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The Penitent

by

Zvi the Fiddler

The bishop stood behind the massive altar in the old chapel, a spot he always liked. The ancient building, formerly a Christian church, had survived the wars of secession mainly due to its solid rock construction. Within the chapel itself, the church leaders had left bare stone walls, giving the room a feeling of coolness and impenetrable rigidity. Bishop Archibald thought the atmosphere appropriate, but right now he felt uneasy.

Indeed, it was cold there, though the temperature was not the source of the bishop's discomfort. His melancholy came from a younger man in a plain white robe of humility, a penitent who now approached the altar with slow, ritualistic steps. As the second man knelt on the marble floor and prostrated himself, Bishop Archibald heaved a great sigh and muttered, "He's trembling."

Neck muscles taut, the prone man, Jonathan Worthyman, spoke the traditional words. "My Lord, I have sinned."

Archibald, a silver haired man in an embroidered white robe of authority, put his hands on the ancient sacrificial table and gave the expected answer, "My child, you have. Are you ready to repent?"

Jonathan's voice echoed in the gloomy chamber. "I am, my Lord."

The bishop looked at Worthyman's stiff position and wondered how long the penitent could hold such a posture. He sighed and, breaking the ritual, walked around the altar to look down at the abased man. "Jon, I've known you since you were conceived. When your father died in the riots, I virtually adopted you. I've watched your prowess in school and youth missionary classes with as much pride as if you were my biological son. Now you're a conscientious father and a respected schoolteacher. So why did you betray the Church? Why were you unchaste?"

A bright ray of sunlight penetrated the stained glass windows, illuminating the altar and the bishop's head with yellow and red, but leaving the penitent in even deeper shadow. Jonathan said only, "I was weak, my Lord," and stiffened his body further.

"What happened? How can I help if you don't tell me what's wrong?"

"My wife Karen has not, has not ... She has refused me for the past six months."

The bishop sighed again. "You didn't have to desecrate your vows. We can help, but only if you come to us." He returned to the other side of the altar. "Sexual union is one of David's greatest gifts, but only within the bond of Holy Matrimony. Let's get on with it. Are you ready to be cleansed?"

"Yes, my Lord."

"Which are the sins that torment your soul?"

"Adultery, my Lord. I betrayed the trust of my loving wife."

Archibald gnawed his lower lip at the word 'loving.' If the church leaders ever legalized divorce, Jon would be the first person he would refer. "Do you repent?"

"Most humbly." Jon sounded wretched.

The words were easy, but Archibald knew the penitent and knew he spoke the truth, that, in spite of the sexual frustration, the man in front of him wished with all his heart that he had not given in to temptation. "The Church is merciful. To do penance for the sin against your wife, you must literally crawl on your knees in front of her and beg her forgiveness, if, indeed, she will take you back."

"Thank you, my Lord."

"However, that same adulterous act betrayed the trust of the Church and generated gossip that aids heathen enemies of the Sacred Body."

There was a moment's silence. "Yes, my lord."

"For this you are officially expelled from the community." The Bishop's voice was sepulchral.

Jonathan gasped. Sunlight disappeared, abandoning the sanctuary once more to unrelieved gloom. "What?"

"You heard me."

"Bishop Archibald, I've lived my whole life in the church. I've never even been outside of the Citadel, except for missionary work. Everyone I know is in the Sacred Body. How can I survive exile?"

"But, Jon, after such a sin, how could we let you back?"

Several moments of silence. "My Lord, is there any way I could do penance for my sins against the Church?"

The priest, pleased that Jon had asked the question, chuckled softly. "Yes, my child. You confessed your transgression voluntarily, so I can be lenient. Bring two souls to pledge their love for David and the church will forgive you. Just to pledge, sincerely, not for food or money or the like. They don't have to actually join us, but until they make the pledge, you must stay at the missionary building in the center of the city. When you've found two souls, you may return to the Citadel and your home, and your sins will be forgotten."

"Thank you, my Lord."

Was that relief Archibald heard? After all, this task as stated wasn't hard. The bishop hesitated, wanting to stop, but his sense of duty compelled him to continue. "They must come from the Loveless Zone."

The penitent trembled

"Yes Jon, the Loveless Zone, where drunks, whores, and drug wars abound. You hated preaching there before, but your effectiveness was striking. Returning will teach you repentance for your sin." The bishop traced a flame in the air and muttered, "And I must be your teacher."

*

The Holy Mother River, formerly known as the Schuylkill, runs southeast to meet the Holy Father, formerly the Delaware, about 80 miles from the Atlantic Ocean. Together, they produce the River David, a stream greater than either parent.

The Branch Davidians, an offshoot of the older Seventh-day Adventists, had lived in obscurity until Vernon Howell, later known as David Koresh, took over. With Koresh's fiery death in 1993, the sect flared into the world's awareness, but only as a fringe racist cult. Afterwards, it returned to 50 more years of obscurity.

After the chaos of the 2043 civil war, a young Linsey Archibald galvanized the Davidians into winning souls by feeding the hungry and protecting the weak from marauders. The cult became respectable. That most people now shared the group's long standing hatred of the federal government increased their popularity, and almost won them control of the newly formed Atlantic Federation's government. More than anything else, the rivers' new names showed how much power Vernon Howell's group had garnered.

The popularity lasted only a decade. The Davidian's zealous preaching combined with the lavish wealth they garnered in the midst of widespread poverty created a backlash of resentment so strong, sporadic riots erupted against the cult once hailed as the savior of the young country.

The Citadel, a ten-square-mile walled enclave in the area above where the two parent-rivers met, housed 10,000 of the group's elite, most of whom had been born to the faith. To Jonathan and its other inhabitants, the Citadel represented the jewel of the Davidian movement, but to outsiders, it reeked of ostentation. Jonathan had been one of the first children born in the Citadel, and had lived all of his 34 years there, never before spending even one night outside of its comforting walls. Wearing a long gray missionary's robe, he stared down the compound's main thoroughfare. Orange, yellow and red leaves mixed with green and formed a colorful canopy over the street. Though each breeze loosened flocks of leaves to spiral downward, teenagers in brown coveralls served the community by sweeping the ground clean of debris. Certainly no refuse from careless inhabitants lay in the street. The beauty of the scene brought tears to his eyes. This was his home, the place he loved, and he had to leave it.

_This is ridiculous_" he thought. _I haven't even left the Citadel._

He suppressed his grief with an effort and scrutinized the street in search of his assistant. A few people rode the moving sidewalk, but no one other than himself wore a missionary's robe. He looked at the fountain near the street corner leading to his home. The bishop had forbidden him to see his wife, which hadn't bothered him much. He had once loved her, but the past several years she had withdrawn emotionally and without explanation, leaving him puzzled and distressed though he eventually adjusted to the situation. Archibald had also forbidden visits to the house and his three children. That hurt a lot.

The other evangelist should have arrived by now. Jon glanced at his watch and considered calling the bishop, but then saw a gray-robed figure hurrying past the other riders on the belt. Jonathan grimaced. Unnecessary haste was unseemly, lacking in grace, and not the way Davidians should deport themselves.

The second preacher, a young black man about Jonathan's height, jumped off the belt, and sprinted across a manicured lawn to Jonathan. "Brother, I'm William Anders. I'm sorry I'm late. My mother had a severe headache, and I didn't want to leave her alone before someone could come."

"Honor your Mother and your Father, that your life may be long in the land which David gives us," Jonathan said. An unelaborated "Oh, okay," would have been easier, but he wanted to maintain decorum in spite of his sadness.

The two missionaries approached the citadel's exit, a rectangular concrete door surrounded by a drawing of a solitary flame, the symbol of Koresh's death and anticipated rebirth. Jon stopped and took a deep breath before passing through. Outside, a chaotic field of foxtails and weeds contrasted with the order and beauty within the citadel. With a harsh sun glaring on his face, Jonathan trudged on, stopping only once for a last look at his home. From outside, the gray, bleak concrete wall resembled the original Citadel where David had lived and died ninety years ago. Jonathan forced himself to turn away and continue walking through the scratching thistles.

The city's closest pedestrian-belt ended 500 yards from the Citadel wall. Holding the rails of the rattling transport, the missionaries sped through the outskirts of South Philadelphia past streets almost empty of trees, where cats crawled from battered trash bins, and boards covered at least one window on every block.

"How can people live this way?" William asked.

Jonathan chuckled, though without humor. "You're used to the Citadel. A few gentiles live as well as we do, but most live little better than this. Compared to the Loveless Zone, even this neighborhood is beautiful."

William's face filled with disgust. "It's so dirty."

Jonathan turned to the younger man and fixed him with a stare. "Brother William, the world is David's creation. You come dangerously close to criticizing that creation."

William bowed his head and said no more for the ten minutes it took the belts to carry them to the Holy Mother River.

The belt ended at a cracked concrete path leading to the river. They walked past scattered pines around a green and brown meadow. A laser knife buzzed intermittently as a lone gardener snipped shrubs. Further on, sprinklers whirred, wetting the vegetation near the water's edge. The foliage there was so thick, Jonathan could scarcely see through to the other side of the broad waterway where he knew only dried grass and scrub trees lined the banks.

A guard in the uniform of the city police, but also a flame pendent over his khaki shirt, saluted when they approached the bridge. "Thank David for people like you brothers, willing to spread the word to the heathen," he said, and opened the gate.

Jonathan made a small bow with his head. "Thank you."

The guard, thirty pounds overweight and in need of a shave, leaned towards the missionaries and spoke in a whisper. "Did you hear about the adultery scandal?"

William's eyes opened wide. "No. What happened?"

Jon felt his face reddening. "Come, brother. We have a duty to perform."

The guard leered. "A woman convert, one who actually lived in the citadel, seduced a brother, then stole a golden sacrificial cup and fled before she could be thrown out into the streets."

William looked shocked. "That's horrible, but I'm not surprised. You can't trust converts."

Jon glowered at his assistant, whose face shined with self-righteous indignation, but no guile, and summoned all the indignation he could muster. "Brother William, were not David's first follower's converts? Were they untrustworthy?" He spun around and faced the guard. "And you, sir. Is it David's way to spread idle gossip?"

William looked like he had been struck and went down on his knees. "Brother, forgive me."

The guard didn't kneel, but did look embarrassed. "No, of course gossip isn't David's way. You're right."

Jonathan, silently thanking David that the rumor didn't mention him by name, strode onto the bridge. A mute William followed two steps behind. A moving belt took the two across the waterway to a strip of untended riverside foliage. From there, only a few hundred feet separated them from the streets of West Philadelphia, the Loveless Zone.

Inside the slum, they walked through a narrow street where trash littered the cracked asphalt. Neglect had bent half of the plates on the pedestrian-belt out of shape. Paint peeled on houses, most of whose windows bore gaping, jagged holes. A half a dozen people, disheveled, dirty and evidently drunk, sat propped against buildings or lying on the sidewalk. The smell of dog droppings and rotting fruit on the streets turned his stomach. His memories of the Zone had been dreadful, but the reality was worse. More than ever, he wished he had not succumbed to temptation.

The day was clear and bright, but the cries and whines of children set Jonathan's nerves on edge. Four teenagers swaggered down the street, jostling one another and shouting jeers and catcalls. Though as shabby as the rest of the Loveless Zone, two of them carried late model holo-vids. A young woman holding the hands of two small children left a house and walked cautiously down the avenue. One of the teenagers yelled an obscenity at her, but she didn't turn her head.

William stepped backwards and grimaced. "David help me, I never realized it was this bad."

Jonathan looked at him, disapproving of his disgust but noticing his muscles. If necessary, William would be useful in a fight. "Is this your first encounter with the Zone?"

"This is my first chance to preach to any of the heathen."

Jonathan's eyes popped open. "Archibald sent a raw novice into the Zone?"

William's face broke into a wide grin. "He sure did. He said you were such a good teacher, he could bend the rules. I'm honored to have you for my mentor. You must be a saint to volunteer."

Jonathan shook his head. "I'm no saint, I assure you. I'm doing a penance," he said, knowing the younger man would be too respectful to ask for details.

They found a street where the belt worked, albeit slowly. The missionaries were about to board when Jonathan noticed a young woman with blue eyes and long blond hair leave a house and stand by the doorway. A moment later, an obese middle aged man left the same house and hurried away without looking at her. The woman eyed men on the street, including the two pastors, giving each a faint, if forced, smile. A tight, lime green top covered her arms to the wrists, but the exposed cleavage reached below her nipples. A crimson-fringed skirt came down to her mid thigh.

William sighed. "Janet Reno, get you behind me."

Jonathan looked at him. "Is this how you show compassion to the lowly?" he asked, and walked over to the prostitute. "Can you give me fifteen minutes of your time ... to talk only?"

Her smile turned cynical. "Sure, Brancher, we can talk. But I can't give the time away. I sell it -- three silver Atlantic Crowns."

The preacher reached into his robe and took out three coins. The woman examined them with care before saying, "Okay. Let's go."

"My child, truly I do want to talk, nothing more."

"'My child.' That's delightfully kinky," she said and wrinkled her nose.

Four teens sauntered down that street, turned to the two evangelists and called out raucously, "Hey, lookit what's going down."

"I thought those Branchers were vegetarians, man"

"Yo, sugar, can you feed them both?"

The girl waved to the youths, then turned back to the elder missionary. "We can talk upstairs."

"We will stay here."

"You want to do it on the sidewalk? That's really kinky." She laughed but with a nervous quaver.

Jon moved in and intoned, "You are unhappy. Degradation suffocates your soul."

The woman stepped back into the doorway. "What do you mean?"

He raised his voice ever so slightly. "You fornicate with anyone who has the price of a meal. You mingle your essence indiscriminately, thus smothering your spirituality."

The woman put her hands on her hips, voice now derisive. "Ha. David Koresh sure 'mingled his essence' enough. He screwed anyone he could get his hands on. He even fucked ten year old girls."

With mayhem in his eye, William rushed towards her and shouted, "How dare you insult the Holy David?"

Jonathan spun around and grabbed his assistant's wrist. "We come today to bring love, not anger," he said, his voice like ice. Brother William stopped sharply, his mouth in a grimace.

With a slow, deliberate motion, Jonathan turned back to the prostitute. "You speak of David Koresh. Do you have the grace, the love of the cosmos that the Blessed David had?"

The woman looked shocked from the near assault, but made a visible effort to recover. "Is it grace to hump everyone in sight?" Her voice rose.

"The Blessed David knew what awaited him within the Waco compound. He knew how limited his time was, and so wanted to bless the world with the holy fluids of his body. The women he chose all felt honored and blessed by his gift." Damn. He had said "bless" three times. Repetition was bad technique. His preaching skills were as out of shape as his muscles.

The prostitute didn't seem to care about technique. "Women? What about the ten year old girl."

"Of course. The younger the girl, the longer we would have her on this Earth, someone who had been intimate with the Blessed David, a sanctified link to the Holy Koresh before he was vastened in the assault."

"She was abused, not sanctified. She told everyone how much she hated it."

Jonathan smiled with love and compassion. "Yes, she had been abused, but not by David Koresh. She had been abused by the Satanic United States Government which had brainwashed her into slandering the Third Messiah. The abuse was not sexual, as the gentiles think, but mental, and not by the Blessed David."

"She was only ten years old!" the woman screamed, fists clenched and eyes shut.

Inspiration struck Jonathan. "Daughter, were you abused as a child?"

She looked down for several seconds, then sobbed,"Yes," and fell to her knees.

"At age ten?"

"I was eight," she said, now whimpering.

Close enough, Jonathan thought and smiled inwardly. He had not lost his touch. "And this is why you hate the Body of David Koresh."

"He did to that girl what was done to me," she said, tears streaming down her cheeks.

"No. What he did was entirely different. The man who molested you was wrong, had no right to touch you. The Blessed David was an incarnation of God, the third incarnation after Moses and Jesus. His touch was a divine gift, one the girl was grateful to receive. The man who abused you was a rapist, plain and simple."

The woman's sobs continued. "Everyone said it was my fault, that I was a liar and that I led him on."

Jonathan, not asking and not caring who 'everyone' was, exulted in his power over the crying woman. "They were wrong, absolutely wrong. You are innocent. The touch of a Messiah is a divine gift, but when an adult assaults a child, it is always the adult's fault. My child, you bear no guilt whatsoever for what happened to you."

"Do you mean that?" she asked, struggling to her feet.

"Of course I do."

"Since that, that happened, I've always been an outcast. No one wants me."

This was too easy to be real. "We want you, my child. Come join the Holy Body and devote yourself to David. You will find peace." His voice was insistent, mesmerizing.

She shook her head. "I can't. I can't. I..., I have too much to do here."

"The Blessed David can forgive you and save you from your turmoil. Do you love David?"

"He didn't rape that girl?"

"No, my child. David Koresh was a divine being, the culmination of Moses and Jesus, and not a rapist. Do you love David?

"Yes, I do."

"Tell me your intention to come join us as soon as you get your affairs in order."

"Yes, yes I will."

She is happy to be let off the hook with just a promise, Jonathan thought. "What do they call you?"

"Helen."

"Tell me your last name, Helen."

"No, I can't." Her voice shook.

"You can come with us now, if you want. We'll take you from this wretchedness at once, without delay, if you are willing."

"Please. I can't. I'm not ready." She looked scared.

"Our brothers will visit you and teach you more about David. Do you live here?"

Her eyes widened with fear. "I don't have... No, I mustn't tell you that. Your friends can find me here if they want. I have to go." She turned and ran up the stairs.

William shook his head. "How did you know she had been abused?"

From upstairs, a door slammed. Jonathan smiled wryly. "Prostitutes often are."

They walked on, William with an ebullient step. "You were brilliant. You molded her like a piece of clay."

"She's not clay. She is as much a child of David as you and I," Jonathan declared, but the words felt empty. This Helen was more likely a hysteric than a potential convert. Worse, he didn't care. He saw her as just a means for him to return home, not as a human soul to be saved, and hated himself for his own callousness.

At that moment, a soft tomato squished onto Jonathan's sleeve.   "Fucking Branchers," a boy, no more than ten years old, screamed at them.

"You little brat," William said angrily, and turned to run after the boy.

Once more Jonathan grabbed his wrist. "The way of Koresh is to be ready to fight, but to fight only when necessary."

"But he attacked you. Your robe is splattered."

"Commons Hall has clean robes. Chasing a little boy will not honor the Holy Body. We'll go back now."

The two turned towards the river bridge, but found the four teenagers they had seen earlier blocking the way. The boys leaned forward in a fighting stance, knees bent and feet apart, hands ready. The leader, a tall sallow youth wearing a dirty leather jacket, straightened up and leered at them. "Where ya going Branchers?"

Jonathan clenched his jaw, cursing himself for a fool. The way of David was to avoid fights when possible. By their taunts a half-hour ago, the teens had warned of possible trouble. "We mean you no harm. Let us return to our compound," he said, summoning as much authority in his voice as he could.

A crowd gathered more quickly than Jonathan thought possible. Three more youths walked unhindered through the press of people to join the original four in the middle of the street. The shimmer of a protective heat field appeared in front of a nearby jewelry store. A low hubbub rose from the crowd. Jonathan heard phrases such as "Damned Branchers," and "Rich bastards". In spite of the cool autumn weather, his forehead broke into a sweat.

The gang leader laughed, an unpleasant bray. "Maybe we mean you harm, oh powerful moneybags Davidian priest." He stepped towards the two missionaries, and the other boys followed.

Turning around and walking away from the boys wouldn't help; even if the crowd let them pass, the adolescents would overtake them. Besides, running would be undignified, and the commotion would probably attract more trouble before they could get back to safety. "Are you ready?" he asked William, sotto voice.

"Am I ever," the younger man answered.

"Don't be too ready," Jonathan said. He and William strode forward towards the youths.

The leader advanced, suddenly drew back a fist and punched at Jonathan's gut. The missionary stepped aside, moved into a defensive back-to-back position with William, then grabbed the youth's arm and pulled him off balance. Two other boys ran towards Jonathan. One grabbed his arm. Jonathan kneed him in the groin, then swung around and kicked the second. The first teenager attacked again but Jonathan twisted his arm violently, throwing him, screaming with rage and pain, onto the asphalt.

More juveniles entered the brawl while the crowd shouted encouragement to the gang. _If I don't fight hard, they'll kill me_, Jonathan thought. He defended himself with vigor, kicking, chopping with board splintering blows, cracking ribs, and dislocating the arms of anyone who came within reach. The boys were thin, not too strong, and not trained in combat. Though outnumbered, he was in no way outmatched, especially with William's help, but he gained no satisfaction from his physical prowess

A siren's wail sounded, just as Jonathan felt a hot, sharp pain in his shoulder followed by a warm, wet stickiness running down his arm. Damn. He should have seen the knife. He reached up with both hands to knock two heads together, and the pain tripled, becoming excruciating. Was the crowd growing, or was it his imagination? Glancing back, he saw William fighting like a madman, punching more than using Karate. Jonathan's arms grew heavy, and his legs slower. He kept fighting, feeling steadily weaker and more faint while the siren grew closer, ever closer. Every step was an effort, every blow an exertion. The roar of the crowd surrounded him. The street spun as his strength ebbed along with the thick, warm liquid down his arm, leaving him ever weaker. _I hate the Loveless Zone_, he thought as the world dissolved in a bloody red haze.

#

The bishop looked down on the man in the hospital bed and grieved. "Jonathan, how do you feel?"

The younger man opened his eyes and looked around the ivory white cubicle. "Bishop. I... Thank you for coming."

"How are you?"

Jonathan shook his head as if trying to orient himself. "Better. I still feel weak, but my arm doesn't hurt as much."

Medical equipment hung on the walls. A monitor pinged Jon's heartbeat every second. Blood dripped from a bag on a pole through a tube into his arm.

"You lost a lot of blood," Archibald said in his gravel voice.

Another patient moaned and called for a nurse.

"I must have. I don't even remember the fight ending. Is William all right?" Jonathan asked.

"The police dispersed the crowd and brought you back to the citadel. William wasn't injured, but he could have been." Archibald pursed his lips. "Why didn't you use your stunner?"

Jonathan closed his eyes. "My Lord, I should have. I thought it might dishonor the Body of Koresh to shoot unarmed children."

The bishop nodded. "You never liked to use weapons. Your concerns do you credit. You didn't know one of the boys had a knife."

Jon shook his head. His eyes glistened with tears.

"The Loveless Zone is a dangerous place. One team member must always carry an effective weapon there."

"My Lord, I had a stunner in my left breast pocket. The nurse must have found it when I was admitted to the hospital." His voice quavered.

Archibald nodded. "She did." He hesitated. "It wasn't charged."

The injured man looked more wretched than ever. "My Lord, forgive me."

_Forgive you for not charging the stunner? Or for not telling me it wasn't charged? The second is the more serious sin, Jon,_ Archibald thought, but said only, "You're forgiven." He forced a smile. "William told me about the woman you witnessed. He was impressed. And so am I. At this rate, you should have your second pledge and be home in a couple of days."

Jonathan frowned, though it wasn't proper to frown at the Bishop's words. "Yes, my Lord."

"Yes, Jonathan, you do have to return to the Loveless Zone. Though you may think me harsh, I do this to strengthen you, not to punish you. And next time, don't hesitate to use your stunner in a fight."

"Thank you, my Lord," Jonathan said and bowed his head.

Archibald made the sign of the flame and left the room, his own head bowed. Considering Jon's wound and his obvious agony, spiritual more than physical, Archibald dearly wanted to commute the penance. But, because of what amounted to a lie on Jon's part, the bishop saw his duty as clear: he had to teach the penitent the importance of righteousness.

*

Three days later, Jonathan, a solicitous William at his side, walked cautiously through the main avenue of the Zone. Faded, dirty gray office buildings overlooked roadways empty except for the occasional pedestrian. The two turned into a narrow side street. Jon's stunner, now fully charged, lay in his right robe pocket.

A woman, disheveled, drunk, and massively pregnant, winked at them. They walked on without stopping.

"Brother, why didn't you try to reach her?" William asked.

"People who are intoxicated can't accept David Koresh," he said, and pointed to a thin, elderly man sitting on a nearby curb. "This one up ahead is more promising."

The man wore a grizzled white beard and held a paper cup out to passersby. "Please Sir, I'm trying to get my strength back so I can go to work. Thank you, Sir. Please, Ma'am..."

Jonathan approached him. "Old man, is this where life has led you?"

The beggar shifted a brown, floppy hat back on his head and looked them up and down. He wore a patched and threadbare jacket, but his eyes were shrewd. "My life has been hard, Sir. If you could help me out till I get back on my feet, God will bless you."

"I can help you, but not with money."

`The old man smiled wryly. "I need money. I'm hungry."

"David Koresh can fill your life with meaning. If you join the Holy Body of Koresh and come to live with us, we will give you work and you won't ever have to beg again."

"Ha. Spout idiotic prayers for hours and clean toilets the rest of the day? I'm not that hungry, Brancher."

"Why do you hate David?"

"I don't hate David. I never even met the man, though his followers are pests. You, now, you're blocking my patrons. Be a good missionary and move."

"Should you ever want to come to David we will welcome..."

"I know, I know. You'll be happy to see me. Now, get out of my way."

The missionaries left. In Jon's younger days, scorn from the heathens didn't bother him, but now, he felt humiliated.

William pounded his fist into his palm. "How can you be so patient with such an obnoxious relic. I wanted to punch him."

"And would that honor the Holy Body?" Jonathan asked.

"Maybe not, but it would make me feel better. By David's life, I don't know how you do it."

"Do you want to learn patience?"

"I want to. Of course I want to. That's what we are always taught -- to conquer the world with love and patience and not rash anger. I just don't know if I can."

"You'll learn," Jonathan said, humiliation now gone.

They talked to an arrogant adolescent, a pregnant woman with two dirty toddlers pulling at her worn dress, and another prostitute. All wanted money, but none wanted even to discuss religion, let alone "pledge their love" -- whatever that meant -- to David.

And with each refusal, each agonizing prolongation of his exile, Jon's heart withered a little more.

A clean-shaven young man in a black suit, crisp white shirt and fire in his eyes approached them and spoke with fervor of a different Messiah. He quoted the second section of the Bible, "'In the beginning was the Word and the Word was God and the Word was with God.'"

Jonathan had his own quotations. "'In the beginning was the chaos from which the holy triune God formed our world. Moses was God the Father, Jesus was God the Son, and David was God the Holy Ghost. From evermore it was and they created the world.'"

The young man's face turned red. "That's blasphemy. You're quoting the writings of the devil."

"Just as God has three aspects, so does the Bible have three Testaments. You are the blasphemous one for rejecting the last revealed scripture."

Glowering, the young man turned and hurried away.

William looked surprised. "Wow. He is one intense individual."

"Aren't we all," Jon muttered.

At that moment, angry voices above them made them look up. A thin man standing on a narrow ledge outside a window exchanged screams with a young woman inside. A boy about ten years old in stained trousers and a tattered undershirt ran from the doorway towards them. "Churchers! Come quick! My dad's gonna kill himself an' nobody here will try to stop him."

A crowd gathered below the shrieking couple. Some men shouted, "Jump!" in a rhythmic chant.

Jonathan turned to William. "You stay here. I'll talk to him."

"What if it's a trick? They may be waiting to attack as soon as you go inside."

"If you don't see me in the window in five minutes, go back to the Citadel and tell them what happened. Your coming inside with me won't help. If they're waiting to ambush one, they'll be ready for two."

Jonathan followed the boy through the front door into a living room where six people lay on the floor, curls of blue smoke drifting up the bare plaster walls. "Let him go, Priest," one man said sleepily. "He's no good to himself or anyone else."

_I'm no priest_, Jonathan thought, but didn't bother to answer. The boy led him up a dark, urine-befouled stairwell to a small bedroom. A man wearing only dirty undershorts lay stuporous on top of a bare mattress on the frayed rug. The woman who had been screaming now stood, crying hysterically, by the window. She wore a sheer slip, through which Jonathan could see her nipples and the outline of her pubic hair. He was not aroused.

"Oh Preacher, thank God you've come. You people know how to talk to someone. Please, don't let him do this."

Near the low window stood a metal container chained to a hook bolted to the wall. "What's in that box?" Jonathan asked. "Heroin? Cocaine?"

The woman, hysterics suddenly gone, scrutinized him carefully. "Money. 10,000 Atlantic Crowns. I'll give you," she hesitated, "half if you save him."

Jonathan swallowed at the thought of so much money, but said, "We don't work for drug dealers or whores. Pledge your love for David, and forswear your evil occupation and we will be happy to accept your donation. You don't have to join now. Just pledge." With the last two words, his voice sounded desperate.

The woman put her hands on her hips. "You don't want my cash? Fine! Now, are you going to save him or are you going to talk all day?"

Jonathan sighed. "All right. Unlock the chain."

She sneered. "Why?"

"Just do it if you want me to save him."

The woman in the slip hesitated, then took a key from under the mattress, loosened the chain, then glowered at Jonathan. "Now what?"

Jonathan, outwardly calm, kneeled in front of the low window and tied the chain around his knees. He leaned face forward out the window and looked at the man two feet away, standing on the narrow ledge and pressing himself against the outside of the house. The man was tall, half bald, and almost skeletal, his face pale. The crowd below was growing, cries of "jump" ever more frequent.

"Why are you up here?" Jonathan asked the man.

The would-be suicide glanced at him and said, "You're a Brancher, aren't you. Who else would ask such a stupid question? I'm here to kill myself -- at least I will as soon as I get up the nerve."

"Why are you so desperate?"

"I can't stand it any more. It's a plot. She told me she would leave 'the life,' that she would be a good wife. Then I come home find her doing it with a john right in our own bedroom. They planned this to drive me crazy and I can't fight them anymore."

Was the talk of a 'plot' schizophrenia or was he just crazed with jealousy? Jonathan didn't know, and, at that moment, didn't care. He repeated the old clich?s. "You won't do yourself or anyone else any good by jumping. No woman is worth losing your life. Later on you'll feel better."

The man on the ledge didn't answer him but just stared at the ground forty feet below.

Would it be a further sin for Jonathan to use this man's anguish for his, Jonathan's, own needs? He gritted his teeth. "David Koresh can help you. The Holy Body of Koresh can give meaning to your life if only you will let it."

The man looked at him and laughed maniacally. "Koresh? You're crazier than I am, Preacher. We'll both go down."

The man reached over, grabbed Jonathan's arms, and plunged off the ledge. By reflex, Jonathan flexed his legs up sharply as the weight of the suicide pulled him out the window. Only the chain, cutting sharply into the back of his knees, kept him from being pulled out entirely, but the pain it caused was like a knife. Half out the window, he held onto the man's forearms with ferocity. His hips felt like they were coming out of their sockets, his stomach crumpled painfully against the sharp edge of narrow ledge, and the slash in his shoulder ripped through the sutures and started to ooze blood. They hung there, Jonathan frantically bending his knees under the moneybox chain, his sole link with survival, every joint in his body screaming with the stress on its fibers, ligaments stretched to unbearable pain as his hands gripped the suicidal man below.

The man looked down and his eyes opened wide. "God, I didn't mean it. Don't let me die. Save me. Please save me. Pull me up."

"I'm trying. Somebody down there come up and help me. I can't hold on," the missionary shouted. William and a few men hurried inside the building.

The two clutched frantically at each other's forearms. Jonathan wondered how long he could hold on. "What's your name, friend?" he asked the man.

"What the hell's the difference? Pull me up!"

"I can't. I'm waiting for people to help us." He fell silent for a moment. "Why did you want to kill yourself?"

The man was silent.

"David Koresh can help you. Will you pledge your love to Koresh?"

From inside the building, William's frantic voice called, "Which room?"

A woman answered, "They're out here."

The no longer suicidal man shouted, "You stupid Brancher! Fuck David Koresh. Just get me up over the ledge."

Jonathan's heart sank. He saw himself returning to this wretched neighborhood tomorrow, the day after, only David knew for how long until he found the second person who would release him from this torment. His whole body was in agony, the wound in his shoulder and the ripping pain in his knees conspiring in his misery.

The man hanging on to his wrists looked up at the missionary's face and said, "Wait a second. Maybe Koresh isn't so bad. Get me up there and we'll talk about a pledge."

And slowly, against his efforts, Jonathan Worthyman sensed his grip relax.

The man screamed, "No, don't let go. I love David Koresh. I do want to join your church. Just pull me up."

Archibald would never believe that promise, not with the man holding on for his life to Jonathan's wrists. Jonathan himself didn't believe it. And he felt so tired. "I'm trying. I don't have the strength," he said.

"Don't drop me. I tell you, I love David Koresh," the man shrieked.

Jonathan's arms felt like they were coming loose from his body, his knees like they were being pulled apart. His hands tingled. "I'm holding as tight as I can," the preacher said, as William burst into the room. But before the would-be rescuer could reach him, the man slid down Jonathan's wrists and hands, and fell to the street below.

*

In the huge, empty chapel, the penitent prostrated himself in front of his priest. A sunbeam passed through motes of dust to the altar, brightening one of the carved angels. The bishop asked, "Brother Jonathan, did you find two people to pledge their love to David."

"I did, my Lord, but one of them has passed away."

"Yes, I read your report." There was an uncomfortable silence. "He was trying to kill himself, but you caught his hands, and, hanging out the window, held him."

"Yes, my Lord."

"He slipped out of your grasp before others could help you pull him inside."

"He did not look heavy, my Lord, but..."

"I know. Everyone has their limits, and sometimes we cannot pass those limits." There was another silence. "One might wonder if he had pledged his love because he feared you would drop him."

Jonathan, suddenly panting, spoke quickly. "My Lord, I think this second man should not count, both because his sincerity can be questioned, and also because no one but me actually heard him pledge. The enemies of David could," he paused, "spread doubt."

The bishop grimaced, then looked down at the motionless, prostrated man. "You are saying, in effect, that I should send you back to the slum."

"I do not want to sin against the church … more than I have already done."

The bishop shook his head and wondered, _More than which sin, Jon? Adultery, or dropping the man because his offer to convert had been insincere? Not consciously, to be sure, but that's what happened, whether you know it or not. And I, who put you into that position, am responsible. Because of me, you killed a man._

He fixed the younger man with a stare. "I know how much you hated this assignment. I swear by David's blood I thought it would be to your benefit. But that does not matter now. I should not have sent you out after you had been wounded. Perhaps I should not have sent you to the Loveless Zone in the first place.

"Well, you've done your penance, at least as much as I can assign. Now I have to do mine." He made the sign of the flame. "Arise Jonathan Worthyman. I welcome you back into the Holy Body of David Koresh."

<end>

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Revised 1/07