To read from the beginning, click the photos on the right.
Chapter XXXIV pgs.291-220
Johanna was unconscious throughout her plane ride, and was only dimly aware of being hoisted into a cart with metal bars – much like a home-made extra-large sized dog kennel. As the ride in the cart wore on, she found she was hot, then cold, but mostly hot. And she was aware of a blazing, bright sun that hurt her eyes and made her skin burn. The ride was long. Her skin blistered and her mind cleared. But it seemed incredible that the cage and the sky were reality and not some drug-induced hallucination. Halfway through the trip she was given water, then some flat bread with a gruel folded inside it.
The afternoon wore on in a confusion of light, heat, and nausea. Her head pounded and her arms and legs cramped. Occasionally a rock sailed into her cage, sharp as a bee sting, biting her legs or arms or belly or face, but she hadn’t the wherewithal to register where the rock came from.
And finally, she was pushed into a metal cell the size of a closet, and tied lying down between two stakes jutting up from a hard cement floor. The small cell was dank and drafty. Johanna craned her neck trying to see around her. The room was dark but not black.
“Please, God, somehow, someway, help me to bear this. Because I’m disheartened and terrified, and all I want is to die.”
“In here, Johanna, you’ll find that God is deaf.” The voice, a horrific roar, came from a black-robed figure that reminded Johanna of a sixteenth century executioner. He slammed the door loudly as he left. A draft blew in from under the door. But it didn’t chill her. Lying as she was, it brushed past her cheek, bringing home the memory of a soft breeze that had brushed her cheek many years ago.
Every now and again, Alex would think about the day in church when all those people had made their confessions. He could remember the sense of longing. It was like seeing something out of the corner of his eye, then turning to look at it, and finding it no longer there. And his soul desired it as children long for Christmas.
In his office, pretending to listen to CIA tapes, Alex stared at the space where Churchill’s portrait had hung. He tried to remember what Churchill’s face looked like, but all he could see in his mind was Hitler’s eyes staring at him, as if penetrating his thoughts. Where was that giddy sense of victory? He was still the king, the emperor, the god. Why wasn’t it sweet anymore? And he could remember power filling him until he thought he’d burst with the joy, and it was all he could do to keep from bouncing around like a two-year-old. Where had it all gone? Why the depression? Maybe, like Alexander the Great, he cried because he had no more worlds to conquer. No. He still had work to do. Iraq was far from won. The newspapers would have to be fed. There were still dollars to be made. Gas was only $2.00 per gallon. The western fields of Iraq had not yet produced their tribute. Iran had not been invaded yet. Indeed, there were many more worlds to conquer, but the battle was no longer joyous. Why?
A wafting sense of peace touched him, followed by a piercing ache. He remembered that day in church. What had it felt like? He tried to reproduce the sensation, but could only feel pain.
“For a price.” Where did those words come from? And why was he thinking them? “For a price.” A price for what?
Suddenly Alex remembered. He closed his eyes. He was eleven years old again, and alone sitting beside Puddin’ Creek. It was dark, and he was shivering and wondering how to get out of a whipping. “For a price.” That’s what the book had said. He remembered squinting to read the words in the dark. And was the price indeed his soul? Well, Remordia had certainly kept its side of the bargain. Was that the devil? Had he agreed to sell his soul to the devil?
‘But that wasn’t fair,’ he thought. ‘I was just a scared little boy back then. You can’t hold me responsible for a dumb kid’s prank. And all the times after that – well, that was just habit.’ He’d always looked to the word to get himself out of trouble. But it wasn’t as if he’d consciously said he wanted to sell his soul in exchange for favors. He’d never thought of it as making a pact with the devil. It wasn’t fair. But then, the devil didn’t play fair.
The devil?
Remordia.
The devil!
Chapter XXXIV pgs.291-220
Johanna was unconscious throughout her plane ride, and was only dimly aware of being hoisted into a cart with metal bars – much like a home-made extra-large sized dog kennel. As the ride in the cart wore on, she found she was hot, then cold, but mostly hot. And she was aware of a blazing, bright sun that hurt her eyes and made her skin burn. The ride was long. Her skin blistered and her mind cleared. But it seemed incredible that the cage and the sky were reality and not some drug-induced hallucination. Halfway through the trip she was given water, then some flat bread with a gruel folded inside it.
The afternoon wore on in a confusion of light, heat, and nausea. Her head pounded and her arms and legs cramped. Occasionally a rock sailed into her cage, sharp as a bee sting, biting her legs or arms or belly or face, but she hadn’t the wherewithal to register where the rock came from.
And finally, she was pushed into a metal cell the size of a closet, and tied lying down between two stakes jutting up from a hard cement floor. The small cell was dank and drafty. Johanna craned her neck trying to see around her. The room was dark but not black.
“Please, God, somehow, someway, help me to bear this. Because I’m disheartened and terrified, and all I want is to die.”
“In here, Johanna, you’ll find that God is deaf.” The voice, a horrific roar, came from a black-robed figure that reminded Johanna of a sixteenth century executioner. He slammed the door loudly as he left. A draft blew in from under the door. But it didn’t chill her. Lying as she was, it brushed past her cheek, bringing home the memory of a soft breeze that had brushed her cheek many years ago.
Every now and again, Alex would think about the day in church when all those people had made their confessions. He could remember the sense of longing. It was like seeing something out of the corner of his eye, then turning to look at it, and finding it no longer there. And his soul desired it as children long for Christmas.
In his office, pretending to listen to CIA tapes, Alex stared at the space where Churchill’s portrait had hung. He tried to remember what Churchill’s face looked like, but all he could see in his mind was Hitler’s eyes staring at him, as if penetrating his thoughts. Where was that giddy sense of victory? He was still the king, the emperor, the god. Why wasn’t it sweet anymore? And he could remember power filling him until he thought he’d burst with the joy, and it was all he could do to keep from bouncing around like a two-year-old. Where had it all gone? Why the depression? Maybe, like Alexander the Great, he cried because he had no more worlds to conquer. No. He still had work to do. Iraq was far from won. The newspapers would have to be fed. There were still dollars to be made. Gas was only $2.00 per gallon. The western fields of Iraq had not yet produced their tribute. Iran had not been invaded yet. Indeed, there were many more worlds to conquer, but the battle was no longer joyous. Why?
A wafting sense of peace touched him, followed by a piercing ache. He remembered that day in church. What had it felt like? He tried to reproduce the sensation, but could only feel pain.
“For a price.” Where did those words come from? And why was he thinking them? “For a price.” A price for what?
Suddenly Alex remembered. He closed his eyes. He was eleven years old again, and alone sitting beside Puddin’ Creek. It was dark, and he was shivering and wondering how to get out of a whipping. “For a price.” That’s what the book had said. He remembered squinting to read the words in the dark. And was the price indeed his soul? Well, Remordia had certainly kept its side of the bargain. Was that the devil? Had he agreed to sell his soul to the devil?
‘But that wasn’t fair,’ he thought. ‘I was just a scared little boy back then. You can’t hold me responsible for a dumb kid’s prank. And all the times after that – well, that was just habit.’ He’d always looked to the word to get himself out of trouble. But it wasn’t as if he’d consciously said he wanted to sell his soul in exchange for favors. He’d never thought of it as making a pact with the devil. It wasn’t fair. But then, the devil didn’t play fair.
The devil?
Remordia.
The devil!
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