The Art of Standing Still (38 page)

Noah spoke,

Another fowl I see
Our messenger shall be;
Dove, I command you,
Our encouragement to increase.

And Jemma performed her ‘scouting' expedition. She refused to flap – Josh had laughed at her in rehearsal, saying she looked like a demented chicken. So, with graceful dance steps, she glided around the stage to retrieve the olive branch. Finally the music soared, and the broad ribbons, red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, and violet, fell from the ark's mast-top. Seven actors caught a ribbon each, Jemma took the violet and raced out towards the audience and up the hill, spreading the rainbow above their heads as they ran. Jemma grinned at the shouts of delight and the applause.

She quickly changed into her peasant costume, then while Abraham narrowly escaped sacrificing his son and Moses led the Israelites to sanctuary through the Red Sea, she directed people up to the farmyard for the nativity scene.

She packed them in like sardines on Raj Rajinder's surprisingly solid scaffolding-raked seating. Those without seats sat on the ground in the dusty farmyard. Fry, already wearing his Judas costume, seemed to scowl at her. She looked away, though her heart pounded. She tried to remind herself that his hours were numbered and that she was just glad she knew where he was and what he was up to. It didn't help. As long as he was nearby, her heart refused to settle into a normal rhythm.

Josh seemed a little more relaxed when Jemma met him coming out of the green room marquee. They didn't speak, but he gave her a grin and she gave him a thumbs-up sign. She changed into her scarlet cotehardie, and the women dressers helped fasten the hooks and pull the laces tight. She shook her hair loose and applied extra red lipstick – not very medieval, but if she was playing a harlot, she wanted to feel like one.

She screamed in pain as her ‘accusers' gripped her arms and dragged her before Jesus. They threw her to the ground at his feet and wrenched the sleeve of her dress from her shoulder. She cried out and pulled it up; all these people staring at her nakedness and shame. Her breathing grew rapid, and she didn't dare meet Jesus' eye.

Here, in front of the crowd, sitting in the dust, she had never felt more vulnerable, more exposed. She thought of the one-night stands, the drunken fumble, and the string of casual relationships.

‘Whore,' they shouted.

‘Slut!'

‘Tart!'

She wanted to cover her ears, to block out the shame. They named her lovers, one by one, and her face burned with humiliation. Tom, Joe, Neil, even Richard – she had used him as much as he had used her. Whatever his reasons for leaving, she felt cheap and discarded.

‘Stone her!'

She longed for death, anything to escape the dishonour. She hauled herself to her feet, ready to take her punishment, but the man kneeling, writing in the dust, spoke gently.

‘He that is without sin among you, let him first cast a stone at her.'

‘He shows up my misdeeds more, I leave you here, alone with him,' said one of her accusers and each, stung by his own guilt, drifted away.

‘Lord, no man has condemned me,' she said. Could it be, they all had something to feel guilty about?

‘And because of me, be ashamed no longer. Of all your sins I make you free. Look no more to sin's assent,' he answered.

A weight lifted from her and she smiled, clean and free. Something had changed, deep inside. Could she be forgiven for all those bad choices and for her refusal to admit they were bad?

‘He that will not forgive his enemy and use meekness with heart and hand will never see the kingdom.'

She walked away, her heart singing. She was clean, she was free, and she was forgiven.

Backstage, a dresser stood ready with a shapeless blue robe, and Jemma lifted her arms up like a child. The woman dropped the loose-fitting garment over Jemma's head and secured it with a girdle. She placed a blue hood over her hair. Hardly time to draw breath and she was back on stage, this time, mourning for her brother. The grief overwhelmed her. She threw herself at Josh. Tears streamed down her face as she said. ‘Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died.'

To her astonishment, he was weeping too. ‘Where have you laid him?'

As the stone was lifted away, a shrouded Lazarus stepped blinking into the blinding sunlight. Jemma ran forward and peeled off his grave clothes. Her grief turned to tears of joy.

A miracle. How could this be? People who died couldn't come back to life, but Jesus had restored the one thing most precious to her. She hugged her brother, hugged Jesus, and shouted her praise to God.

The crowd gasped and applauded.

‘Here may men find a faithful friend that thus has cured us of our cares,' she cried out.

Jemma slipped off her costume
again backstage. She couldn't help smiling. Now she understood the meaning of Jesus' words to Martha, ‘I am the resurrection and the life. He who believes in me will live, even though he dies; and whoever lives and believes in me will never die.'

In a blur, Jemma moved to the front of the stage again and helped direct the crowds to ‘Jerusalem' down by the abbey. People lined the route and cheered as Josh, riding a donkey, passed by. They threw palm branches. Trumpets and voices reached a crescendo. She saw a face in the crowd. Fry. He was looking straight at her, his mouth a grim line and hatred in his eyes. She shivered.

Then started the conspiracy. All kinds of false accusations against Jesus flew, and Pilate, Annas, and Caiaphas – dressed in medieval priest's vestments – plotted to destroy him. They had their stooge, a willing ally in the disciple Judas Iscariot.

Jemma removed her hood, and as Fry described the scene at Simon the Leper's house, she poured her perfumed oil on Josh's feet then wiped them with her hair.

A chill went through her again at Judas' words of betrayal. ‘Take care, then to catch that coward, the one that I kiss.'

The scenes flashed before her eyes. A table and thirteen friends eating a traditional memorial meal. The start of a new promise, rumours of betrayal, denial and rash pledges. A man in utter torment and desolation, going to a garden to plead for his life. She watched as Josh knelt, and she waited as he made the most arduous decision of his life. She watched him sweat and weep as he battled with his Father, eventually submitting. As he wept, Jemma wept too.

The crowd was silent as the knights marched up and encircled the garden. Fry seemed to tower over him.

‘I would ask you a kiss master, if you will, for all my love and my favour is upon you.' He took Josh's face in his broad hands and kissed him on both cheeks. The ultimate kiss of betrayal. The friends who had promised to be with him to the bitter end ran away, leaving him alone and vulnerable. Leaving him alone to face death.

Jemma couldn't bring herself to watch the trial scene. She found a quiet spot to sit and rest, behind the abbey ruins. The thought of unjust prosecution, the wrongful conviction of an innocent man, affronted every ounce of her integrity. The irony of the Cutlers' Guild play was not lost on her – the authorities, Roman and Jewish, were all too eager to stick the knife in. Time blurred, and she was there in the crowd outside Pilate's chambers. Bribery, corruption, and crowd-pleasing speeches seemed as prevalent then as they did today.

‘Hello, Jemma. Taken a quiet moment to write up the final entry in the column, have you?' Mohan's voice made Jemma jump.

‘What are you doing here?'

‘You made it all sound so vivid I thought I'd better come and see it for myself.'

‘And what do you think?'

‘The acting is competent. The directing could be better, and I could have got you a much better printing deal on the programmes, but on the whole it's not bad for an amateur pantomime.'

‘Pantomime! All this stuff is real. It really happened.'

‘It's a play. A medieval play.'

‘No, the events . . . they happened.'

‘I never had you down as a religious historian. Anyway, they have never proved Jesus existed. Archaeologists have excavated the area extensively, but they never found a body.'

Jemma laughed. ‘Of course they didn't. That's the whole point!'

‘What, that Jesus didn't die?'

‘No, that he did die, but he came back to life again – the resurrection on Easter Sunday.'

‘What utter rubbish. No one can come back to life. Hogwash. One chance, that's all you get.' He took Jemma by the hand. ‘When I suggested that you get involved in these plays, I didn't expect to find you'd been brainwashed.'

‘But I haven't.'

‘You'll be telling me next that you've become one of these “born again” Christians.'

‘What other kinds of Christians are there?' Jemma was genuinely puzzled.

‘I dunno, proper Christians. The ones who are kind to animals and watch
Songs of Praise
on Sunday evenings. The sort who don't take it too far.'

‘Mohan, I've got absolutely no idea what you're talking about, but I know these plays have changed the way I see things.'

He shrugged. ‘Each to their own.'

‘Look, Mohan, I'm glad you're here. Is Saffy with you?'

‘Of course. With a whole roll of 35 mm film in her funny little one-legged camera.'

‘Good.'

‘Why? I'm intrigued now.'

‘Something big is going to happen this evening.'

Mohan laughed. Jemma clutched his jacket. ‘No, I'm serious. Deadly serious. You have to stay to the end. I can't say anything yet, but it's going to cover the
Gazette
's front pages for months to come.'

Mohan raised an eyebrow.

‘I have to go,' said Jemma. ‘I'm needed for the crucifixion.'

Mohan rejoined the crowd, and the impact of Jemma's words hit her. She was an integral part of the crucifixion. She walked to the front of the stage area and gasped with revulsion. Josh was standing motionless, bowed and bloodied, between two Roman soldiers who were dressed as medieval knights. Each breath rasped and he stood naked except for a cloth around his waist.

‘Stop!' she cried, but her voice was lost among the crowd baying for his blood. A handful of teenage boys were making the most noise, swearing and shouting the vilest insults. She ran up to them.

‘Get out,' she shouted. ‘You can't say those things.'

‘Of course, we can, you stupid cow. We can say what we like.'

‘Yeah, and we're getting paid for the privilege.'

They laughed in her face. She wanted to run away from the horror of it all. She just wanted to get some water and wash away the stage blood, to take Josh home and make him tea and wipe away the tears. She stood frozen until she realised the ushers were moving the crowd on again.

They passed a little wooded area where deep among the trees Ruth's little departure into ‘Madame Tussauds' territory hung from a tree branch, swinging gently in the breeze.

‘Come and see where Judas hanged himself.'

Spectators gawked at the grisly sight, parents shielding their children's eyes, hurrying them past. They reached the lower field. She spotted a tense-looking Bram Griffin standing by the open gate.

‘Come on. Get the best seats for the crucifixion,' a knight called. ‘It will all be over by sunset.'

A peasant waved the crowd to the front of the arena. ‘Sit at the front for the best view.'

‘Souvenir loaves and fishes.' A woman with a basket handed out scraps of bread.

An old hag shouted, ‘Come and watch the criminals die – agony guaranteed.'

And the crowd picked up its chairs and blankets and picnic baskets and jostled laughing and chatting, for the best view.

Jemma felt sick. She ran towards the stage where a knight had laid a scarlet robe on Josh's back, and she saw them push a crown of thorns on Josh's head. The blood ran down his face. The knights jostled him laughing and spitting at him. Josh just stood there, letting them. She ran forward. ‘No! Stop, you can't do this, you're hurting him!' She reached out to snatch
the crown from his head, but sharp thorns punctured her hand.

‘Hey, those are real thorns!' Two knights dragged her away. She struggled to get loose, but they held her arms. She collapsed, sobbing on the woman playing Mary, Christ's mother.

‘What is happening?' Jemma cried. The woman held her and stroked her hair. Josh, stripped of his red robe, but still wearing that vile crown, was struggling along the rough track carrying a heavy wooden cross. Every few steps, his knees buckled, but no one came to help him.

The crowd shouted and jeered.

‘Supposed to be a king. He can hardly walk!'

‘He's healed all those people, looks like he needs a doctor himself.'

‘Come on, Messiah, save us from this Roman filth.'

Again Jemma covered her ears. The two women clung to each other as they followed as closely behind the cross as the knights would allow. Josh stumbled. Exhausted, he could clearly go no farther, so the knights dragged an actor out of the crowd and put the heavy cross on his shoulders. They pulled Josh roughly to his feet and marched him to the front of the three huge arches of Monksford Abbey.

The sun cast long shadows, and the heat of the day was draining away.

The procession arrived at Golgotha. Two crosses already stood in place, with their criminal residents. Four knights manhandled Josh to the ground. Then, one by one, in curt, sharp comments, they grumbled and mumbled about the task in hand. They complained that the nail holes were in the wrong place and fumbled the ropes to tie him on the cross. The knights complained at the ‘snail's pace' at which they were working as the audience, drawn in to their banter, laughed and shouted ‘helpful' suggestions. All the while, Josh was silent.

Finally, they secured Josh to the cross and with a knight at his head, one at his foot and one to either side, they lifted the cross and placed the foot into an indentation in the ground. Walking forward, they raised it to an upright position. Rocking it, they complained bitterly at the weight, until with a thud, the foot located deep into the hole.