When she came out of the stream, she wrung the water from her hair and loosened the folds of her garments. Her mind was so occupied with praying that she didn’t hear the man approaching, nor see him standing in the trees. When she did, she stumbled back, fear her immediate reaction, then anger swiftly following.
“Did you come to kill me, too, Rolf?”
He said nothing. He just stood there in the shadows, silent, motionless, but she saw in his face what no words could have expressed. Fear and anger dissolved as she was moved by deep compassion. She came up the bank until she stood within a few feet of him. He looked so young, so wounded.
“You can talk to me. I’ll listen.”
His throat worked. She waited, tears brimming in her eyes as she saw the suffering in his.
“I was deceived. I . . .” He looked down at the ground, unable to look into her eyes. She saw his hands clench and unclench at his sides. “I let myself be deceived,” he amended and looked at her again. “He just stood there and let me do it. He said . . .” His face worked. “He said . . .”
“He said he forgave you,” Rizpah said in a trembling whisper, when he couldn’t finish. She saw clearly how love had broken through his walls.
Rolf started to cry. “He spared my life, and I took his.” He hadn’t wanted to give in to unmanly tears, but they came, hot and heavy. He couldn’t restrain them. Remembering Theophilus’ face as he stabbed him the second time, he sank to his knees, his head in his hands, sobs wracking his body.
Rizpah put her arms around him. “I forgive you, too,” she said, stroking his hair as she would a hurt child’s. “Jesus forgives you. Take your heavy burdens to the Lord, for he is gentle and humble in heart; and you will find rest for your soul. His yoke is light and easy, Rolf, and he will give you rest.”
52
Atretes came awake abruptly, breathing heavily as he stared up at a beamed roof. His heart slowed from its racing pace as he realized he lay in the straw of the bachelors’ longhouse, surrounded by the rattling snores from the others who lay strewn nearby, blown down by whatever wind of passion had come upon them. Too much ale, too much living.
His body ached and his head throbbed from too much wine. He had drunk until he couldn’t stand the night before, but not enough to drive the dreams away, nor fill the emptiness he felt.
He thought about Rizpah. He could still see the look on her face after he had hit her. Something else he couldn’t forget. He tried to justify himself. If she had told him who the murderer was, everything would be settled by now. Theophilus’ death would be avenged, and they could go on as they had.
The Spirit within him revolted at such thinking. It wouldn’t give him peace, plaguing him constantly. He tried to lie to himself, but the truth was there, inside him.
“Feed the sheep.”
He groaned. Sitting up, he rubbed his face. The headache intensified, his stomach churning. The dream was still too vivid in his mind, vivid enough to bring physical consequences. Stumbling to his feet, he barely made it out the back of the longhouse before he vomited. When the spasms were over, he leaned heavily back against the building, squinting against the afternoon sunlight. What time of day was it?
And what did he care? He wasn’t going anywhere. He wasn’t doing anything.
He had forgotten what it was like to live without hope, without love.
The strength of his body was wasting away. He seemed to spend every day lamenting. He felt a heavy hand upon him. His vitality was draining away as though the fever of rage sapped his strength. Not a night went by that he didn’t dream of death or of life so painful he didn’t want to live it. He saw the countless faces of men whose lives he had taken. He saw Bato dying by his own hand. He saw Pugnax chased down and torn to pieces by dogs. Sometimes he ran with him, heart in his throat, hearing the growls and feeling the snapping teeth behind him.
Then there were the dreams of Julia putting Caleb on the rocks and laughing when he couldn’t get to him before the waves did. She always vanished as he ran into the crashing surf, trying desperately to find his son in the cold, frothing water. And then he’d see Caleb, always out of reach, swirling and dipping and sucked under by the dark currents.
Worst of all, he dreamed of Rizpah standing outside the grubenhaus, weeping. “Why didn’t you do what he asked of you? Why didn’t you feed the sheep?” And everywhere he looked were people he knew, lying dead—in the meadows, beneath the trees, in the longhouses, along the streets of the village, as though struck down during normal chores and living. Rud, Holt, Usipi, Marta, Varus, his mother, the children, all of them, dead!