The Reverend John Parish hesitated by the scholar, his eyes on the scrawled symbols on the blackboard, hoping to see, as he had seen before, the sign that would have meant so much. There was no sign. It had been fifteen years since he had last seen it and he felt the conviction that he would never see it again. The sign of a fish; of a Christian, the same now as it had been in the days of Imperial Rome. #51 | | |
Almost he was tempted to make his own sign; surely the scholar would not betray him? Then wisdom asserted itself and he continued on his way. And now he almost ran for it was very late and, while time was not of great importance, yet habit was strong. #52 | | |
He left the scholar, the market, the busy portion of the city. He hastened down narrowing streets, ducking beneath a red-painted warning that ensured his privacy and came at last to a flight of steps, which led downward to an underground cellar that had once been used for the storage of wine. #53 | | |
He called out as he entered the vaults, his voice echoing from the fluted ceiling so that a thousand tiny voices called one to the other each dying and fading into a common murmur which, in turn, died and passed away into silence. #54 | | |
For a moment the silence worried him and then, remembering, he understood. He had expected others to be waiting, but there were no others. Not for a long time now had there been others assembled in this place at this time. One by one they had ceased to come, absent faces the names of which he could no longer remember. They had never been many, all had been old, it was, he supposed, the natural order of things that they should pass away. #55 | | |
But many, he knew, had died in no natural manner and others had yielded to fear and still others had tired of what they considered a game and always there had been the threat of betrayal so that new faces were suspect and things of danger. That he, himself, could still come to this place at this time was in the nature of a miracle, or supreme good luck, or a fortuitous combination of circumstances. Not that he ever thought of it as such. It was simply a thing he did and would continue to do as long as he was able. #56 | | |
And it never occurred to him as he prepared for the service that, in all the world, there had to be one man who would be the last of his faith to reverence his God. And that he should be that man. #57 | | |
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The service soothed him as it always did so that he felt an inward warmth as he left the subterranean cellars and emerged into the unshielded light of day. Now he felt ready and able to resume the routine existence of the week; the mind-numbing work for a minimum wage the most of which he gave to those less fortunate than himself. There was Mrs. Edwards who had too many children at too frequent intervals and old Charles Bowman who could no longer walk and the youngest boy of the Bentleys who had something wrong with his mind so that, at the age of twelve, he could still barely lift his spoon to his mouth arid spilled half of what he managed to lift. #59 | | |
To all these people and many more he gave what he could. A few coins, a little food, the endless comfort of sympathy, He ran errands and carried messages and told stories and, if he tried to make them parables as well as stories, he was not to be blamed for that even though they were never understood as such. #60 | | |
And, at times, he was tempted, so very tempted to tell of the gentle Jesus who had died to bring salvation to man and who, by his example, had taught men to love one another, to forgive, to be tolerant and kind, the teaching which this world, as of old, as of old, needed so badly. #61 | | |
He smiled as he left the cellars and even patted, with strange affection, the red sign that guarded the cellar that was his church. Strange about that sign. It warned of invisible death and yet he had not died. It could have been due to his short exposure but he liked to think that there was a deeper significance. If only he did not feel so continually tired. #62 | | |
He returned to the market place and paused, looking at the men and women and impish children feeling, as he always did on a Sunday, that they were friends who would know and understand if he could but find the courage to tell them what he was and what he stood for. #63 | | |
A man bumped into him, nodded an apology, walked on. Two girls, their skin white and openly displayed, glanced at him and giggled at the sight of his somber clothing. A matron, plump and breathless, looked keenly at his white, strained face and pursed her lips as she made a wide detour. Then the sun seemed to expand in the sky so that it filled his vision and a rushing sound filled his ears as weakness assailed his body. #64 | | |
He was fainting; he had fainted before. He was falling; he had fallen before. He did not resist; experience had taught him the futility of that. Instead, as darkness replaced the brilliance of the expanded sun, he slumped to his knees, his hands sliding before him, his head hanging low between his arms. On hands and knees he stayed there, waiting for the blood to rush to his brain, for the blackness to leave his vision. #65 | | |
Something fell from his inside pocket. #66 | | |
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A child saw the crucifix and ignored the man for the oddly fashioned toy. A young woman saw the figure nailed on the cross and shuddered with conditioned revulsion. A man, no longer young, saw it and understood. His shout formed a crowd. #68 | | |
They gathered around him, so close that they cut off the light of the sun, their legs forming a cage so that, when he was finally able to stagger to his feet, he saw nothing but hard eyes and faces which bore the stamp of hatred. #69 | | |
They searched him. They found the tattered bible, the stub of candle, the other things, which he had guarded for so long and which, each Sunday, he took to the cellar that was his church. And, now that they had been discovered he felt, not the numbing terror he had expected, but relief and a degree of pride. #70 | | |
The terror had been the fear of discovery; now there was no need of fear. Any secret unburdened brings a measure of relief and pride, surely, was forgivable? He was a man of God. To him there could be no higher calling. #71 | | |
He remained silent as they stripped him. He said nothing as they beat him. He stood there, an old, defenseless man with nothing but pride between himself and their fury. And his pride turned them into a mob. #72 | | |
There was no sense or reason in them. No individuality, nothing but a snarling, shouting animal screaming its hate as it had screamed it in the past. They took him and carried him to where a tree flung thick branches to either side and some of them climbed the tree while others ran and raided the shops for what they needed. Nails, big nails with cruel points and wide heads and heavy hammers with which to drive them. And they took the Reverend John Parish and they nailed him to the tree, and waited, watchful, for him to die. #73 | | |
He hung there, thin and frail, his ribs prominent against the strained skin of his chest, his hair, spiked with sweat, wreathing his brow, his body bruised and lacerated and, on hands and feet, the cruel wounds made by the hammered spikes. #74 | | |
And yet, despite his obvious agony, his face was strangely calm as if he felt an inward wonder and a sense of awe. And, seeing that, the crowd grew more savage than before. #75 | | |
They threw things. They snatched up fruit and stones and flung them with all their strength at the helpless man. They cursed him, and mocked him, shouting vile obscenities and then, someone who owned a gun produced it and opened fire at the man nailed to the tree. #76 | | |
He aimed at the legs but his aim was bad, the bullet hitting higher than intended. The Reverend John Parish jerked against his tree then slumped against the nails, a fresh wound added to those on hands and feet. A wound high on the left side over the heart. #77 | | |
And no man there felt shame at what he had done. #78 | | |
