When Heaven Weeps, Page 3

  He’d always taught that Christ’s power was as real for the believer today as it was two thousand years earlier.

  Now Michael had heard these words of love. My beloved! God was going to protect them.

  It occurred to him that he was still bent back awkwardly and that his mouth had fallen open, like a man who’d been shot. He clamped it shut and jerked forward.

  The rest hadn’t heard the voice. Their eyes were on him, not on the dove, which had landed on the nearest roof—Sister Flauta’s house surrounded by those red rosebushes. The flowers’ scent reached up into his sinuses, thick and sweet. Which was odd. He should be fighting a panic just now, terrified of these men with guns. Instead his mind was taking time to smell Sister Flauta’s rosebushes. And pausing to hear the watery gurgle of the spring to his left.

  A dumb grin lifted the corners of his mouth. He knew it was dumb because he had no business facing this monster before him wearing a snappy little grin. But he could hardly control it, and he quickly lifted a hand to cover his mouth. The gesture must look like a child hiding a giggle. It would infuriate the man.

  And so it did.

  “Wipe that idiotic grin off your face!”

  The commander strode toward him. Except for the ravens cawing overhead and the spring’s insistent gurgle, Father Michael could only hear his own heart, pounding like a boot against a hollow drum. His head still buzzed from the dove’s words, but another thought slowly took form in his mind. It was the realization that he’d heard the music for a reason. It wasn’t every day, or even every year, that heaven reached down so deliberately to man.

  Karadzic stopped and glared at the women and children. “So. You claim to be people of faith?”

  He asked as if he expected an answer. Ivena looked at Father Michael.

  “Are you all mutes?” Karadzic demanded, red-faced.

  Still no one spoke.

  Karadzic planted his legs wide. “No. I don’t think you are people of faith. I think that your God has abandoned you, perhaps when you and your murdering priests burned the Orthodox church in Glina after stuffing a thousand women and children into it.”

  Karadzic’s lips twisted around the words. “Perhaps the smell of their charred bodies rose to the heavens and sent your God to hell.”

  “It was a horrible massacre,” Father Michael heard himself say. “But it wasn’t us, my friend. We abhor the brutality of the Ustashe. No God-fearing man could possibly take the life of another with such cruelty.”

  “I shot a man in the knees just a week ago before killing him. It was quite brutal. Are you saying that I am not a God-fearing man?”

  “I believe that God loves all men, Commander. Me no more than you.”

  “Shut up! You sit back in your fancy church singing pretty songs of love, while your men roam the countryside, seeking a Serb to cut open.”

  “If you were to search the battlefields, you would find our men stitching up the wounds of soldiers, not killing them.”

  Karadzic squinted briefly at the claim. For a moment he just stared. He suddenly smiled, but it wasn’t a kind smile.

  “Then surely true faith can be proven.” He spun to one of the soldiers. “Molosov, bring me one of the crosses from the graveyard.”

  The soldier looked at his commander with a raised brow.

  “Are you deaf? Bring me a gravestone.”

  “They’re in the ground, sir.”

  “Then pull it out of the ground!”

  “Yes, sir.” Molosov jogged across the courtyard and into the adjacent cemetery.

  Father Michael watched the soldier kick at the nearest headstone, a cross like all the others, two feet in height, made of concrete. He knew the name of the deceased well. It was old man Haris Zecavic, planted in the ground more than twenty years ago.

  “What’s the teaching of your Christ?”

  Michael looked back at Karadzic, who still wore a twisted grin.

  “Hmm? Carry your cross?” Karadzic said. “Isn’t that what your God commanded you to do? ‘Pick up your cross and follow me’?”

  “Yes.”

  Molosov hauled the cross he’d freed into the courtyard. The villagers watched, stunned.

  Karadzic gestured at them with his rifle. “Exactly. As you see, I’m not as stupid in matters of faith as you think. My own mother was a devout Christian. Then again, she was also a whore, which is why I know that not all Christians are necessarily right in the head.”

  The soldier dropped the stone at Karadzic’s feet. It landed with a loud thunk and toppled flat. One of the women made a squeaking sound—Marie Zecavic, the old man’s thirty-year-old daughter, mourning the destruction of her father’s grave, possibly. The commander glanced at Marie.

  “We’re in luck today,” Karadzic said, keeping his eyes on Marie. “Today we actually have a cross for you to bear. We will give you an opportunity to prove your faith. Come here.”

  Marie had a knuckle in her mouth, biting off her cry. She looked up with fear-fired eyes.

  “Yes, you. Come here, please.”

  Father Michael took a step toward the commander. “Please—”

  “Stay!”

  Michael stopped. Fingers of dread tickled his spine. He nodded and tried to smile with warmth.

  Marie stepped hesitantly toward the commander.

  “Put the cross on her back,” Karadzic said.

  Father Michael stepped forward, instinctively raising his right hand in protest.

  Karadzic whirled to him, lips twisted. “Stay!” His voice thundered across the courtyard.

  Molosov bent for the cross, which could not weigh less than thirty kilos. Marie’s face wrinkled in fear. Tears streaked silently down her cheeks.

  Karadzic sneered. “Don’t cry, child. You’re simply going to carry a cross for your Christ. It’s a noble thing, isn’t it?”

  He nodded and his man hoisted the gravestone to Marie’s back. Her body began to tremble and Michael felt his heart expand.

  “Don’t just stand there, woman, hold it!” Karadzic snapped.

  Marie leaned tentatively forward and reached back for the stone. Molosov released his grip. Her back sagged momentarily, and she staggered forward with one foot before steadying herself.

  “Good. You see, it’s not so bad.” Karadzic stood back, pleased with himself. He turned to Father Michael. “Not so bad at all. But I tell you, Priest—if she drops the cross then we will have a problem.”

  Michael’s heart accelerated. Heat surged up his neck and flared around his ears. Oh, God, give us strength!

  “Yes, of course. If she drops the cross it will mean that you are an impostor, and that your church is unholy. We will be forced to remove some of your skin with a beating.” The commander’s twisted smile broadened.

  Father Michael looked at Marie and tried to still his thumping heart. He nodded, mustering reserves of courage. “Don’t be afraid, Marie. God’s love will save us.”

  Karadzic stepped forward and swung his hand. A loud crack echoed from the walls, and Michael’s head snapped back. The blow brought stinging tears to his eyes and blood to his mouth. He looked up at Sister Flouta’s roof; the dove still perched on the peak, tilting its head to view the scene below. Peace, my son. Had he really heard that music? Yes. Yes, he had. God had actually spoken to him. God would protect them.

  Father, spare us. I beg you, spare us!

  “March, woman!” Karadzic pointed toward the far end of the courtyard. Marie stepped forward. The children looked on with bulging eyes. Stifled cries rippled through the courtyard.

  They watched her heave the burden across the concrete, her feet straining with bulging veins at each footfall. Marie wasn’t the strongest of them. Oh, God, why couldn’t it have been another—Ivena or even one of the older boys. But Marie? She would stumble at any moment!

  Michael could not hold his tongue. “Why do you test her? It’s me—”

  Smack!

  The hand landed flat and hard enough to send him r
eeling back a step this time. A balloon of pain spread from his right cheek.

  “Next time it’ll be the stock of a rifle,” the commander said.

  Marie reached the far wall and turned back. She staggered by, searching Father Michael’s eyes for help. Everyone watched her quietly, first one way and then the other, bent under the load, eyes darting in fear, slogging back and forth. Most of the soldiers seemed amused. They had undoubtedly seen atrocities that made this seem like a game in comparison. Go on, prove your faith in Christ. Follow his teaching. Carry this cross. And if you drop it before we tire of watching, we will beat your priest to a bloody pulp.

  Michael prayed. Father, I beg you. I truly beg you to spare us. I beg you!

  CHAPTER THREE

  IT WAS Nadia who refused to stay silent.

  The homely birthday girl with her pigtails and her yellow hair clips stood, limped down the steps, and faced the soldiers, arms dangling by her side. Father Michael swallowed. Father, please! He could not speak it, but his heart cried it out. Please, Father!

  “Nadia!” Ivena whispered harshly.

  But Nadia didn’t even look her mother’s way. Her voice carried across the courtyard clear and soft and sweet. “Father Michael has told us that people filled with Christ’s love do not hurt other people. Why are you hurting Marie? She’s done nothing wrong.”

  In that moment Father Michael wished he had not taught them so well.

  Karadzic looked at her, his gray eyes wide, his mouth slightly agape, obviously stunned.

  “Nadia!” Ivena called out in a hushed cry. “Sit down!”

  “Shut up!” Karadzic came to life. He stormed toward the girl, livid and red. “Shut up, shut up!” He shook his rifle at her. “Sit down, you ugly little runt!”

  Nadia sat.

  Karadzic stalked back and forth before the steps, his knuckles white on his gun, his lips flecked with spittle.

  “You feel bad for your pitiful Marie, is that it? Because she’s carrying this tiny cross on her back?”

  He stopped in front of a group of three women huddling on the stairs and leaned toward them. “What is happening to Marie is nothing! Say it! Nothing!”

  No one spoke.

  Karadzic suddenly flipped his rifle to his shoulder and peered down its barrel at Sister Flouta. “Say it!”

  A hard knot lodged in Father Michael’s throat. His vision blurred with tears. God, this could not be happening! They were a peaceful, loving people who served a risen God. Father, do not abandon us! Do not! Do not!

  The commander cocked the rifled to the sky with his right hand. His lips pressed white. “To the graveyard then! All of you! All the women.”

  They only stared at him, unbelieving.

  He shoved a thick, dirty finger toward the large cross at the cemetery’s entrance and fired into the air. “Go!”

  They went. Like a flock of geese, pattering down the steps and across the courtyard, some whimpering, others setting their jaws firm. Marie kept slogging across the stone yard. She was slowing, Michael thought.

  The commander turned to his men. “Load a cross on every woman and bring them back.”

  The thin soldier with bright hazel eyes stepped forward in protest. “Sir—”

  “Shut up!”

  The soldiers jogged for the graveyard. Father Michael’s vision swam. Father, you are abandoning us! They are playing with your children!

  Several children moved close to him, tugging at his robe, embracing his leg. Blurred forms in uniform kicked at the headstone crosses and hoisted them to the backs of the women. They staggered back to the courtyard, bearing their heavy loads. It was impossible!

  Father Michael watched his flock reduced to animals, bending under the weight of concrete crosses. He clenched his teeth. These were women, like Mary and Martha, with tender hearts full of love. Sweet, sweet women, who’d toiled in childbirth and nursed their babies through cold winters. He should rush the commander and smash his head against the rock! He should protect his sheep!

  Michael saw the dove in his peripheral vision clucking on the roofline, stepping from one foot to the other. The comforting words seemed distant now, so very abstract. Peace, my son. But this was not peace! This was barbarism!

  The twisted smile found Karadzic’s quivering lips again. “March,” he ordered. “March, you pathetic slugs! We’ll see how you like Christ’s cross. And the first one to drop the cross will be beaten with the Father!”

  They walked with Marie, twenty-three of them, bowed under their loads, silent except for heavy breathing and padding feet, staggering.

  Every bone in Michael’s body screamed in protest now. Stop this! Stop this immediately! It’s insanity! Take me, you spineless cowards! I will carry their crosses. I will carry all of their crosses. You may bury me under their crosses if you wish, but leave these dear women alone! For the love of God! His whole body trembled as the words rushed through his head.

  But they did not reach his lips. They could not because his throat had seized shut in anguish. And either way, the insane commander might very well take the butt of his gun to one of them if he spoke.

  A child whimpered at Michael’s knee. He bit his lower lip, closed his eyes, and rested a hand on the boy’s head. Father, please. His bones shook with the inward groan. Tears spilled down his cheeks now, and he felt one land on his hand, wet and warm. His humped shoulders begged to shake—to sob—to cry out for relief, but he refused to disintegrate before all of them. He was their shepherd, for heaven’s sake! He was not one of the women or one of the children, he was a man. God’s chosen vessel for this little village in a land savaged by war.

  He breathed deep and closed his eyes. Dearest Jesus . . . My dearest Jesus . . .

  The world changed then, for the second time that day. A brilliant flash ignited in his mind, as if someone had taken a picture with one of those bulbs that popped and burned out. Father Michael’s body jerked and he snapped his eyes open. He might have gasped—he wasn’t sure because this world with all of its soldiers and trudging women was too distant to judge accurately.

  In its place stretched a white horizon, flooded with streaming light.

  And music.

  Faint, but clear. Long, pure notes, the same as he’d heard earlier. My beloved. A song of love.

  Michael shifted his gaze to the horizon and squinted. The landscape was endless and flat like a sprawling desert, but covered with white flowers. The light streamed several hundred feet above the ground toward him from the distant horizon.

  A tiny wedge of alarm struck Michael. He was alone in this white field. Except for the light, of course. The light and the music.

  He could suddenly hear more in the music. At first he thought it might be the spring, bubbling near the courtyard. But it wasn’t water. It was a sound made by a child. It was a child’s laughter, distant, but rushing toward him from that far horizon, carried on the swelling notes of music.

  Gooseflesh rippled over Michael’s skin. He suddenly felt as thought he might be floating, swept off his feet by a deep note that resounded in his bones.

  The music grew, and with it the children’s laughter. High peals of laughter and giggles, not from one child, but from a hundred children. Maybe a thousand children, or a million, swirling around him now from every direction. Laughter of delight, as though from a small boy being mercilessly tickled by his father. Then reprieves followed by sighs of contentment as others took up the laughing.

  Michael could not help the giggle that bubbled in his own chest and slipped out in short bursts. The sound was thoroughly intoxicating. But where were the children?

  A single melody reached through the music. A man’s voice, pure and clear, with the power to melt whatever it touched. Michael stared out at the field where the sound came from.

  A man was walking his way, a shimmering figure, still only an inch tall on the horizon. The voice was his. He hummed a simple melody, but it flowed over Michael with intoxicating power. The melody started lo
w and rose through the scale and then paused. Immediately the children’s laughter swelled, responding directly to the man’s song. He began again, and the giggles quieted a little and then swelled at the end of this simple refrain. It was like a game.

  Michael couldn’t hold back his own laughter. Oh, my God, what is happening to me? I’m losing my mind. Who was this minstrel walking toward him? And what kind of song was this that made him want to fly with all those children he could not see?

  Michael lifted his head and searched the skies. Come out, come out wherever you are, my children. Were they his children? He had no children.

  But now he craved them. These children, laughing hysterically around him. He wanted these children—to hold them, to kiss them, to run his fingers through their hair and roll on the ground, laughing with them. To sing this song to them. Come out, my dear . . .

  The flashbulb ignited again. Pop!

  The laughter evaporated. The song was gone.

  It took only a moment for Father Michael to register the simple, undeniable fact that he was once again standing on the steps of his church, facing a courtyard filled with women who slumped under heavy crosses over cold, flat concrete. His mouth lay open, and he seemed to have forgotten how to use the muscles in his jaw.

  The soldiers stood against the far wall, smirking at the women, except for the tall skinny man. He seemed awkward in his role. The commander looked on with a glint in his eyes. And Michael realized that they had not seen his awkward display of laughter then.

  Above them the dove perched on Sister Flouta’s roof, still eyeing the scene below. To Michael’s right, the elderly still sat, as though dead in their seats, unbelieving of this nightmare unfolding before them. And at his fingertips, a head of hair. He quickly closed his mouth and looked down. Children. His children.

  But these were not laughing. These were seated, or standing against his legs, some staring quietly to their mothers, others whimpering. Nadia the birthday girl sat stoically on the end, her jaw clenched, her hands on her knees.