The Rebirth of Pan | Page 3

stroll about, some talk, some eat and drink. That is authentic.
Not everyone would care. That's something we did wrong, too,
everyone was focused, everyone cared. The little knot of women stand
at the foot of the cross. They are actors, they don't convince me at all. I
try to ignore them. The Romans dice for His robe. One of them has a
brutal face, and a spear. He has His exchange with the thieves, and then
they are taken down and walk away. That doesn't matter.
I watch Him, silhouetted against the blue sky, and try to concentrate on
his suffering. When I fear I may lose focus, I look at the crowd. The
locals are still for the most part now, but the tourists still mill about.
The crowd is silent for the words and prayers but mutters restlessly the
rest of the time.
I notice the woman with the white dress and the gold cross again. She
catches my eye because she is still among these other fidgeting people.
She has a pleasant face. I don't think she's Italian, her hair is too light a
brown and she shows too much skin. I notice only now that she is
pregnant. I probably didn't take it in before because half the women I
know are pregnant, hoping. I've become accustomed to it. But maybe

her baby will be the new All Holy. I'd like that. She has a big mouth
and she looks relaxed, as if she laughs a lot. She is sad and serious now,
looking towards Him. Somehow I can tell she is a Catholic--maybe it is
the style of her cross. I am too far away from her now to see it clearly
now, but I remember it, gold against her tanned skin. I can tell she is a
true believer. She cares. She will do to stand for the three Marys who
should be here, much better than the actors. She has a man with her. He
holds the same guidebook I have, in French. Somehow I do not think
they are French, though. She might be, but not him. He has dark
towsled hair falling into his eyes, and a wide grin. He puts his hand on
the woman's arm. Unlike her, he doesn't have the look of a Christian.
He might almost be one of us. I look away, back to the cross.
More prayers. Vinegar. More suffering. A convincing plea to have the
cup taken from Him. Well might He waver, but I am inexorable. What
about the sins of the whole world? I almost laugh, thinking this, for my
role here is that of Fate, of God. To think I doubted whether I was
worthy, when I was chosen, whether one of the others might be better.
This is what I am for, this is the focus not only of these past months of
preparation but of my whole life. More prayers. No hesitation. The
television cameras are still rolling. I'm sure they've recorded me, sitting
here. It doesn't matter. I'm not expecting to survive this, one way or
another.
Now. I raise the camera. "Lord, into thy hands, I commend my spirit." I
am ready. I focus, my finger on the trigger. This is the time and the
place we reasoned it would be best to do it. The Son of Man is in my
sights. I can already picture how the bullets will tear into his chest,
spraying blood. Everything is balanced on this moment. The new age
starts here. I move my finger--but nothing happens. It doesn't respond.
What the hell? I try to move, to stand, but I can't! I'm paralysed.
Completely paralysed, frozen in place. God? You bastard! Where did
You get that power from? You shouldn't be able to do this! It doesn't
make sense! It's not fair! You'll pay for it! I hate You! I'm here to kill
You and I shall.
"Wait." The voice in my head is male, a gentle baritone, with a soft

Irish accent. I don't believe this. I should be panicking, but I can't
move.
"Who are you, you bastard, let me go!" I'm only half expecting
heavenly trumpets, now.
"My name is my word." I knew it wasn't any god really. Only a man
with magic would say that, a god wouldn't mind being bound by their
name, their names are part of what they Are. I don't know much about
magic. I try to run through everything I've heard about it quickly. The
power it must take to hold me like this! He surely can't keep it up for
long. But how did he know the need?
"Let me go!"
"I can't. You're going to kill him." He sounds so reasonable. He must be
a fanatic.
"You can't