Waking up on the hard floor of my cell is getting old, even for someone with experience sleeping on the ground while back in time and training with Four. The doctor has not bandaged my back again, but I think I may be better off for it. I open my eyes, and stare straight ahead and am surprised to see a pair of man’s legs, wearing very expensive, and stylish shoes. At least they would be stylish - if they didn’t have blood on them.
“Is that my blood? I’m sorry if it is,” I say.
I cough, and notice my lips are dry and cracked. The lack of water is taking its toll.
“I wish. It’s my blood,” the man replies.
“Thomas? Why are you here this time? I like Jocie better.”
“Beats me. It’s your vision.”
He laughs.
“C’mon, Cephas, that was funny. You know: a guy with no heart saying ‘beats me.’”
I look up to find Thomas looks the same as when I last saw him in the arena. There’s a gaping hole in his chest where his enhanced heart blew up during transport through time.
“I didn’t think it was possible for anyone to look worse than me, but I’d say you’ve managed it,” I say.
“You haven’t looked in a mirror lately,” he replies. “Since I’m here, can I ask you a question?”
“Sure. I don’t have any appointments until ten o’clock.”
I try to laugh, but end up coughing instead.
“I’m just wondering: If you’re the one leading the life of a believer, and everyone else is checking off deadly sins on a daily basis, why are you the one on the floor dying?”
“Good question. Christ never promised believers would live a life of riches or even a life free of pain. In fact, He said the world would hate us and that many would suffer greatly in His name,” I explain.
“You have to admit, Cephas. That’s not much of a sales pitch.”
“I’m not done. One reason people hated Christ then - and hate Christians today - is because He set standards by which we try to live. We try to avoid sin, and when we fail, we repent and try harder to not sin in the future. Sinners hate standards that can be broken. It’s much easier to have no standards. That way there’s nothing to break. Our reward for believing in Christ and repentance is entry into the Kingdom of Heaven.”
“Yeah, yeah. You get the wings and harp and all that; but what if you’re wrong? What if you die, and there’s nothing else? What if you wasted your time when you could have been having sex with Jocie?” Thomas asks. “Which - for the record - I did, and you didn’t.”
“I admit, I will miss making love with Martha,” I say.
“Really? Cephas Paulson is going to miss life’s carnal pleasures?” Thomas asks.
“I don’t know anything about carnal pleasures. I’m talking about making love with my wife. Tell me, Thomas, when you were with Jocie, did you gently stroke her hair or her face? Did your hold her hands, and stare into her eyes, and find yourself awestruck, not by the physical act, but by how the mutual decision to share yourselves and love each other in that way is part of God’s plan for us? Did you find that you wanted to give yourself over to her so fully that your own pleasure was no longer a consideration?”
Thomas’ expression is all the answer I need.
“I had conversations with Jocie, and connected with her as a person,” I say. “I loved her. All you did was have sex … which is pretty pathetic, in comparison.”
Thank you, Thomas, you’re giving me strength to face the day.
My vision blurs, and Thomas fades from view - but is replaced by two other pairs of men’s shoes.
“This is the second time he’s had hallucinations like this,” the doctor’s voice says. “He seems totally unaware of our presence. I’ve consulted with a psychologist friend, and she agrees that he’s physically and mentally broken.”
You forgot the most important one, Doc. I’m not spiritually broken.
I continue a glassy-eyed stare and keep my lips moving, while I listen.
“Good,” replies Henry. “I should have started releasing toxin into the air days ago, but I’ve been waiting for him to break. Tomorrow is the day. Either he denies Christ, or he dies looking like a nut case. The unvaccinated nut cases will be dead inside a week, and the rest will easily fall into line as hypocrites.”
They leave, and five minutes later the screen springs to life; so I pretend to awaken from a dream.
Again, the news from McIntosh isn’t good. Despite the rain, many more left.
Or is that just what the world is supposed to believe?
The footage shows the ground is dry to point of cracking; but I know it poured rain after the first group abandoned the town. It should still be muddy, or - at a minimum - there should be mud on their clothing. I watch the scene intently, until I find what I’m seeking.
I point to the screen and look at the nearest camera.
“There’s a young woman at the front of the line who I recognize as being in the background yesterday,” I say. “It’s all another lie. Nobody abandoned McIntosh last night, and I won’t abandon them today!”
The screen abruptly changes to another intercepted conversation between Zip and Hank.
They sound depressed, which I know is designed to rub off on me. As much as Henry would love to show the public that Christians are losing hope, I’m sure I’m the only one seeing this.
“Have you been watching the show with Cephas?” Hank asks.
“Of course.”
“How much more do you think he can take?”
“Outwardly, he’s almost broken,” Zip says.
“I could say the same for you,” Hank replies. “How much water is left?”
“The last of it will be gone by morning.”
She did it. She got them out.
“How’s Martha doing?” Zip asks.
“She only stayed here long enough to get a few hours of sleep; then took off south,” Hank says. “She’s a mess - but you know what she’s like when she’s a mess. If she came up against a hundred armed cult hunters, I’d feel sorry for them.”
“I’m sorry she’s gone. I wanted to talk to her and tell her I’m sorry. I was wrong about Cephas. I wish I’d had the chance to tell them both that…”
A tear runs down her face.
“… that I understand why things happened the way they did with Zach, and that I forgive him.”
This, too, is giving me strength to face another day.
Instead of Daniel, today two fresh and angry-faced guards show up at nine forty-five to ensure that I get to the set on time.
“Where’s Daniel?” I ask one of them.
“Reassigned. Keep moving.”
He prods me in the small of my back, where the welts are the worst.
I imagine Daniel has been reassigned for “going soft.”
Without the hardened bandages hunching me over, I’m able to walk upright; so we make it to the set, with time to spare. When we reach the posts, I again hold my own arms up and nod permission to my guards to shackle me in place. I’m doing my best to appear strong. I want to inspire the faithful, and fill them with hope for both my future and their own. In truth, I know a strong breeze could knock me over.
The only thing holding me up now is your love, Lord.
The viewer count says the audience is nearly two billion. Am I just an unwilling participant in a modern-day Roman coliseum where, Christians are tortured for sport? Or am I reaching people’s souls? As if to answer my thoughts, Henry begins to speak.
“This is the largest worldwide audience since the departure of the Travelers. It seems everyone wants to see what it’s like to lead the life of a Christian; so today we have some special treats for you.”
“The first item is a shocking bit of news concerning the hypocrisy, and sinful behavior, of our star, Cephas Paulson. I have some footage showing Cephas having sex with the young woman he now calls his wife before they were married.”
Henry raises his hand in front of his mouth in a mock gesture of shock.
“Oh, Cephas, how could you? How could you do such a thing to such an innocent Christian girl?”
Henry signals someone in the control booth and the screen switches over; but instead of showing the expected footage of myself and Martha under a blanket while I removed a tracking chip from her back, the image is of my half-dressed Aunt Jennifer announcing: “Henry, I was just thinking about you.”
The feed quickly switches back to the live shot of Henry, whose face flushes red with anger.
I can’t help it, I start to laugh at how Martha hacked the broadcast. The guards are barely suppressing a giggle as well.
“Henry,” I say through dry lips. “I thought the idea was to torture me - not the audience. Maybe you should stick with whippings.”
If Four can hack this broadcast, does that mean they know my location? Did they figure out that the clue of Noah, Obadiah, Ruth, Abraham and Daniel stands for NORAD? Is that why Martha was heading south from Nebraska?
“Don’t tempt me, Cephas; not on a day as special as this one. I did some research back through various calendars, and I discovered that today is Maundy Thursday - the day of the Last Supper,” Henry says.
Not a chance. It’s the wrong time of the year; but few will know that he’s lying.
“To celebrate, we’re going to have a little feast.”
Henry motions, and someone brings a small table and a large comfortable chair. I’m left chained and standing.
Henry makes himself comfortable in the chair, while the stagehand brings a silver plate of large, juicy blackberries. If he gives me one, I’ll pop it with my tongue and let every droplet of juice dribble down my parched throat.
“It looks like Cephas is ready for our feast,” Henry says to the camera. “He looks like a hungry dog. But of course, it isn’t that easy. You can have every berry on the plate - in exchange for recanting everything you said when you returned from the Traveler’s Initiative. Just tell us that Christ didn’t rise, and this is all over.”
I stand in silence.
“Before you say ‘no’ Cephas, let me try the berries, and tell you about the experience.”
Henry reaches towards the berries, but stops himself.
“Oh, wait. I should wash my hands first. There is a plague out there, you know.”
The guard brings Henry a bowl full of water. He dips his hands in to the wrist; then rubs at them.
Where have I seen that motion? Oh, right. Pontius Pilate washed his hands in just the same way.
He grabs a handful of berries and, with great show, drops them - one by one - into his mouth. Each berry is accompanied by over-the-top “oohs” and “aahs.”
“Those are incredible. I don’t think I’ve ever had such plump, sweet berries. Are you sure you won’t try one, Cephas?”
Henry picks up the next handful, and drops them into his mouth all at once, with great lip-smacking. He purposefully lets some of the purple juice escape the corner of his mouth and run to his chin, before dabbing it with a white cloth napkin. He continues to enjoy them, until there’s only one berry on the plate.
“Last berry, Cephas,” he says, as he picks it up. “And now it’s an empty plate.”
I think about the empty plate that sits each year at Christmas and Easter on my Aunt Kimberly’s table. Even an empty plate can have inspirational meaning, if you keep your mind focused on God.
He tosses the berry to the floor, and steps on it.
“I’ll never understand the mind of a fish head,” Henry says. “You label the best things in life as ‘sin;’ and then call it ‘righteousness’ when you deny them to yourself. Take those blackberries as an example. You know you’re severely dehydrated. Watching their juice dribbling down my chin must have been downright painful for you; yet you still deny them to yourself.”
Henry crosses the stage to retrieve the Bible and provide a dramatic pause.
“Luckily, I’ve been reading ahead. It seems that all this righteousness must lead to a superiority complex. I knew you wouldn’t try the berries themselves; so instead I saved the part of the plant I knew you’d like the most.”
He produces a thick “crown” made of twisted blackberry vines. The thorns are long, slightly curved, and very sharp. I remember the day when I ran from Bethany House and plunged headlong through a blackberry thicket. As the thorns clawed at me, I wondered if someday blackberry would serve as my crown of thorns.
Henry dons a pair of thick leather gloves, and approaches me.
“Here is your crown, oh king.”
He drives the crown violently into my scalp. The blood flow is immediate - and dramatic.
What was it I said to Martha, that day in the woods?
“I once met a Man who was cut by thorns on His forehead. It wasn’t important to Him, and it isn’t to me,” I say to the camera.
“We forgot your purple robe and your scepter,” Henry says.
Henry motions, and the guards drape something purple over my shoulders and place a stick in my right hand.
“Get a close shot. Let the fish heads behold their king.”
This is why Henry wanted my face healed quickly after the first beating. This is the shot he wanted all along: A shot of me wearing the crown, with blood dripping down my face. The fool thinks he can raise me up in effigy, then destroy me to dispirit believers. It will more likely inspire them.
I become aware of the stick that the guard placed in my right hand. I tilt my head to the right, and use the stick to flip the crown off my head and onto the floor.
“Abdicating the thrown, Cephas?”
“There’s only one king: The King of Kings. He died for our sins, and on the third day, he rose again. I saw it twice,” I say.
“You are definitely all in for the Christian experience,” Henry replies.
He picks up the Bible and pretends to study it.
“Ah, yes. Here it is. According to our guide, the proper thing for this situation is to use the scepter to ensure the crown stays in place.”
The guards jam the crown back onto my head with a twisting motion, ensuring that every possible thorn is set into my skin. With the scepter, they take turns hitting the crown, driving the thorns deeper and providing a continuous flow of blood from my scalp. After a while, they aren’t even trying to “secure the crown.” They’re just beating my head and shoulders with the stick for fun. The blood flowing from my scalp into my left eye is enough to blind me on that side; but my right eye is the one that concerns me. The world keeps fading to gray, and then coming back to crystal clarity.
I shake my head violently to try to remove the crown again; but it won’t budge. The effort only adds to my dizziness and disorientation. To stop me from shaking, the guards kick my feet out from under me so I’m hanging by my wrists.
The world does one last cycle from crystal clear to gray, and then to black. The last thing I remember is looking at the screen. The viewer count stands at two point three billion.
*****
I wake up, as I’m dumped onto the cold floor of my cell once again. With what little energy I have, I sit up and back myself into the corner so I can reach up and remove the crown of blackberry vines. I hope to do it slowly, with minimal pain and bleeding; but that proves impossible. I start to rip it from my head - along with skin and hair- only to find that I don’t have the strength to remove it.
I begin to sob.
“I’m sorry, Lord,” I cry. “I can’t give you another day. I tried, and I just can’t. I’ve given you everything. I’m empty.”
“Nobody who is as filled with the Holy Spirit as you are can ever truly be empty, Cephas.”
“Michael?”
I look up to find him standing in front of me.
“I can’t do it, Michael.”
“Are you saying that what’s been set out before you is impossible?” Michael asks. “How about surviving being thrown into a furnace, or a lion’s den? Walking on water? How about dying, and rising again, three days later? Are those impossible, too?”
“Okay, maybe tomorrow is only ‘nearly impossible’,” I say.
“If you were alone, I’d agree with you - but you’re not alone, Cephas. He will be there - inside you - every step of the way.”
I find the energy to reach up, and remove the crown.