part three: Friday

They hurried through the street, not far from the Temple. "Have you seen Jesus?" they asked. Most shrank from at the name, as if they wanted no part of it; a few cursed. No one helped them.

"He's been sold as a slave," she said to Joseph. "I just know it." Joseph squeezed her hand. They hurried through the narrow street. How had they lost him? Mary and Joseph were sure he had been in the company when they left Jerusalem. But when they stopped for the night's camp.... Mary's heart ached from their frantic journey back to the city. What had become of him?

It was nearly noon by the time they reached the edge of the city and saw the three crosses on the hill.

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Mary and her companions stood, dazed, on the edge of the crowd. A young woman came toward them through the crowd. "Martha," Mary Cleopas said to her; they hugged. "What happened?"

"They took him last night, after supper. It was Judas; he led them to him." Martha led them back the way she had come; Salome had to lead Mary by the arm, for her eyes were fixed on her son; she seemed oblivious to all else. Martha continued talking as they worked their way through the edges of the crowd. "He was in the garden; he had gone there to pray."

They reached the little knot of disciples, standing a little distance back from the edge of the crowd. There they were: James and John, Andrew, Peter, the others of the apostles, Mary Magdalene, Joanna, Martha's brother and sister, and a few others. The men hung their heads in shame; the women were weeping, disheveled. Mary Magdalene had torn her robe and ripped out clumps of her hair in anguish.

"How could they do this?" Cleopas asked, still not believing what was before him. "He didn't do anything wrong."

"They don't need a reason," Andrew said bitterly. "The whole crowd. . . 'Crucify him.' Pilate was going to let him go, and they wouldn't have it. They shouted him down."

Mary continued to stare fixedly at her son. As if in a daze, she began walking up the hill. Salome grabbed her arm: "Mary, you can't. They won't let you."

Mary brushed her hand away, kept going. "They'll kill you," Salome said, following right behind her.

"And you think I care about that?"

Mary Cleopas and Mary Magdalene trailed behind, hurrying to catch up. Last of all was John.

By now, Mary had reached the thickest part of the crowd. She pushed people aside to get through. Some of them cursed her, shoved her. She kept on. A man spat in her face as she elbowed past him, several others kicked her. She ignored them all and pressed on, the others following her.

They reached the front. One of the soldiers lowered his spear, blocking Mary's way. She stopped, knowing she could go no further. He was blonde, probably Germanic, and looked to be only about John's age, fourteen or fifteen, and more than a little scared. Incongruously, a detached part of her mind wondered how far he was from home, and whether he had a mother who worried about him.

Now that she was here, Mary wished she hadn't come. She and the others were hardly ten feet away from Jesus' cross. His body was a blackened ruin of caked-on blood and filth, shreds of skin hanging from the wounds, many of them oozing blood. They had jammed a mock crown on his head, a crown of thorns. The long thorns must have scraped along the bone under the skin; they were sticking out horribly. Jesus looked at her solemnly; the world spun around her.

The torture drug on and on. It might last for days. Mary felt Salome's arm around her, and Mary Cleopas beside her, and Mary Magdalene. At least she would not have to endure it alone. But Jesus was alone; he had no one to help him.

With knotted, trembling muscles, Jesus pulled himself up, his only support the nails through his wrists and feet, finally gasping another breath. Each time he collapsed, it seemed like it was the end. He couldn't possibly do it again. But that was part of the vileness of the cross; no one could will themselves to stop breathing. Death came slowly, breath after agonizing breath, until the cramped muscles of arms and legs failed. Each time he began the cycle again, a sword twisted in Mary's gut. The old man, Simeon, handed the child back to her. His wrinkled face glowed; the words he had just spoken rang in Mary's heart, as if they were echoing through endless ages. He continued: "A sword shall pierce your heart, also."

It was endless, this watching. It seemed like time had stopped, and like the whole universe had disappeared, all except Jesus up there and the little group watching him from below. Dimly, Mary realized that it was getting dark. It must finally be evening.

The wind howled. It got darker and darker, now as dark as a moonless night. As if from a distance, she heard Mary Magdalene say "This is more than just a storm. And it can't be much past midday. God help us." Mary saw the dragon, its body filling the sky. It was swallowing the sun, swallowing all of the light in the universe. People were panicky now; even the soldiers were looking around, terrified. Only the three on the crosses were unmoved, the darkness swirling around them, thickest around the one in the center. The blackness was complete, infinite... no. Not quite; a tiny spark remained, fragile, quivering at the edge of extinction: her son. Jesus. The dragon wanted him more than anything else; Mary could feel its desire like a wave of cold despair washing over her. Somewhere in the darkness, his voice: "Eloi, eloi, lama sabbachthani?" Mary understood. She screamed with all her might "He will NOT abandon you!" Her words were like dust specks in a hurricane, swept into the darkness. He murmured something more; she could not hear it for the wind, the dragon sucking the life out of him, out of everything in the world. To her horror, the light flickered and disappeared, swirling into the abyss.