by Rachel Caine
The pain of the sun was intolerable; my arms shook violently, spilling water over the front of my robe. My eyes were fading, but I saw him hold out his hand to me. Beckoning. Commanding.
"No!" The jar slipped from my arms and shattered on the stones with a crash. "Simon, I left you! You have no right!"
"He's left you lost between light and dark," Simon continued. "Come back where you belong, where you are loved. Don't run any longer, Joanna."
I sank to my knees, gray hair a veil over my sweating face, and tried to find my faith. In Simon's presence it curdled and vanished.
And then Judas said, "You, what do you want here?"
I looked up but he was only a vague shape in the sun-blindness. He knew Simon Magus, of course, they all did. I thought he would call for help but he stepped out into the sunlight.
Alone.
"My property," Simon purred; I heard the gloating smile in his voice. "Little man, run tell your master that I've come to worship at his royal feet."
"He will not come."
"No? Then I'll take what is mine and go." He held his hand out to me again and snapped his fingers. "Up, Joanna."
A man's arms went around me, holding me close. Judas. He was trembling, though not enough that Simon would see; afraid, after all. But willing to risk everything in spite of that fear.
"In the name of God, go!" he shouted. His words brought a stir of movement from the house; I heard sandals scrape on the courtyard stones and knew others were joining us, ready to fight. Which? Peter, perhaps, good-hearted as ever. John, with his chilly, determined eyes, always ready for conflict.
"She must say it," Simon Magus said. His voice was as warm and sad as I remembered, and traitorous. I had believed once, so strongly, and been so vastly betrayed. "Joanna, my dear? Won't you come home?"
Home, I thought with a piercing grief. There was no home now, only Simon's fraudulent smiles or the harsher, more honest love of the Twelve and the One. I could never be one of them, even if I stepped out of shadow entirely.
But I could never go to Simon Magus. Never again.
"Go," I said. It did not sound as strong as I wished. "Leave me."
Judas' arms went around me as my knees buckled; as he picked me up to carry me inside, I sensed that the shadows were empty. Simon was gone, vanished like a nightmare.
My sight was entirely gone now; I knew that he carried me inside only because of the sudden relief on my skin and the babble of voices around us. Peter shouted for order and began telling of Simon Magus; the words drifted into distance as Judas carried me away into the room set aside for stores and my pallet. Someone followed us; I heard the scrape of his footsteps behind us. Judas lowered me to my blankets and smoothed sweaty hair back from my face.
"She is ill," he said over his shoulder toward whoever watched. "Get the master."
"No," I protested, and caught at his hand. "No, give me time, I am well. It's only the sun."
The other man made a disgusted sound deep in his throat, and I did not have to see him to know him; John would be staring with those chilled eyes that saw so much, so far away.
"Leave her," John said. "We must report what she did."
Judas' hand left my forehead as he turned. "What did she do, John, but renounce a false messiah? Don't bring this out again, it's an old argument. Joanna, would you like some water?"
I had spilled the water outside on the cobbles, but he'd forgotten it. I summoned up a smile and shook my head. After the dreadful punishment of the sun I felt languid and lost.
"Just rest, please," I said. He squeezed my hand gently and stood. "Judas, I -- I didn't bring him here. I would never want him to come here."
"I know," he said kindly. "Rest now."
I turned my face to the wall and listened to them go.
Hours passed, filled with the muted buzz of heated conversation outside. My vision lightened from black to gray. Colors returned dusty and bleached. I would be days recovering, but I could see well enough to move around, to straighten up the meager supplies kept in the room with me. While I ordered sealed jars of oil someone slapped the stone outside my door, asking entrance. I rose to pull the curtain aside and found James standing there, head down, avoiding my eyes. He was a small man, wiry and strong, quick to laugh. I had always liked him, had always believed he liked me, as well as a man could like a widow whose eyes had the taint of poisonous hunger.
"You are wanted," he said, and turned away. I watched him walk quickly away, shoulders hunched, and knew with a sinking heart that my welcome was ended.
It was not a very long walk, of course, only one short hallway, but the silence that greeted my approach made it seem longer. The twelve of them were present, seated in a rough circle. Judas had left a place open beside him and I took it, kneeling decorously on the hard packed floor.
"Brothers," I said, and bowed my head. It was only the Twelve, no sign of the master. I had seen little of him, lately, and when I did his eyes seemed unfathomably far away. Perhaps he was gone again. I could hardly imagine the Twelve meeting like this without him, but surely he would have come if he could. Surely.
"She is humble," Peter said, and he meant it as praise. "She knows her place. What harm can she do?"
I put my hands flat on my thighs and looked down at them. No pride, not now, Joanna. Pride is your enemy.
"She is causing rifts in our brotherhood," John said. Ah, John, I had known it was you, I had known. But it was not simple jealousy, or even simple fear. John was the protector, and he fought higher battles than that. "You all know what's being said. How can we teach truth when our enemies have such fertile ground for sowing lies? Surely it is true that we keep women in our house -- she and Mary Magdalene, women of uncertain virtue at best! How can we stop the lies if we do not eliminate the cause of them?"
"It would be different if she were a wife, or even a sister," Simon Peter offered. He was a big man, scarred from the years he'd spent working the sea, but his voice was strangely smooth and calm. He was not a man I cared to have arguing against me. "But a woman alone, even a widow, can hardly be above suspicion. We must be seen to be righteous. Sometimes truth alone is not enough."
"Are we speaking of Joanna or all women?" James asked, frowning. "Should we forbid the master's mother entrance? Should we turn away believers? He has never said so."
"Joanna is different." John's voice stopped James cold, stopped even the breeze traveling through the room. "We all know that. It is that difference that is at issue. She is not a creature of God. She cannot bear the light of day."
"Many of the sick cannot," Peter said.
"And many are possessed! But we should not lie down with devils, brother! Let us heal them and send them on their way." I felt John's eyes rake over me and suppressed a shiver. "I think her true master came for her today. Will she say differently?"
The silence that fell was deadly. Surely they were all looking to me. I kept my eyes down, kept my voice even as I said, "Simon Magus made me what I am. Do you think I am grateful for that? He is no master of mine. Not ever again."
"So you say now. What if you sicken? What if -- "
"Enough, John!" Judas stirred next to me; I looked up to see him staring across at John's rigid face. "You've accused enough. Joanna is not causing a rift here, you are. If the master wants her to leave, he will tell her. He will tell us all. Until he does -- "
I felt the surge of a presence suddenly, like a strike of lightning behind me. He had not been there before, I knew, and others knew it, too. I saw John's face go feverishly brilliant with worship. The master burned hotter as the days went by, a force of power and love that warmed us even in passing.
And he said, "You are right to be concerned. Joanna must leave us tomorrow."
I cried out, turned and threw myself full length on the floor at his feet. Such hardened, well-traveled feet, in dusty patched sandals, so different from Simon Magus' pampered, well-cared-for flesh. I laid my cheek on them and wished I could weep, wis
hed I could wash his feet with my tears, wipe them clean with my hair. Instead I could only pray, silently, for mercy.
"It is my wish that you leave us," he said quietly. He sounded so sad, so final. I looked up into his face and saw bottomless sorrow in his eyes, a pain that had no human definition.
"Then I must go," I whispered, and kissed his feet and remained lying there until he reached down to lift me up. I had never been so close to him, face-to-face, near enough to feel God beneath his skin and see heaven in his eyes. Words burst out of me like blood. "Master, I would never betray you!"
It was as if the rest of them had vanished for us, as if he saw only me. I was no longer looking at a man, I knew. I was no longer speaking to a mortal. The light in his eyes reached deep inside me and woke something vast and fragile. Something more than love, more than devotion. Faith. Absolute faith.
"I know," he said, and smiled sadly. "That is why you must go, my faithful Joanna, before it is too late."
***
I shared a tent with Sister Tabitha, a sweet young girl with a voice like a songbird; she lead the hymns before and after Sister Aimee's service. Lately, Sister Tabitha had voiced her doubts to me about Sister Aimee. They were no longer doubts for me, but certainties.
In the two years in Sister Aimee's service I had watched the flame burn lower and lower, and now there were only fading sparks. Sister Aimee no longer paced the stage like a lion, she strode like an actor remembering marks. Her frenzies were carefully crafted, discussed at length with one or two of her close companions; Sister Aimee rarely spoke to me now, except during the service. She had asked me to dance with her once, in Indianapolis, but there had been nothing of God in her eyes, only a desperate hunger like lust. She had wanted me to give back her faith. I had become something to touch in place of God.
I had stepped away from her, grieving, and seen the trust die. I had been wrong to come, so wrong. There was no healing with Sister Aimee, and now I was watching my beloved prophet die, inch by inch, and I was helpless to prevent it.
I had come to a decision; I would leave when we reached the next stop. The decision soothed my grief, if not my conscience. A night's sleep, and then I would be gone. Simple enough.
I woke in agonizing hunger. Not the gentle hunger I was used to, but a painful, ripping hunger, a need for flesh and blood, a need to rend and tear and scream. It took me that way, sometimes -- not often, perhaps once in five or ten years. But when it came, it was like dying, mortally terrifying. I lay in my narrow bed and pressed trembling hands to my convulsing stomach and stared up at the tree-shadows waving on the roof of the tent. God, God, Sister Tabitha laid no more than two steps away, sweet young face upturned to the dim moonglow. Her heartbeat ached in my ears, a torment I would give all to stop.
Kill her, a whisper from the shadows said, but it was not Simon Magus, not after all these years. It was only my own darkness, subtle and powerful. I had to drink, must drink, before the tide of madness sucked me down.
I rose in the dark and found my bag, clawed aside layers of clothing and precious, ancient memories -- a Greek bible, bare scraps of words after all these centuries -- a newer Tyndale version, one of the few saved from burning in those dark days in England -- a single piece of silver. The tarnished coin rolled unevenly across the dirt floor and tilted to a stop.
I could not stop, not even for the coin, not even for that most precious memory. I found the smooth clay of the bowl and hugged it to my chest, careful, careful. There was some magic in it that had kept it unbroken all these ages, but still, I did not dare trust it too far.
The hunger rose like a living creature inside me, clawing, destroying. I gasped and heard Sister Tabitha move behind me, sitting up perhaps. The rustle of the sheet was as loud as a gunshot. Her heartbeat speeded faster.
"Sister Joanna?" she whispered. "Is everything all right?"
Oh, no, child, no, not all right. I could not do it here, not with her awake. The need to flee took me out of the tent, out into cold dewy grass, the chilly tingle of moonlight. I was wearing only my nightdress but I dared not stop for anything more; Tabitha was rising, calling after me. I forced myself to pause and turn back toward her.
"It's nothing, child," I whispered. So hard to speak, with the beast so close. "A call of nature."
She murmured something doubtful but I turned and strode away, through the cool chilling grass, scattering dew like diamonds where I stepped. Up the hill, then, toward the moon, toward safe solitude. Tabitha had not followed I clutched the bowl close and panted as I climbed, not for the air but to hold off the attack of the beast.
I gained the top of the hill and turned a quick circle -- the camp glimmered below me, one huge waving ocean of revival tent, the smaller ponds of camp tents where Aimee's faithful slept. The grass waved silver-green as the wind stroked it.
I went to my knees and took my bowl in both hands. Hunger beat at me with clenched, bruising fists and I waited for the red to collect at the bottom of the bowl, to bubble up like Moses' desert spring. It was slow, this time, or perhaps that was only my own desperation.
He would not betray me now. Could not.
I closed my eyes and whispered a prayer, first in Hebrew, then in Greek, then in every language I could call to mind.
Warmth cascaded over my fingers. I gasped and opened my eyes to see the bowl brimming with life, with light, with salvation. I could almost see his face, sad and worn, his hands welling with open wounds.
"Joanna?"
No, oh, no. It could not be, not now.
Sister Aimee came around to face me, face wild and white, hair loose. The wind teased it out into a veil of shadow. She was dressed, like me, only in a flickering white gown, feet bare and pale as marble. Tears tracked silver down her cheeks.
"Go," I whispered. "Go away."
My arms trembled with the strain of holding the beast back, the shadows were not whispering now, they screamed, kill her, kill her, kill her, and I was close, so very close. Sister Aimee knelt down opposite me, the bowl trembling between us, but she was not watching the bowl, only my face. Such desperation there. Such hunger.
"I have lost him," she said. More tears, spilling diamond bright. "Oh, Sister, help me. Only you can help me find what I've lost. I can't go on, I can't, so many hungry, feeding on me, I have nothing left, nothing, you understand, I can't feel him anywhere now."
I understood, had spent lonely years tending my few precious sparks of faith but none of that was important now, only the beast was important, only the shadows, the bowl that was my person, precious salvation.
Her eyes flared wide with dark grief, and before I could stop her, she struck the bowl out of my hands. It spun away, spilling a precious red ribbon over the grass, and disappeared into the shadows.
***
I woke from a nightmare to cry out, and found a man's hand across my lips, sealing in the noise. His skin felt fever-hot. I twisted away to sit up against the wall, blanket drawn over me, shivering.
"Shhh," Judas touched a trembling finger to his lips. I understood well enough; if he were discovered here the penalty would be grave. For me, it would be fatal. "You must go."
He turned away to start gathering my pitiful things, wrapping them together with trembling hands. I clasped his wrist to stop him.
"I have until tomorrow. The master said."
"Tonight. You must go tonight." Judas breathed in suddenly, a tormented gasp as though a knife had been driven into his side, and tears sheeted over his eyes. "If he asked you -- "
"Judas?"
"If he asked you for your life, would you give it?" he whispered. His voice seemed to echo off the stone, loud as a shout. "Would you?"
"Yes."
The tears spilled over, coursing down his face, catching in his beard like stars.
"He asked for my soul."
"Judas -- " I reached out for him, but he scrambled up and bolted away. I hurried after, but the outer room was empty, only the fluttering door curtain wi
tness to his passage. I turned to go back to my pallet, my weary confusion.
The master stood in my way. I had never seen him look so weary, so worn.
"I have asked him for the greatest of gifts," he said, though I did not have the courage to ask. Had I thought Judas suffered? There was all the grief of the world in these eyes. "Of all of them, only he has the strength, the faith, and the love. The others could only do it out of hate."
"Master, please don't send me away," I whispered. Around us lay the sleeping forms of his disciplines, but somehow I knew they would not wake, not until he wished it.
"You must go. All roads branch from here. You cannot follow where I am going, none of them can. You have the longest road, and you must be sure of your course. I will not always be with you."
