There was no choice. The angels screamed in joy, capering about heaven. This time was
their time.
There was no choice.
There never had been.
On the fifth night, trapped in his misery, a sound very gradually trespassed upon
Neville‘s despair. It sounded for hours before Neville became aware of it, and then he listened to
it for another hour or two more before he managed to emerge from his despair long enough to
become even mildly curious about it.
It was the sound of a plane being drawn back and forth over a piece of wood. Back and
forth, back and forth: an ever-patient carpenter in his workshop somewhere close to Neville‘s
hideaway.
Neville grew to hate the sound. It angered him. It intruded upon his grief, his solitary
despair, his selfish sorrow. Who was this Christ to so disturb him? Who was this Christ to set up
shop so close to Neville‘s misery? Didn”t he know that all was lost? Would the man never give
up? Damn him! Damn him! Damn him!
Neville howled, so furious that he flung hay in every direction as he struggled out of his
self-imposed imprisonment. Didn”t Christ know that all was lost?
―I‘ll tell him,‖ Neville mumbled, spitting out a bit of mouldy horse shit that had wedged
itself between his front teeth. ―I‘ll tell him, damn him. Why so cheerful? Why so cursed hopeful?
Doesn”t he realise?‖
He fell out of the muck heap onto the damp cobbles of the street, rolling some seven or
eight paces down the slight slope until he managed to stop himself and rise to legs shaking from
days of no food or use.
Neville stumbled a few paces down the alley. It was deep night, perhaps two or three in
the morning, and the city was quiet.
Save for that cursed carpenter, still planing his wood somewhere close by.
Neville managed to walk further, ignoring the cramps that beset his calves and thighs. His
face and body ran with sweat, his hands clenched at his sides.
The carpenter planed on, slowly, methodically, every stroke an obvious joy.
Why work wood, when there was no hope left? Didn‘t he know that within days, weeks
at the most, he‘d be back on his cross, hanging in agony?
Neville came to the end of the alley, leaning on the stone wall of a house for support as
he heaved air in and out of his lungs.
There! There he was, the fool!
A faint light filtered from behind the shutters of a ground floor workshop three houses
down the street. Neville, furious without being able to put a meaning to his fury, staggered
towards the door of the workshop.
It was ajar, just very slightly, but enough for the hateful noise of the carpenter‘s efforts to
seep out into the night air and wake Neville.
He reached the door and, without any of the hesitation that had characterised his visit to
Christ‘s London workshop, burst in.
And tumbled down the three steep steps to the floor. Neville hit the stone flagging
heavily, his breath grunting out in a curse. He rolled over several times, his arms flailing, before
he managed to stop himself.
He scrambled to his knees, then, awkwardly, to his feet, his hands held out to steady
himself.
James the carpenter continued to steadily plane the large piece of wood on his work table.
―What is it this time?‖ snarled Neville. ―A casket? A breakfast table? Perhaps the axle of
a cart?‖
―A stake,‖ said James, then nodded towards the far corner of the workshop. ―I‘ve set out
a tub for you. Its water is warm, and comforting. There are some clothes on the stool to the side.
I think you will find they will fit you well.‖
Then James‘ hands abruptly fell still, and he turned his face so he could stare at Neville,
standing hostile and rigid in the centre of the workshop space. ―We are brothers, you and I. What
fits me, fits you.‖
Neville raised a hand, his face twisting with the strength of the emotion inside of him.
―I do not want to hear it,‖ James said, turning back to his woodwork. ―Not until you have
washed, and clothed yourself.‖
―I do not—‖
―What think you?‖ James yelled, now stepping away from his work table altogether.
―What think you, Thomas Neville, to so wallow in such self-absorbed misery?‖
Neville blinked, unable to speak, completely stunned by James‘ sudden anger.
―I—‖
―Are there no others in pain?‖ James continued, now standing directly before Neville.
―Did you not think that your selfish despair might deepen their pain? Do you think yourself
alone in this matter, isolated in your grandeur?‖
James folded his arms, looking up and down Neville‘s naked body. ―You are filthy,‖ he
said, both his eyes and tone flat. ―The filthiness of your flesh reflects the state of your mind. You disgust me, Thomas. Wash yourself, for until then I cannot speak with you.‖
And with that he turned his back, and returned to his work table where he ran one hand
softly up and down the length of wood he‘d been smoothing. ―Wash yourself,‖ he whispered.
Neville stared at James‘ back, then his head dropped, and his shoulders slumped. He
looked to the side, and saw the tub.
Steam rose from the water within.
Silently, abjectly, hating what his pride had brought him to, Neville walked over to the
tub and lowered himself in.
―They brought me again to the Field of Angels,‖ Neville said. He had washed, and
dressed in the clothes James had set out for him, and now sat with James at a small table under
the still-shuttered window.
He smelled sweet, and for no other reason that lifted his spirits.
―And?‖ James said, biting into a hunk of bread and cheese he had taken from the platter
he had laid on the table between them. Ale stood in a jug to one side, and Neville sighed, and
poured himself a beaker-full of the rich, foaming liquid.
―The decision is soon,‖ he said, sipping the ale.
―Of course,‖ said James. ―Else I would not be here. And? What did they say or do to
drive you into such self-absorbed—‖
―Yes, yes, I know…such self-absorbed misery. James,‖ Neville put the beaker down with
a thump, spilling a little of the ale, ―you told me to trust you, and I have tried to do that. But what the angels showed me…‖
―What?‖ James snapped, then smiled at the look in Neville‘s eyes. ―I am allowed to have
a temper,‖ he said. He reached out a hand and poked Neville in the centre of his chest. ―It is one
of the many things we share.‖
Neville half smiled, but his dejection would not allow it to flower fully. ―The Archangels,
all of them, ringed about me, trapped me, showed me that I have no choice but to choose in their
favour when it comes to the decision.‖
―Ah,‖ said James. ―And what exactly did they say?‖
Neville told James that the only way he could save mankind from an eternal enslavement
to the angels was to hand his soul on a platter to a whore, to beg her to love him, to accept his
soul.
―I had thought Margaret, but even if I could overcome my hesitancy in loving her I still
could not hand her my soul because she is no whore. She may not be the epitome of saintly
virtue, but Margaret is no whore, no street harlot. James, I thought I had a choice, but there is none. None. We have all been trapped, and we are all struggling useless in that trap.‖
James lowered his head, staring at his tanned forearms where they crossed on the table
before him. Finally, he looked up with eyes gone very strange.
―In any apparent two-way fork in the path ahead,‖ he said very quietly, his eyes locking
into Neville‘s, ―there is always a third way, a third path, a third potential choice that those who seek to control you do not want you to see, or to understand. Do not allow the angels to blind you, Thomas. Do not let your own anger and despair blind you. There is a third path, beyond
Margaret, beyond the angels. Make sure that when the time comes, you are able to see it.‖
―But the angels said…the whore on the street of Rome said, that I must give my soul to a
whore. A prostitute who I love and trust before all others. Who else but—‖
―You are blind, Thomas. I pray that the shutters shall be lifted from your eyes before it is
too late. Now…‖
James‘ voice stopped abruptly. He sat, his head cocked as if listening, then suddenly his
entire body jerked and went rigid. His brown eyes widened, appalled.
―Mary. Oh, in the name of all love… Mary!‖ James leapt to his feet, leaned across the
table and dragged Neville up as well. ―I have said too much. Thomas, you must get to Mary now.