummed! She had winked!
“Puzup, get him to his feet,” Karadzic ordered above the din.
Puzup stormed past Janjic and yanked the priest to his feet. Paul gaped at the scene, his expression impossible to interpret. Janjic pushed himself to his knees, ignoring the pain that throbbed through his skull. Blood dripped to the concrete from a wound behind his ear. He turned back to the commander and stood shakily. Ten feet separated them now.
The priest wavered on his feet, facing Karadzic. If the father had passed out from his fall, they had awakened him. The little boy the commander had hauled from the steps stood shaking and bawling. Karadzic pressed his pistol against the boy’s ear.
“What do you say, Priest? What’s this love of yours worth?
Should I put another one of your children out of their misery?” Karadzic’s eyes were rocks behind bushy brows, dull gray tombstones. He was grinning. “Or will you renounce your stupid faith?”
“Kill me,” Father Michael’s voice quavered.
Janjic stopped trying to understand the madness that had gripped this priest and his flock of sheep. It was beyond the reaches of his mind. Yet it reached out to him with long fingers of desire.
“Take my life, sir. Please leave the boy.”
The smile vanished from the commander’s face.“Then renounce your faith, you blithering idiot! They are words! Just words! Say them. Say them!”
“They are words of Christ. He is my Redeemer. He is my Savior.
He is my Creator. How can I deny my own Creator? Please, sir—”