by Ted Dekker
“Speak now or I’ll kill him!” Karadzic screamed.
“I will speak.”
Janjic lifted his head. Who’d said that? A man. The priest? No, the priest did not possess the strength.
“I will speak for my children.” It was the priest! It was the priest, lifting his head and looking squarely at Karadzic as if he’d received a transfusion of energy.
“Your threat of death doesn’t frighten us, Soldier.” He spoke gently, without anger, through tears that still ran down his face. “We’ve been purchased by blood; we live by the power of that blood; we will die for that blood. And we would never, never renounce our beloved Christ.”His voice croaked. “He is our Creator, sir.”
The priest turned his eyes to the women, and slowly a smile formed on his cracked lips.“My children, please. Please . . .”His face wrinkled with despair. His beard was matted with blood, and he could hardly speak for all the tears now.
“Please.” The priest’s voice came softly now. “Let me go. Don’t hold me back . . . Love all those who cross your path; they are all beautiful. So . . . so very beautiful.”
Not a soul moved.
A cockeyed, distant smile crossed the priest’s lips. He lowered his head, exhausted. A flutter of wings beat through the air. It was the white dove flapping toward them. It hovered above the father, then settled quietly on the cross, eyeing the bloodied man three feet under its stick feet.
The sound came quietly at first, like a distant train struggling up a hill. But it was no locomotive; it was the priest, and he was laughing. His head hung, and his body shook.
Janjic instinctively took a step backward.
The sound grew louder. Maybe the man had gone mad. But Janjic knew that nothing could be further from the truth. The priest was perhaps the sanest man he had ever known.
He suddenly lifted his head and spoke. No, he didn’t speak; he sang. With mucus leaking from his nostrils and tears wetting his bloodied cheeks, wearing a face of unearthly delight, he threw back his head and sang in a rough, strained voice.
“Sing, O child of mine . . .”
And then he began to laugh.
The picture of contrasts slammed into Janjic’s chest and took his breath away. Heat broke over his skull and swept down his back.
The silvery laughter echoed over the graveyard now. Karadzic trembled, rooted to the earth. Ivena was looking up at the priest, weeping with the rest of the women. But it was not terror or even sorrow that gripped her; it was something else entirely. Something akin to desire. Something . . .
A gunshot boomed around Janjic’s ears, and he jumped. A coil of smoke rose from Karadzic’s waving pistol.
The resounding report left absolute silence in its wake, snuffing out the laughter. Father Michael slumped on the cross. If he wasn’t dead, he would be soon enough.
Then Janjic ran. He whirled around, aware only of the heat crashing through his body. He did not think to run; he just ran. On legs no stronger than puffs of cotton, he fled the village.
When his mind caught up to him, it told him that he also had just died.
EPILOGUE
IVENA CLOSED the book and took a deep breath.
“That’s the end?”Marci asked.
“Do you need more?” Ivena handed The Dance of the Dead to Marci. “I think you’ve heard what you need to hear for now.”
“But what happened to the commander? Did he . . .” She trailed off.
“Kill the rest of us? No. He could have killed us, but Janjic had escaped the scene and could have implicated the man. Even war has its rules. And the laughter had its own effect on Karadzic.”
Marci looked at the book in her hands and sniffed. “What about Janjic?”
“Janjic wrote the book in your hands. He’s relived that day a thousand times. In fact, I think he’s reliving it again, now, as we speak, but that’s another story.”
Marci glanced at the cover again. Her eyes grew round. “Janjic? He’s . . . he lives here?”
“Not in this house. I’m surprised you’ve never heard of him. He’s quite famous.”
The name sparked no recognition with Marci. She rubbed her hand over the red cover and looked at the author’s name. Jan Jovic. “Can I read this?”
“It’s yours. You must read it.”
For a long moment they sat in silence. Then Marci stood, hugging the book to her chest. She looked out the window with a glint of purpose in her eyes.
“Thank you, Ivena.”
“It’s the least I can do to honor my Nadia. Remember her, Marci. Keep her story close to your heart.”
The message will transform your life. Do you understand?
“We’re all beautiful in the eyes of heaven,” she said softly. “We’re all more beautiful than we can imagine. Not just inner beauty, but really.”
“Yes, my dear, we really are.”
And there’s more I want you to promise me you’ll remember the priest’s words to us all.”
“Which words?”
“You aren’t the only one who is beautiful, Marci. They are all beautiful—every child created by God. We must love all who cross our paths as if they were Nadia, because God loves them as much as he loved Nadia.”
“I’ll remember,”Marci said. “I promise I’ll remember.”
“Every time you look into the eyes of a lost and lonely child, think of Nadia. That’s why I came to you. I saw Nadia. When you see others, I want you to see Nadia as well.”
“I will. I swear I will.”
You hate yourself because you don’t think you’re beautiful . . .
Do you believe everything can change in the space of one breath?
Come to my flower shop tomorrow, and I will make you beautiful.
“I am beautiful too,Nadia,”Marci whispered as if speaking holy words that could only be spoken very carefully. She stepped forward, and it felt as though she was now walking in a different world—perhaps a world similar to the reality Nadia now lived in. The reality beyond the skin of this world.
“We are all so very beautiful too.”
STUDY GUIDE
1. Do you believe your life will extend beyond the few years that you have on this earth, and if so, to what extent do you think what happens in this life affects the next life? If you believe life extends beyond the life we live here on earth, why do most people give so little thought to the afterlife?
2. How do you define true beauty? Why do you think our culture is so preoccupied with external beauty?
3. Do you think Nadia was a fool for standing up for her faith, or a wise child who knew more than most? If you had been in Nadia’s shoes, what would you have done?
4. It is said that whereas martyrdom is the epitome of courage, suicide is the epitome of cowardice. Describe the difference between Nadia’s spirit of courage and the spirit that drives some to contemplate suicide.
5. When Nadia and Father Michael are near death, they both hear voices laughing and rejoicing. Whose voices do you think they are hearing?
6. Jesus and most of his disciples were killed for their faith like both Nadia and Father Michael. What kind of thinking drove these people to their deaths when they had the choice to live for the sake of their loved ones by relaxing their convictions? Jesus ministered for a mere three years and died as a young man; couldn’t he have done the world more good by living longer?
7. In cosmic terms, every person dies very soon after he or she is born, usually within eighty or so years. Who do you think live happier lives, those who cling to their lives here, or those who look forward to one day moving on? In which category would you place yourself?
8. If given the choice today, would you choose a million-dollar house, a luxury car, a wonderful spouse, and plenty of money to burn, or the invitation to join Nadia and the singer, screaming with delight through the sky? Are you sure?
9. Are most Christians you know obsessed with heaven, or are they so enamored with life on earth that heaven is mostly an afterthought? Do
you find this hypocritical? Are you hypocritical?
10. Millions die each day. If you were hit by a truck today, would this be a good thing for you or a bad thing? Explain.
AS BELIEVERS, OUR WALK WITH GOD IS MOTIVATED BY HOPE— not the bland, vague notion most people have, but the expectation of an exotic, pleasurable inheritance that guides us and fires our passion . . . or, at least, should.
Ted Dekker has written an exposé on the death of pleasure within the Church. Because many of us have set aside hope and the inspired imagination that drives it, Dekker says we have been lulled into a slumber of boredom, even despondency. Our faith wanes, the joy at having been liberated fades, and we feel powerless. The Slumber of Christianity explores what robs us of happiness and how we can rediscover it and live lives that rekindle hope. The pursuit of pleasure is a gift to all humans—a function of the Creator himself, who is bent upon our happiness.
It’s time for Christians to reclaim our inheritance of pleasure. The Slumber of Christianity will inflame hearts toward full-fledged, mind-expanding encounters with hope, through the imagination.
AN EXCERT FROM SHOWDOWN
“HOW MANY children?” Marsuvees Black asked, examining his fingernails. Strange behavior for a man interviewing for such a lofty position.
“Thirty-seven,” David said. “And they may only be thirteen or fourteen years old, but I wouldn’t call them children. They are students, yes, but most of them already have the intelligence of a postgraduate. Believe me, you’ve never met anyone like them.”
Black settled back in the tall leather chair and pressed his thumbs and fingers together to form a triangle. He sighed. The monk from the Nevada desert was a strange one, to be sure. But David Abraham, director of the monastery’s project, had to admit that genius was often accompanied by eccentric behavior.
“Thirty-seven special children who could one day change humanity’s understanding of the world,” Black said. “I think I could pull myself from my desert solitude for such a noble task. Wouldn’t you agree? God knows I’ve been in solitude for three years now.”
“You’ll have to take that up with God,” David said. “With or without you, our project will one day change the world, I can guarantee you that.”
“Then why do you need me? You’re aware of my”—he hesitated—“ that I’m not exactly your typical monk.”
“Naturally. I would say you’re hardly a monk at all. You’ve spent a few years atoning for rather gratuitous sins, and for that I think you possess a unique appreciation for our struggle with evil.”
“What makes you think I’ve beaten my demons?”
“Have you?”
“Do we ever?”
“Yes, we do,” David said.
“If any man has truly beaten his demons, I have. But the struggle isn’t over. There are new battles every day. I don’t know why you need a conflicted man like me.”
David thought a moment. “I don’t need you. But God might. I think he does.”
Black raised an eyebrow. “No one knows, you say? No one at all?”
“Only the few who must.”
“And the project is sponsored by Harvard University.”
“That is correct.”
David had spent months narrowing his search for the right teacher to fill the vacant post. Marsuvees Black brought certain risks, but the job was his if he chose to take the vow of secrecy and sequester himself in the Colorado mountains with them for the next four years.
The monk stared at his fingernail again. Scratched at it. A soft smile crossed his face.
“I’ll let you know,” he said.
PARADISE, COLORADO
One year later
Wednesday
THE SOUND of boots crunching into gravel carried across the blacktop while the man who wore them was still a shimmering black figure approaching the sign that read Welcome to Paradise, Colorado. Population 450.
Cecil Marshal shifted his seat on the town’s only public bench, shaded from the hot midsummer sun by the town’s only drinking establishment, and measured the stranger strutting along the road’s shoulder like some kind of black-caped super hero. It wasn’t just the man’s black broad-brimmed hat, or his dark trench coat whipped about by a warm afternoon breeze, but the way he carried himself that made Cecil think, Jimminy Cricket, Zorro’s a-coming.
The town sat in a small valley with forested mountains that butted up against the buildings on all four sides. One road in and the same road out. The road in descended into the valley around a curve half a mile behind the stranger. The road out was a ‘snaker’ that took to the back country, headed north.
Paradise was a typical small mountain town, the kind with one of most things and none of many things.
One convenience store/gas station/video store/grocery store. One bar/restaurant. One old theater that had closed its doors long ago. One church. One mechanic—Paul Bitters, who fixed broken tractors and cars in his barn a mile north of town. One of a few other establishments that hardly counted as establishments.
No hospital. No arcade. No real grocery store other than the convenience store—everyone shopped in Delta, twenty miles west. No police station, or bowling alley, or car dealer, or bike shop, or choice of cuisine . . .
The only thing there was more than none or one of was hairdressers. There were three hairdressers, one on Main Street and two who worked out of their homes, which didn’t really count.
“Looks lost,” Johnny Drake said.
Cecil turned to the blond boy beside him. Johnny slouched back, legs dangling off the bench, watching the stranger.
His mother, Sally Drake, had come to town after being abandoned by some worthless husband when Johnny was a baby, thirteen years earlier. Sally’s father, Dillon Drake, had passed away, leaving her the house that she and Johnny now lived in.
She’d decided to stay in Paradise for the house, after unsuccessfully trying to sell it. The decision was mighty courageous, considering the scandal Sally suffered shortly after her arrival. The thought of it still made Cecil angry. As far as he was concerned, the town hadn’t found its soul since. They were a sick lot, these Paradise folk. If he could speak, he would stand up in that monstrosity they called a church and say so.
But Cecil couldn’t speak. He was a mute. Had been since his birth, eighty-one years ago.
Cecil turned back to the stranger, who’d left the graveled shoulder and now clacked down the middle of the road in black steel-toed cowboy boots like a freshly shoed quarter horse. Black boots, black pants, black trench coat, black hat, white shirt. A real city slicker. On foot, three miles from the nearest highway. I’ll bet he’s sporting a black mustache to boot.
Cecil dropped his eyes to the leather-bound copy of Moby Dick in his lap. Today he would give Johnny the book that had filled his world with wonder when he was fourteen.
He looked at the boy. Kid was growing up fast. The sweetest, biggest-hearted boy any man could ever want for a son.
Johnny suddenly gasped. He had those big light-brown eyes fixed in the direction of the city slicker, and his mouth lay open as if he’d swallowed a fly.
Cecil lifted his head and followed the boy’s eyes. The black-cloaked stranger strutted down Main Street’s yellow dashes now, arms swinging under the folds of a calf-length duster, silver-tipped boots stabbing the air with each step. His head turned to face Cecil and Johnny.
The brief thought that Zorro might be wearing a disguise—a Halloween mask of a skull—flashed through Cecil’s mind. But this was no mask. The head jutting from the stranger’s white shirt was all bone. Not a lick of skin or flesh covered the bleached jaw. It smiled at them with a wide set of pearl teeth. Two eyes stared directly at Cecil, suspended in their deep bone sockets, like the eyes down at the butcher shop in Junction: too big, too round, and never blinking.
Cecil’s pulse spiked. The ghostly apparition strode on, right up the middle of the street as if it owned Paradise, like a cocky gunslinger. And then the stranger ve
ered from his course and headed directly toward them.
Cecil felt his book drop. His hands shook in his lap like the stranger’s eyes, shaking in their sockets with each step, above a grinning face full of teeth. Cecil scanned the man’s body, searched for the long bony fingers. There, at the end of long black sleeves, dangling limp, the stranger’s hands swung to his gait.
Flesh. Strong, bronzed, fleshy hands, curving gently with a gold ring flashing in the sun. Cecil jerked his eyes back to the stranger’s face and felt an ice-cold bucket of relief cascade over his head.
The face staring at him smiled gently with a full set of lips, parted slightly to reveal white teeth. A tanned nose, small and sharp but no doubt stiff with cartilage like any other nose. A thick set of eyebrows curved above the man’s glinting eyes—jet-black like the color of his shoulder-length hair.
The stranger was twenty feet from them now. Cecil clamped his mouth shut and swallowed the pooled saliva. Did I see what I just thought I saw? He glanced down at young Johnny. The boy still gaped. Yep, he’d seen it too.
Cecil remembered the book. He bent over and scanned the dusty boards at his feet and spotted it under the bench. He reached way down so his rump raised off the bench, steadied his tipping torso with his left hand on the boardwalk, and swung his right arm under the seat. His fingers touched the book. He clasped it with bony fingers, jerked it to safety, and shoved himself up.
When his head cleared the bench, the stranger stopped in front of them. Cecil mostly saw the black pants. A zipper and two pockets. A crotch. A polyester crotch. He hesitated a brief moment and lifted his head.
For a moment the man just stood there, arms hanging loosely, long hair lifting from his shoulders in the breeze, black eyes staring directly into Cecil’s, lips drawn tight as if to say, Get a grip, old fool.Don’t you know who I am?
