A Creed for the Third Millennium by Colleen McCullough

  'It may have gone down in the sea,' he said soothingly.

  'If it did, there should have been an oil slick. And its course was entirely over shallow water, where it should be seen on the bottom. The weather was overcast in the area but basically fine and clear all along the route. Helicopters navigate by landmarks, so there's no reason to suppose it was off course the way a high-flying plane might stray. Billy armed himself with the charts before he left his base to pick me up. You know Billy, sir! The best.'

  'Yes.'

  'That helicopter is gone, I tell you.'

  The President decided it might be politic to alter the trend of Dr Carriol's thinking away from the missing aircraft, and he had besides a bone of his own to pick. 'So it's thanks to Mr Magnus's — heart attack — that Dr Christian was left alone to die of neglect.'

  Dr Carriol glanced up, stared straight at him, her strange green eyes glittering not wetly but demonically. 'Dr Joshua Christian,' she said with a slow relish, 'was crucified.'

  'Crucified?'

  'Or more accurately, he crucified himself.'

  The President lost colour, his lips moving soundlessly, his brain formulating so many questions that his speech mechanisms went into chaotic overload. Finally he grasped hold of a simple query and managed to articulate it. 'How, for God's sake, could he do a thing like that?'

  She shrugged. 'He was demented, of course. I knew that this morning when I went back to the March compound to take him down to Pocahontas Island. And I'd been watching the signs and symptoms grow ever since — oh, as far back as a month after his book was published. But today he was supposed to go straight into the hands of doctors and nurses, and I had no reason to think he hadn't. I'm not saying his madness was the permanent kind. I think it was more a derangement brought on by his extreme overload of work in the beginning, and later by physical suffering too. Frostbite, chafing, abscesses and the like. In the normal course of events he should have recovered from his dementia along with his bodily ailments. After a summer's rest, he should have been quite back to his normal self.'

  'So what happened, for God's sake?'

  'Apparently he arrived on Pocahontas Island to find himself totally alone. He made himself a cross out of two old railroad ties — we found the tools he had used scattered around the courtyard attached to the house. The courtyard, I should explain, is paved with old railroad ties similar to the two he used to make his cross. There were chips of wood all over the place, from his work of joining the beams together. He couldn't nail himself up, of course, so he tied himself up. He used a stool to position himself, and kicked it over. And he hung there with a piece of rope tied around the cross holding his neck, and two more pieces around his wrists. He died of respiratory arrest, which also appears to have been the chief cause of death back in the days when a lot of people were crucified.'

  The President looked stricken, as indeed he was. The images Dr Carriol was conjuring up were not anything he could associate with the man who had spent an evening at the White House, relished his cognac, quoted Kipling, smoked a cigar, and behaved in the most human manner.

  'It's blasphemy!' he said.

  'In all fairness to Dr Christian, no, sir, it is not blasphemy. Blasphemy implies a state of mind sufficiently organized to want to mock. Dr Christian was quite demented, and the conviction that one is Jesus Christ is very typical of organically based dementias. His own name — his extraordinary position — the adulation he received wherever he went — some people did actually worship him, you know. All these memories and experiences were cemented in his brain, and when his thought processes disintegrated, it was quite logical for his particular loss of contact with reality to take a Jesus Christ form. What I find unbelievable is the fact that he actually managed to do this thing, crucify himself. Physically as I've said he was extremely ill — worn out, and on the verge of permanent crippling. All that walking in subzero cold. He went among the people, Mr President! Just like Jesus Christ. And he was a truly good man. Just like Jesus Christ.'

  The implications of what Dr Carriol was telling him were beginning to sink in; Tibor Reece sat up straight, and broke out in a heavy sweat. 'What happened to his body?'

  'We took it down at once.'

  'And the cross he made?'

  'We put it in a small stone shed within the courtyard. As I said, the paving is made of these old railroad ties, and the owners of the house kept five or six extra ties in the shed in case they needed to replace any paving. Dr Christian found these spare ties, and he used two of them to make his cross. So we just put his cross back with the others.'

  'Where's his body now?'

  'I instructed the medical team to take it to Walter Reed with them and put it in the mortuary with extreme secrecy. Dr Mark Ampleforth, who was chief of the team for its duration as a team, is waiting your personal instructions.'

  'How many people — saw him up there?' An expression of extreme distaste glimmered, was wiped away out of respect and affection for the dead man, who he was assured had genuinely gone mad; yet not for all the respect and affection in the world could he bring himself to say, How many people saw him hanging on the cross?'

  'Just the medical team and me, Mr President. Luckily I had sent the helicopter pilot over to start the generator. After we found Dr Christian, which was immediately, I kept the pilot away from the area. He knows Dr Christian is dead, but he thinks the cause of death was simple illness.'

  'Where are the medical team now? Who are they?'

  'They're back at Walter Reed. They're all service officers of high rank and they're all security-cleared. I made sure of that before we went down to Pocahontas.'

  What to do? What to do? Dr Judith Carriol watched imperturbably as Tibor Reece assembled all the alternatives and assessed their relative merits. He would not have the medical team eliminated, that she knew; it was the kind of thing you might have done to obscure people, or unconnected people, or fewer people; but not even the President of the United States of America could arrange to have concrete, boots made for eight high-ranking officers in his own armed forces. No matter how cleverly it was done, every nosy nose in the District of Columbia and surrounds would start twitching. Besides which, a long and senior Washington career had made Dr Judith Carriol very sceptical about the occasional sensationalist allegations of murder in high places. She did not believe it existed, certainly among politicians. Politicians were just too careful of their own necks to contemplate running such an appalling risk. For murder was always a risk.

  No, the kind of thinking Tibor Reece was doing (her interpretation was absolutely right) ran along the lines of whether the horrific nature of Dr Christian's death could successfully be suppressed, and if it could not, what was best to do about it?

  He decided to aim for suppression, for a general cover-up; the watching Dr Carriol smiled inwardly. Good! Good! That was the sensible and prudent course to take. Tibor Reece would invite the medical team to the White House, ostensibly to talk to them about their vain but heroic attempt to keep Dr Christian alive, and while he had them there, he would personally request of each of them that he or she maintain an utter silence about what they found on Pocahontas Island. Naturally they would all pledge their silence. But she wondered if the President understood how implacable an enemy time was going to be; probably not. Though her bald and frank description of the manner of Dr Christian's death had horrified and disgusted Tibor Reece, she knew he had actually little comprehension of what a sight had met the eyes of those who saw the manner of Dr Christian's death. The horror would fade. The shock would dissipate. But no one who saw him hanging there could ever forget the sight. The crucifixion death of Dr Joshua Christian was going to haunt every one of those eight people so long as each of them lived. By the time Tibor Reece could gather the eight members of the medical team here in this room, and request their total silence, they would already have talked. Not in general. Not to superiors, or fellow officers, or professional colleagues. They would have unburdened themselv
es to those they loved, because what they had seen could not be endured without a cathartic sharing of the experience with a loved one.

  The President had managed to file his personal feelings about Dr Christian's death; now he could really begin to think about its implications for the country, for the world, for his government.

  'All along we agreed that the one thing we could not have on our hands was a martyr,' he said grimly.

  'Mr President,' said Dr Carriol, 'Dr Christian's death resulted from a series of cosmic events, events beyond our control. And he was a law unto himself. Had he not been, he could not have done what we set him up to do. Why should he be accounted a martyr? Martyrs are made, they're the victims of persecution. But no one ever persecuted Dr Christian! The government of this country has worked with him in everything, from providing transport for his travels to the March of the Millennium! Facts you can point to with pride, facts that indicate loud and clear how appreciative of Dr Christian this government was and is. Sir, please approach the problem of Dr Christian's death bearing those facts in mind! Martyrdom isn't an outcome you need worry about'

  He put his chin on his hand, chewed his lips, then looked across at her wryly. 'Martyrs,' he said, 'come in two types. The persecuted variety, and the self-made variety. He's the self-made martyr. You must surely admit, Judith, that there is such a creature — look at half the world's mothers.'

  'Then we must try to ensure the people don't look at him in that light,' she said, and rose to her feet. 'You don't need me now, Mr President. If you don't mind, I ought to get across to Walter Reed and see Mr Magnus.'

  He looked startled; clearly he had forgotten the existence of the Secretary for the Environment. 'Yes, certainly! Thank you, Judith. Please convey my regards to Harold, and tell him he can expect a visit from me tomorrow morning.' Tibor Reece's fine dark eyes held a dangerous gleam.

  How he knew it Dr Carriol didn't understand, but somehow the President did know that Harold Magnus was shamming.

  That night, as a weary but delighted nation thought about settling back into the weary routines of everyday life, the President commandeered all television and radio stations for a special broadcast. The time was eight o'clock, the hour at which the Millennial Ball had been scheduled to commence; it had of course been cancelled.

  Comfortably ensconced in her own living room, her shoes off, her feet and body wrapped in fleecy lightweight warmth, Dr Judith Carriol turned on her small television set. It was approaching the end of the longest day of her life.

  No matter how rational a person one was, she thought, still the brutal severing of a link that had been sometimes suffocatingly close for months on end, a link that had joined a whole set of intellectual and emotional chains into a circle, a link that had brought her so much she had always wanted and not a little pain as well — still the brutal severing of that link must hurt. Had Dr Joshua Christian been her evil genius, or had she been his? A bit of both, probably. Well, Tibor Reece's speech to the nation would mark the complete conclusion of the chapter in her life called Joshua Christian.

  After she left the White House to see Harold Magnus in his sickbed at Walter Reed, the horrors of the day had gone on unabated. When she got all the way to the hospital through the delirious crowds which clogged Washington, she found the Secretary for the Environment denied all visitors. His luck had held; apparently he was indeed a very sick man and had indeed sustained some kind of genuine seizure after she had left his office. No doubt this would be communicated to the President and all would be forgiven. Damn! Still, she availed herself of the opportunity to see Dr Mark Ampleforth, discovering that the President had already been in touch, and moves were afoot to disguise the manner of Dr Christian's death.

  As she rejoined her car for the return trip, hoping to go home, a message was relayed to her from the President; he wished her to break the news of Dr Christian's death to his family. And would she kindly do it at once, please, before the news broke and they heard it less kindly? Also please tell them that a car would fetch them to the White House at seven in the evening so that the President could personally convey his sympathies to them.

  Dr Carriol had dragged herself, aching and hating, to the Hay-Adams Hotel, where the Christian family was staying. She found them a little bewildered; following the marquee reception things had somehow seemed to fizzle out, and they could find no one to tell them how Joshua was. Oh, the reception had been impressive, as had the actual ceremony concluding the March of the Millennium, but for them all of it had been an anguish because Joshua was not with them. Oh, it was very nice to talk in person to the King of Australia and New Zealand; he seemed a most amiable fellow, was possessed of exquisite manners and never said anything out of place or contentious. Very nice too to exchange nods and smiles and bows and banalities with so many prime ministers and presidents and premiers and chairmen of this and that, ambassadors and governors, senators and congressmen. But Joshua was not there. Joshua was ill! All they really wanted was to be allowed to see Joshua. Where it seemed all everybody else wanted was to prevent their seeing Joshua.

  So when about six that evening Dr Judith Carriol appeared, she was greeted by the Christians in the manner of a returned prodigal. She who they assumed would marry Joshua had become their only channel of communication with him. The events of the past few days had thinned their ranks from six to four and flattened any rebellion in them, but worry was rapidly fanning indignation into anger. Andrew may have condemned his wife's behaviour to Judith, but Martha's words had sunk into Mama's brain; now Mama wanted answers.

  Had Judas been obliged to talk to Mary and the others after Jesus's death and before he, Judas, went out to hang himself? Judith. Judas. Judas. But there had to be a Judas. There always had to be a Judas! Without Judas, humanity would not need saving. For it was the Judas element that justified all the pain of birth and death and everything that happened in between, pain and pain and yet more pain. Judas was he or she who owned high ambitions but needed the talents of others to achieve success. Judas was he or she who rode upon the back of another's genius. Judas was profit and loss, emotional blackmail, manipulation, despair, self-righteousness, the purest of intentions, the basest methods, exculpation. Judas was not betrayal! Many a Judas never needed to betray. And Judas was not an aberration. Judas was the norm.

  'Joshua is dead,' she said, before the fermenting Christian anger could surge over her.

  And they had been expecting it after all. They had known. James moved closer to Miriam, Andrew to Mama. And they simply looked at Judas Carriol. No one exclaimed, or wept, or evidenced disbelief. But their eyes — oh, their eyes! She closed her own so she could not see.

  'He died,' she went on in a calm and level voice, 'at about ten o'clock this morning. I don't think he died in much pain if any pain. I don't know. I wasn't there. His body is at Walter Reed Hospital. He will be given a full state funeral in five days' time, and with your permission he will be buried in Arlington National Cemetery. The White House is taking care of all the arrangements. President Reece is sending a car for you in a very little while, because he wants to see you.'

  To her genuine and naive surprise, she discovered that the hardest thing her life had yet called upon her to do was now to open her eyes and look at them. She had to open her eyes and look at them. She had to be sure they accepted this most uninformative account. They probably thought they would get more from the President, but she knew they would not. No one was ever going to tell them how Joshua Christian died, or for what reasons.

  She did open her eyes and she did look directly at them. They gazed back at her without suspicion or criticism. That was just not fair!

  'Thank you, Judith,' said Mama.

  'Thank you, Judith,' said James.

  'Thank you, Judith,' said Andrew.

  'Thank you, Judith, said Miriam.

  Judas Carriol smiled very slightly and sadly, got up and left them alone. She never saw any of the Christians in person again.

  N
ow, alone at last and able to shed the outer trappings of her public image, Dr Judith Carriol watched the shimmering screen in front of her as it filled with a picture of the exterior of the White House, then that dissolved, and the Oval Office came into view. It too vanished; the President had chosen to broadcast from his private sitting room. He was seated at one end of a small sofa, with Mama beside him on his right hand looking exquisitely, serenely, heart-rendingly beautiful in a pure-white dress with a sky-blue stole draped across her shoulders and through her arms. James and Miriam were also on the President's right, Miriam on a chair and wearing white, James standing behind her with his hand on her shoulder. On the President's left, but standing oddly alone behind and beyond the sofa on which his mother sat with the President of the United States of America, was Andrew. All three men wore dark-blue sweaters and trousers. Whoever had posed them thus was brilliant at his job. It worked. The impression on any viewer was immediately momentous and profound.

  The camera zoomed in slowly on the President's face, drawn and very serious, truly Lincolnesque; or would tomorrow's adjective be 'Christianesque'?

  'At ten o'clock this morning,' said Tibor Reece, 'Dr Joshua Christian died. He had been suffering from a grave illness for some time, but he refused to have treatment until after the March of the Millennium was over. He made a conscious decision, in full possession of the medical facts about his condition.'

  He paused, then went on, 'I would like to quote, if I may, from the speech Dr Christian made only the other day in Philadelphia, during the March of the Millennium. It is his last speech and the one I personally think his greatest.'

  The piercing deep-set eyes subtly changed; to Dr Carriol, an expert, it was obvious he was now reading from a prompting device positioned exactly in front of him and at his eye level.