Devil's Island (30 page)

“God can heal her spirit,” John said. “He can make her whole again—body, mind, and spirit.” He straightened and smiled at Marcellus. “No reflection on your medical skills, but Jesus is the Great Physician. And I've consulted Him about our patient.”

Marcellus nodded and a fleeting smile crossed his face. “Good. Maybe He can finish the work I've tried to start.”

“He will, friend,” John said softly. “He will.”

John passed the rest of the morning sitting by Rebecca's side. Sometimes he prayed silently, at other times he prayed aloud. He quoted psalms and Scripture passages to her, knowing that the proclamation of the Word had healing power.

Hoping she could hear, John rambled on and on with stories about Mary and Martha and how he had been there when Jesus had raised their brother, Lazarus, from the dead. Rebecca's eyes never strayed from John's face as he spoke, but she still did not respond.

That afternoon, when he had grown hoarse and Rebecca had fallen asleep, John stood and stretched his legs. He looked out the window and wished he could take a short walk in the sunshine, but he wasn't supposed to wander around the camp. So he contented himself with strolling the length of the hospital ward again.

The door into Marcellus's quarters stood open, and as he passed it, John heard someone enter from the back of the building.

“Marcellus, I need a word with you.”

John recognized the voice: it belonged to the camp commander. Quickly, John stepped away from the door.

“I'm in my office, Brutus,” Marcellus called in reply.

John listened as the commander said he had heard the new woman prisoner was in the infirmary. “Although there's been no report that she was injured on the job. In fact,” Brutus said, “she hasn't reported for work since Saturday.”

Marcellus didn't reply, and John wished he could see what was going on. He wondered what explanation the medical officer would give.

“Is the rumor true?” Brutus demanded to know. “Is she here?”

“Perhaps you should sit down,” Marcellus said.

John felt not a twinge of remorse for eavesdropping.
It's not my
fault the door was left wide open,
he thought as he lay down on the cot nearest the door and pretended to nap. He spread a blanket over him, figuring he could pull it up to hide his face, if need be.

“And the old man—the one they call the Apostle,” Brutus said. “Is he here too?”

From his cot, John peeked through the doorway into the other room. Brutus was sitting with his back to the door, so John couldn't read the expression on his face. But he could tell Brutus was angry by his tone of voice.

“Yes,” Marcellus said with a slow exhale. “They're both here.”

“The explanation had better be good,” Brutus threatened.

“I put John on medical leave. He's too old and feeble to work in the quarries, and you know it.”

“That's not my problem.”

“Well, it's
my
problem. I still have a conscience, even if you don't.”

“I have to run this place—
you
don't!”

John listened to the heated exchange, praying silently.

“And I don't envy you that,” Marcellus said, lowering his voice.

Brutus matched the softening tone when he spoke. “You're going to leave this hellhole in a year. I do envy you that.”

“Less than a year. My term of enlistment is up in three hundred and twenty days.” Marcellus sounded as if they couldn't pass fast enough to suit him.

“What are you going to do after that?”

“I haven't let myself think about it. Don't much care where I land, just as long as it's far away from here.”

“Sometimes I think we officers have been sentenced to Devil's Island as well as the convicts.” Brutus laughed dryly. “What gods did we offend to draw this assignment?”

Marcellus drummed his fingers on the desk, then got back to the purpose of the visit. “Look, John is eighty-four years old. He never did anything wrong except believe in Jesus of Nazareth. He shouldn't be here.”

“No, but he is here. And so is the young woman.” Brutus returned to the question Marcellus had yet to answer. “Why is she in the hospital? Are you trying to protect her? Hide her?”

“I wish I could have protected her . . .” Marcellus's voice dropped off, and John knew he was remembering the day they'd found her in the cave. “She was raped,” Marcellus finally said. “Brutally beaten and left for dead.”

Brutus sighed. “Is she going to recover?”

“Physically, yes. But she may never be the same mentally. She hasn't spoken since it happened.”

Evidently Brutus took a moment to think about the situation before speaking. “In a few days we can reassign her to the laundry or the kitchen.” He ran his fingers through his hair and swore. “I just don't want the others to think I've gotten soft.”

“No, we wouldn't want to show too much humanity,” Marcellus said bitterly. Then he waved a hand apologetically. “Sorry,” he muttered. “I appreciate it. We'll find something for Rebecca to do as soon as she's able.”

Brutus stood and started to pace back and forth in front of the desk. John could see him now and then when he passed the open door.

“For the time being,” Brutus said, “it's better if they just go back to their cave. Maybe—yes,
now,
” he emphasized. “They should leave the hospital now.”

“But why?”

“Because Damian returned today with another boatload of Christians. He's herding them here like cattle.” Brutus spoke softly and John strained to hear. “If he sees Rebecca, it might remind him of her brother, and the old man, and that whole episode in the quarry—and I'm afraid of what he might do. Damian is a madman. I don't want to do anything to rile him.”

“Do you think he did this to Rebecca?” Marcellus asked the question point-blank.

That was exactly what John had wondered, but he hadn't said anything to Marcellus about it.

Brutus didn't answer for a long time. “He's capable of it.”

“She fought her attacker,” Marcellus said. “There was blood under her fingernails. Whoever did this got quite a scratching—and depending on where she scratched him, the marks would be visible.”

Brutus plopped back into the chair across from Marcellus. “Damian has a trail of faint scratches down his face and neck, and I immediately thought of fingernails.” Brutus's voice grew cold. “I joked with him about it. He winked and told me he had tangled with a wildcat. He likes to brag about his women. I thought he'd gotten into some rough play.”

Marcellus exploded. “Would you like to see for yourself just how rough he ‘played'?”

“No. I'll take your word for it.” Brutus lowered his voice again. “But if Damian did do this—and I'm not saying he did—then she's not safe here. She's not safe anywhere on this island.”

“So even if Rebecca goes back to their cave . . .” Marcellus paused. “Still, she would be safer there than here. I think he left her for dead; if so, he won't go looking for her.”

“Except for the fact that at least a few people saw you bring her here. If I heard about it, Damian will too.”

Marcellus hesitated, and John rolled to the edge of the cot, listening intently. “Then I'll make sure he thinks she
is
dead,” Marcellus said. “I'll say she didn't recover from injuries sustained in the rock slide. If I put ‘deceased' on her official records, then no one will have a reason to go looking for her.”

“If Damian ever found out . . .”

“Then we'll have to make sure he doesn't.” Marcellus looked meaningfully at Brutus as they stood facing each other, both within John's narrow line of vision. He could see the firm set to the medical officer's jaw. “I'll take care of the details,” Marcellus said, “and you won't have to know about it. You can say, truthfully, that you never saw her when you came to the hospital.”

“As far as I'm concerned, we never spoke about this.”

Marcellus nodded soberly.

As Brutus turned to exit through the back door, John briefly glimpsed the scowl on the commander's face. In that single expression were etched anger, a desperate desire to be rid of Damian, and the degradation of the job he'd been assigned on Devil's Island. John breathed a sigh of relief that Brutus had left without having set foot inside the ward.

John had folded the blanket and was placing it neatly back on the cot when Marcellus walked in, a surprised look on his face. “I didn't realize the door was open.”

“I'm glad it was,” John said. “I heard everything.” He started walking toward the window. “I'll wake Rebecca. We'd better go.”

“Not so fast,” Marcellus said, following John. “I don't want anyone to see us leave.” He stopped John with a hand on his shoulder. “Let's move both of you back to my room, where you can wait. Then when night falls, we'll go back up the mountain. In the morning, I'll file my report.”

“You're taking an even greater risk this time. I heard you say you'll be out of here in a matter of months.” John was torn. He desperately wanted Marcellus's help to protect Rebecca, but he hated the thought of putting the man in jeopardy. What if Marcellus were arrested for falsifying records and had to stay on Devil's Island—as a prisoner?

“It's a risk I'm willing to take, for Livia. I couldn't live with myself otherwise.” Marcellus spoke with conviction driven by quiet desperation. “I've given the army almost twenty years of my life. And in the process, I've given Caesar my soul. I want it back now.”

24

ON SUNDAY MORNING John stood at the mouth of the cave and watched as the sun emerged on the horizon and the sea began to glow with the promise of another dawn. For decades he had watched the sunrise as often as he could; it was a perpetual reassurance that God was still on His throne and that His mercies were new every morning. Lifting gnarled hands toward the sky and opening his heart toward God, the Apostle recited a psalm:

Blessed be the name of the Lord
From this time forth and forevermore!
From the rising of the sun to its going down
The Lord's name is to be praised.

Then he thanked God that Rebecca had finally spoken. It had been only one word, but John knew it was the breakthrough he had prayed for.

After Marcellus had helped them up the mountain Thursday night, he had returned twice on Friday, bringing extra blankets, a jug of water, a supply of wheat and corn, olive oil, a small cooking pot, a clay lamp, and several flints for starting fires. “All the comforts of home,” he had joked. Marcellus had also brought a small ax with him, and he chopped wood while John gathered kindling.

“You can come down to the mess hall for bread and to refill your water jug,” he told John, “but don't let Rebecca come anywhere near the camp. She mustn't be seen.”

“I hate to leave her alone. Not yet, anyway.”

Marcellus nodded. “That's probably for the best. I'll be here frequently to check on you. But I don't want to come so often that I raise suspicions.”

When Marcellus returned to the hospital, John had felt a slight letdown. He not only appreciated the medical officer's help, John enjoyed his company. They'd had more opportunities to talk about the Lord over the last few days, and John knew in his spirit that Marcellus was close to becoming a believer.

On Saturday afternoon Rebecca had finally ventured outside the cave. She walked slowly, evidently still sore from the attack, as she moved to join John. He was sitting on a tree stump a few yards outside the cave, basking in the sunshine and watching the seagulls as they circled and then dived for food in the pounding surf surrounding the island. The blue-green water beat relentlessly against the rocky shore.

Rebecca sat on the ground beside John and laid her head in his lap. He stroked her hair idly as he watched the aerial combat along the shoreline. Her sudden cry startled him, and at first John thought it was simply the screeching of the gulls. Then he recognized the plaintive wail as distinctively human.

“Whyyyyy?” Rebecca began to sob as she repeated the single word over and over.

“Only God knows the answer to that question,” John had said as he tried to comfort her. “But you're in good company. We've all asked it at one time or another.”

For most of the afternoon, John held Rebecca and spoke soothingly. He knew her tears would be cleansing, knew she had to pour out her grief, her shame, her rage until she was empty. “Let it all out, child,” he told her.

At sundown he'd started a fire and made a bit of porridge. Rebecca's breathing was still ragged from weeping and she didn't speak again, but she had eaten all the porridge. And she had slept through the night, without crying out or jerking in her sleep.

Now, satisfied that the sun had indeed risen on God's creation yet again, John went back to the interior chamber of the cave. Rebecca was still sleeping soundly, and he didn't want to disturb her just yet. Because it was the Lord's Day, John decided to spend more time in prayer. He leaned back against the wall of the cave, wishing he had his scrolls and parchments with him so he could read and contemplate the Scriptures. Much of the Word of God was stored in his heart, however, and he meditated on it now as he sat silently in the dim rock chamber that had become his home.

Suddenly a brilliant light, brighter than a thousand suns, flooded the room. John blinked and raised a hand to his eyes, and then he heard a loud voice behind him. As powerful and majestic as a trumpet, the voice said, “I am the Alpha and Omega, the First and the Last. What you see, write in a book and send it to the seven churches in Asia.”

Startled, John turned toward the voice, and the walls of the cave seemed to fall away. He saw seven golden lampstands, and standing in the middle of them was a figure resplendently clad in a long robe with a golden sash. His hair was like the whitest wool, and His eyes were like flames of fire. His feet appeared to be glowing brass in a refiner's furnace. Was He real or an apparition? John wondered as he fell to his face like a dead man. Then the figure laid His right hand on the Apostle and said, “Do not be afraid. I am He who lives, and was dead, and behold, I am alive forevermore.”