Джек Макдевитт - A Voice in the Night

“Ward’s Corollary to Murphy’s Law.”

“Yeah. You could say that.” He finished off his drink.

In the distance, toward the center of town, he could see the torches. The mob was gathering. The evening was cool, but he was damp with perspiration. He sensed a presence in the trees. A hawk, probably.

He could still get safely away. Leave now, and he’d be okay. It wasn’t as if they’d follow him. But what then? After all this, if he ran, what would be left for him?

He fell to his knees. Help me.

The branches moved softly in the wind. A full moon floated in the late evening sky.

Please.

The distant voices were getting louder. Shouts. A cheer.

If there’s another way to do this—.

The garden felt like a barricade, a fortress. It was as if he could stay there, remain where he was, and they would not find him. It was only outside, along the road, that the danger lay.

Peter had promised to stand by him. “As long as I have breath in my body.” Peter meant well, and he believed what he was saying. But when the money was on the table his courage would fail. In the end he would run, like the others, and he would live the rest of his days with that memory.

Can’t we find another way to do this?

A cloud began to drift across the face of the moon. And the torches were on the move.

It sends the wrong message, you know. It’ll be a hard sell, persuading people you love them when you let this happen to me.

In an odd way, he felt sorry for the individuals in the mob. For some of them. They were only resisting change. Trying to hang onto the past. Some would forever carry painful memories of this night.

Why? Why must we do it this way? We create a faith whose governing symbol will be an instrument of torture. They will wear it around their necks, put it atop their temples. Is this really what we want?

Somewhere, on the night wind, he heard a child’s laughter. And a dog. He hoped no children would be present during the ordeal. But he knew it would be so. Some of these barbarians would bring their kids out to watch. It was a savage land.

Are you even there? Why do you not speak? Say something. Assure me, at least, it is not all an illusion. Tell me that this night matters.

Something moved in the bushes off to his left.

He thought about Mary. He’d left her in the upper room where they’d all eaten, fighting back tears, demanding to come with him. And she had come, trailing behind Peter and the others, staying back out of sight, as if she thought he would not know.

He trembled at the knowledge she would be there all through this night.

Their overriding memory of me will be on the cross. Surely this is not the image You would have represent your concern for them. For us. Why not something less gruesome? A star, perhaps? Like the one thirty years ago? We had it right, then. That was the way to do it. Or, if that seems a bit much, a scroll would be good.

The wind died away, and the trees were still.

What is the point of your being there if we know you only in your absence?

He heard voices nearby. Peter’s. And Mary’s.

There came a moment when the moon flickered. He looked a second time and everything was as it had been. He ascribed it to the dampness in his eyes. Moments later Peter was at his side.

“They’re here,” he said.

There was no way he could have missed that fact. Some were drunk. Others were just loud. They’d stumbled to a halt immediately outside the garden, on the road. He walked past Peter and Mary, waved away their protests, and strode out into plain view. There were cries of ‘There he is!’ And laughter.

There were about sixty people, almost all men. Some carried clubs and swords. A small troop of guards accompanied them, and several priests, led by Silvanus. He saw Judas, hanging nervously off to one side. Another who would be forever haunted by the events of this night.

There was something odd about the guards. He needed a moment to see what it was: Their armor had changed. It was brighter. A different style altogether from what he had seen that morning. Even the helmets were of an unfamiliar design. Not that any of it mattered.

Saul was standing back with the priests and their servants. His great days lay ahead but, at this moment, he was still aligned with the savages.

The mob subsided, grew quiet, beneath his gaze. “Hello,” he said. “Why do you come to Cedron? For whom are you looking?”

Silvanus was tall, worn, uncomfortable. He didn’t like unruly scenes. Didn’t like violence. Would have preferred to be in his rooms reading the scriptures. His face had the lines of a man who did not know what it was to enjoy himself. “We are looking for Jesus of Nazareth,” he said. “I am told that is you.”

No point denying it. “Indeed,” he said. “I am the one you seek.”

Silvanus nodded. Tried to smile, but it was too much of an effort. “Take him,” he said to his servants. “And his friends.”

Jesus straightened and peered into Silvanus’s frightened eyes. “If you want me,” he said. “you have no need of these others. Let them go.”

The priest hesitated. Wilted. “Of course,” he said. “You will be sufficient.”

Peter and Mary had moved in close and were standing on either side of him. Silvanus waved them out of the way. When neither moved, one of his servants drew a sword. Peter, who was sometimes too impulsive, went for his own weapon. The crowd reacted, a few cheering, others screeching. Someone yelled ‘fight.’ They fell back to make room, and Peter’s first blow—awkward though it was—glanced off the servant’s blade and then off his temple. He screamed and the sword went flying.

Jesus grabbed Peter’s shoulder. “Put it away,” he said. The servant was on his knees, holding his head, blood dribbling through his fingers. Jesus tore a piece of his garment, took the hand away, and pressed it against the wound. “Here, Matthias,” he said. “Keep this against it until you can get some help.”

The servant stared at him. “How did you know my name?”

But the guards had already closed around Jesus. “Come with us,” they said.

Their accents were Greek.

They tied his wrists behind him and took him back the way they had come. As it moved, the crowd grew both in size and intensity. Some tried to strike him as they passed. There were cries of blasphemer and unholy.

Eventually they arrived outside the temple. A brief argument erupted as to which entrance they should use. Silvanus had directed them, and they went in through a side portico. He led the way through a series of stone passageways until they emerged finally in the presence of Annas, the high priest.

Annas was thin and weary, tired of dealing with the problems of the world. With lesser men who did not recognize his authority and privilege. He sat atop a platform on a throne of sorts, rolling his eyes in exasperation at the human refuse brought before him. Torches burned close at hand, providing a limited degree of warmth. Silvanus whispered something to him and he nodded. Then he turned toward the prisoner. “Who are you,” he demanded, “that you come here and speak against the Almighty?”

Jesus steadied himself as best he could. He was constantly being pushed and shoved. With his arms secured behind him, it was difficult to keep his balance. “You know who I am,” he said.