She looked out at the ocean, squinting into the double glare of sun and reflected sun. Luke had offered to put Shadow out of her misery, as he put it. But Rachel had refused him. She would take care of Shadow to the end.
Mary could see Luke in minuscule silhouette on the headland. She wondered if the changes she felt in him in the last four days were real or only figments of her own anxiety. Sometimes she imagined the Ark as a magnet that wrought subtle alterations in his emotional and mental charge as it drew him into its field of influence.
From the first night, when they camped in an old bum where charred firs loomed over the new growth of alder, they slept in separate sleeping bags, although they might have zipped the bags together and, if nothing else, shared the warmth of their bodies in the chill September nights.
And at the end of the second day they unwrapped the last of the baked chicken they’d brought from Amarna, and Luke clasped his hands in prayer, as he always did before eating. But this time he spoke aloud, and when he came to the amen, he added, “Say it, Mary. Amen.” And she was too startled not to.
That night, as they watched the campfire burn down to coals, he gently stroked her hair, and she closed her eyes, appreciating the affection she read into that gesture. Then he said, “You’ll have to let your hair grow out. Women don’t cut their hair.”
Annoyed, she retorted, “If you’re any example, men don’t cut their hair, either, where you come from.”
“It’s unnatural for a man to cut his hair or beard.”
She laughed. “Oh. The Samson syndrome.”
He ignored that. “When we reach the Ark, you’ll have to cover your hair. Do you have a scarf or bandanna?”
“What the hell’s wrong with my hair?”
“Mary, don’t say words like that!”
And they had gone to bed in silence, separately.
Last night, while the fire still burned bright, he took out his Bible and asked her to read aloud the passage he designated: Saint Paul outlining in rigorous detail the proper behavior for women.
And yet—she sighed in resignation. At other times he was still the Luke she loved, naive, but kind and gentle. She pressed her hands to her abdomen, wondering if one missed period could be taken seriously.
Then she rose and put the sketchbook in her pack. Luke had left the rocks and was walking up the beach. When he reached the campsite, he grinned proudly as he showed off his catch of iridescent black kelp fish, but across his right forearm was a scraped cut, and his shirt was tom at the shoulder, the ragged edges bloodstained.
“Luke, what happened to you?”
“Oh, I just slipped and went down on the barnacles.”
“Well, let me clean those cuts.”
“All right, but first I have to clean these fish.”
“The fish can wait a few minutes.” She went to her pack, found a handkerchief, then with her hand on Luke’s arm, led him to the creek. “Take off your shirt.”
He did, knelt with her on the bank while she dipped the handkerchief in the chill water and washed the cuts. They were only minor abrasions, except for the one at the swell of the deltoid. “Luke, you might have a new scar to add to the ones the survivalists gave you.”
He looked at her, then turned away, eyes averted. “I didn’t say that’s where I got those scars.”
Mary was bewildered, at first positive that he had said he’d acquired the scars at the hands of the survivalists. But maybe she’d only assumed…
“How did you get those scars?”
He rose, pulled on his shirt, ruefully noting the tear. “When we get to the Ark, you’ll have to mend this for me.”
Woman’s work, no doubt, but she refused to be distracted. “Someone whipped you unmercifully. Who, Luke? And why?”
“I have to take care of the fish.”
“Luke!”
Her importunate tone stopped him. He studied her, while she waited, a seed of fear growing in her mind. Then he said, “It was a long time ago, and it was a just punishment.”
“Punishment! What did you do to deserve that?”
He took a deep breath. “I spoke blasphemy.”
That explanation seemed so unlikely, she laughed. “You?”
“Yes, me!”
Abruptly she sobered. “Please… tell me what happened.”
He folded his arms against his chest. “It was in the Blind Summer. I was sixteen then. It was such a hard time for us. There was so much grief and sickness and hunger, so much… disagreement. Lord help me, if I hadn’t said it right out in church in front of the whole Flock—what was left of us—it wouldn’t have been so bad.”
“Said what?”
He seemed to find repeating it difficult. “I said—well, I said there wouldn’t be any Second Coming. It’d been nearly a year since Armageddon. I said the Doctor was wrong about the Second Coming.”
“And that was blasphemy?”
He frowned irritably. “Of course, it was!”
“Is it written in the Bible that the Last World War—or whatever it was called—was Armageddon? It was the Doctor who made that assumption. You didn’t blaspheme. You only disagreed with him.”
Luke shook his head. “No, you don’t understand. The Doctor— he’s a special man, chosen of God.”
“A man who has visions,” Mary said with cold irony.
“Yes! He’s our rock, like Saint Peter was the rock of the new church of Jesus Christ.”
“Was it this rock who punished you so terribly for disagreeing—”
“For blasphemy, Mary, before all the Flock!”
“Was he the one who whipped you?”
“No, the Doctor left it to my father to punish me, since he was Elder of our household. And afterward I went before the Flock in the church and… well, I don’t remember much of that. The glory of the Lord came over me. They said I spoke in tongues. It was the first time for me.” He sighed. “And the last.”
Mary looked into his troubled face, and he seemed so achingly vulnerable, she couldn’t hold on to her anger. Bringing to heel the defiant boy Luke had been was a necessity of survival for the Flock. They couldn’t afford dissension or rebellion. But Luke paid a high price for their unity. She put her arms around him, closed her eyes when she felt his arms strong and needing around her.
Finally she drew away, waited until he could return her gaze. “You’d better take care of the fish. I’ll get the fire started.”
He kissed her forehead. “I knew you’d understand, Mary.”
“Then why didn’t you tell me about it sooner?”
He laughed self-consciously. “I guess because I was afraid you wouldn’t understand.”
“Oh, I understand, Luke.” She understood far more than he did. “Come on, let’s get supper ready. I’m hungry.”
There was more to understand before the night was out.
After supper they sat together on one of the sleeping bags watching the fire, while the surf whispered constant assurances in the darkness, and Mary felt her equilibrium restored.
Until Luke rose, put more wood on the fire so that it flared harshly in her eyes, and she braced herself as he went to his backpack, returned with his Bible. He knelt, facing her. “Mary, the reason I didn’t want to go on to the Ark today is that before you reach its gates, you must take Jesus into your heart as your personal savior.”
She found his earnestness annoying. “I must what?” He started to repeat the formula, but she interrupted him. “What would happen if I weren’t a Christian? If I were a Jew or Buddhist or Muslim or agnostic or—heaven forfend!—an atheist? Would I be denied entrance to the Ark?”