To Kill the Christ! - Chapter Two: The Heart Is the Target

       The shin felt better the longer Carl walked. The rain had passed, and the streets sparkled in the rose hues cast by the setting sun. Although bemused by his encounter with Rebecca, he still reflected on his surroundings as he cut through two campuses to Holywell. He looked up and admired the clean beauty of the facade of a Seventeenth Century building. The college had recently sandblasted the grime of decades from its fine limestone front. The veins that ran through the light buff stone and the intricate detail in the oriel never failed to win his admiration and slow his pace. The dark clouds fleeing to the east were a neutral backdrop to the stone as it reflected the setting sun. He had never seen anything like it in the States.

       What was it the novelist Priestly said? Something about the sunlight of lost eons once again gleaming in the stone? He knew he had garbled it, but the fact didn't bother him. The sentiment was right on.

       The pure stone of the original facade contrasted with the soot-streaked and discolored buildings that surrounded it, proof of the skills of the early artisans. Proof also of how much man was polluting his environment, destroying both these timeless buildings and himself.

       A quick review of his notes and a couple of chapters from his books prepared him to return to Trinity College where Reader Peter Edgeway would question him on Norman England and its economic practices. Carl enjoyed these jousts with the amiable professor. Some instructors delighted in tripping up an American scholar, but Edgeway had a true academic's heart and mind. He wanted only to communicate his love of history to this colonial and to have that love reciprocated. In Carl he had found a kindred spirit, so their times together were real explorations of the books, with both tutor and pupil gaining from the exchange.

       Professor Edgeway noticed the pronounced limp, far greater than normal, as soon as Carl walked through the door of his study. "Have you been playing basketball again?" He remembered when Carl had badly sprained his ankle in a vigorous intramural game, which had handicapped his access to the library for two weeks.

       "No, Sir, I've just bruised my shin. It'll be OK shortly." Carl noticed the professor was dressed warmly against the coolness of the room. He wore a dark tweed jacket over a light grey woolen cardigan, a stereotype of an English don if ever there was one.

       "Good, let's get to work, I want to know what you've learned about the manufacture of Norman steel and where they traded it." With that warning he poured Carl a cup of tea and off they sped, like a time machine into an ancient era, two scholars talking over events that had taken place over nine hundred years before as though they were participating in them. It was moments like this that powerfully attracted Carl to the academic life.
 
                                   ------------------------------
 
       Rebecca hurried in the door just as her cell phone chimed. "'Allo," she blurted, partially out of breath from the quick climb up the stairs. Then her heart gave a little flutter, which wasn't caused by the quick climb. It was Carl.
       "Hi! We can use the practice range next Wednesday. You available?"
She thought for a moment to play hard to get, then decided the risk wasn't worth it. "Sure."

       "Good, you bring two bows and two quivers of arrows, I'll supply the rifles and boxes of bullets."

       "What will it cost?" Nurses didn't make large salaries.

       "Don't worry. I load and reload my own shells. You just need to pick up your casings each time we practice. You take care of the arrows, I'll take care of the cartridges. I'll pick you up at eight outside the flat."

       Rebecca had nearly a week of exquisite anticipation for she had noticed Carl almost as soon as she had entered the bookstore the week before, partly because he was tall and stood out among the men in the store. She had kept her eyes on him even as she moved to the magazine rack where he was standing, but she had kept him from noting her interest.

       She had observed his features more closely while he recovered from his encounter with the pickpocket. His dark brown hair had started to recede along the temples. Only a slight scar along the left side of his chin marred an otherwise clear face that housed a short, sculptured nose between two steel blue eyes. His eyebrows were widely spaced and tended toward bushiness in the center, but otherwise were finely drawn. His ready smile complemented the rigorous jaw.

       She had been especially pleased with his ability to laugh at himself, for the pickpocket had escaped rather easily. Most of the academics in Oxford thought too much of themselves, this one was refreshing. The memory of the incident reminded her perversely that she owed a debt of gratitude to the pickpocket for helping her to meet Carl. It would be interesting to see what transpired in the days ahead.

       Rebecca was twenty-six, a registered nurse with long work experience, and a woman who had fended off many men over the years. She was raised Catholic, but had become estranged from the church. Yet she still relied upon its teachings, particularly in moral matters.

       Once she had been attracted to a computer products salesman who was looking for a part-time girl in his regular travels into Oxford. She had seriously considered a live-in arrangement prior to marriage until she learned he was married.

       She rang him, sent him packing, and never regretted the decision. She gave no thought to his proposal that she live with him until his divorce came through, assuming he really wanted a divorce. Rebecca simply couldn't and wouldn't consider marrying a divorced man. Being the cause of a divorce was beyond the pale. As with others of her generation, however, living with someone before marriage was a common option. Religion seemed to have little impact on that.
 
                                   -------------------------------
 
       Throughout the remainder of winter into spring, Carl and Rebecca visited the practice ranges weekly, when it wasn't raining, teaching each other the techniques of rifle and bow. They usually got together at least one other day during the week, oftentimes in a tea shop for scones and tea and coffee, just to talk over matters important to themselves. Rebecca's schedule made courting difficult, which probably saved Carl's doctoral aspirations, or his studies would have suffered from inattention. Only once had they not met during the week. Rebecca had to attend a week long bio-terrorism seminar, and she had lots of studying of her own to do.

       Carl used a 7.62 hard kill rifle, capable of hitting and killing a deer well over 600 yards away. With his Schmidt and Bender scope he was a formidable marksman. The rifle was too powerful for short ranges, but they had access to ranges designed for such weapons. He got Rebecca a Browning Hi Power 9 Millimeter with clips for bullets. The Browning improved accuracy but had minimal killing power over great distances, such as for hunting, a subject on which they soon disagreed.

       "How can you shoot a deer?" she asked one day.

       "It's not hard. My father taught me to hunt, trap, and fish when I was a lad, so I naturally grew up doing those things. He wanted me to be safe in the forest or desert. He made sure that I could handle any weapon skillfully." He pulled a knife from his pack. "This is for cleaning deer, but it's carefully balanced so it can be thrown, too." He got back to the subject. "Anyway, hunting is enjoyable—unless you're the deer."

       "When I look at the big, soft eyes, I know I couldn't shoot one."

       Carl laughed. "You don't aim at those 'big, soft eyes'—you aim at the heart. A deer is like any other animal, if you kill it for food. I've never been into trophy hunting."

       "You said you were in the Army. Did you ever kill anyone?"

       "Yes, in Afghanistan." He paused. This could be touchy, so he erred on the side of disclosure. "We were hunting Al Qaeda and Taliban guerrillas when my unit came under mortar fire. I was higher than they were, although a quarter of a mile away, so I took two of them out before they could find the range."

       He had had other experiences, too, but he didn't know her views on the war, so he left it at that.

       But she wouldn't. "How'd you get that scar?"

       "From a Taliban mortar unit that bombarded our area for what seemed like an eternity, though it was only twenty minutes or so." He didn't explain that he had dragged himself into position to eliminate them with his rifle. "I was airlifted out and fitted with a piece of metal to hold the bone together. I was very fortunate to have good medical treatment, or I would have lost my foot."

       She nodded, then changed the subject. "I saw on the Beeb that many men never fire their weapons in battle."

       "That's a theory advanced by an American military historian, supposedly based on his experiences in World War II and Korea. I was taught in the ROT, er, the Reserve Officers Training Corps that one should have enough fire power to make up for those who don't fire. But we've since learned that there were no data upon which to base his conjecture." He paused, then ruefully continued: "Too many historians have indifferent ethical standards when they have a political or ideological point to make."
 
                               -----------------------------------
 
       Rebecca gained expert status with the rifle faster than Carl with the bow. But his hunting experience proved useful in helping him develop a smooth tracking technique with the bow.

       He quickly moved up to a heavier bow and gained proficiency. Nevertheless, he was not nearly as accurate as Rebecca when it came to stationary targets. She, on the other hand, already was nearly as accurate as Carl with the rifle at the short distances. He had to concentrate when they tried mini-competitions. She suggested the "matches" as a means of forcing them to focus their attention on the range rather than each other.
 
                             -------------------------------------

       Rebecca's roommate, Angela, had met Carl three times during the first five months of their unorthodox courting, even trying a brief flirtation to see how he would react. One July day, while battling the flu, she stayed home from work and pestered Rebecca with questions.

       "You going to marry?"

       "Who knows? I'm interested in him, and he's interested in me, but several things are in the way."

       "He snores in bed?"

       "Not funny, Roth." When Rebecca was peeved at Angela she used her last name.

       "You mean you still haven't slept with him?" Angela was truly surprised.

       "Your Catholic background still gets in the way, doesn't it."

       "Angela! It's got nothing to do with my Catholic upbringing." She paused. That's not true, she thought, for it has everything to do with what I've been taught in the church.

       She and Carl had had many discussions about religion. She had stopped attending Mass while in nursing school. One day she and Carl discussed religion and, in his usual direct manner, he asked her why she had, in effect, left the church.

       "I disagreed with the Pope's views on abortion and priestly celibacy, but what really caused me to break was The DaVinci Code. I know it's just a novel, but it caused me to question the church's very basis for being."

       She paused for this was the first time she had articulated the reason, and as soon as she did so she recognized its absurdity. She offered an excuse. "I thought the historical parts of the novel were correct."

       Carl ruminated for a moment. How much can I criticize Dan Brown's novel? he thought. Oh well, lay it out. "It's a fascinating novel, but it's based on an erroneous premise, so the whole thing falls flat. Even a novelist should be as accurate as possible in his history, recognizing that he will have to take some liberties to further the story. Brown bought into some crazy form of Arianism and claimed that was the ruling view of the Church in the first few centuries. He was palpably wrong."

       She disagreed. "In the front of the book he claimed all of the facts were accurate."

       "He did the same in interviews, but claiming they're true doesn't make them so. If he'd consulted recognized authorities he would have caught his errors." He gave a lopsided grin. "On the other hand, he would have missed a good story.

       "The major error, from my viewpoint, is his take on the divinity of Jesus. You know I've had my own questions, but Brown didn't write about his personal concerns. Instead, he claimed the early Church didn't believe in Jesus' divine nature. Thus Constantine and others changed the New Testament writings to stress his deity. That means the Church made him God. He offered no proof, of course, just words in the mouths of a couple of so-called expert characters, but the assertions still defame the Church.

       "He also emphasized the Gnostic gospels, all of them written after the New Testament documents, and two or three centuries after Jesus lived, not by eye-witnesses or people who talked with eye-witnesses. Even then he was wrong. The Gnostics generally say matter, such as the human body, is bad or evil. Only the spirit is good. They claim that Jesus couldn't have been human because that would make him evil. Brown claims—it's the whole thrust of the book—that Jesus and Mary Magdalene sired a child whom she raised in France. I don't think any Gnostic would agree to such an interpretation of Jesus.

       "In fact, most Gnostic writings ignore or repudiate the Old Testament, claiming that the God of the Jews was evil, as Marcion did."
Rebecca was skeptical. "How do you know so much?"

       "I was teaching a small group Bible study in an army chapel when a young guy challenged me with Brown's theories. I hadn't read the book, so we took several weeks reading the novel and discussing the Da Vinci Code. It's a good thing Brown sold so many copies. It caused church and secular scholars to read and challenge his facts and conclusions. There is an enormous amount of material available refuting his theology, art interpretation, secret societies, and so on.

       "Then, my first year at Oxford I challenged a young guy who began spouting Brown's theories in class. I asked the prof how he could allow such drivel to go unchallenged. It turns out he agreed with the kid, but I'll give him credit. He set up an informal debate in class to go over the issues raised by Brown.

       "Thank God for the Internet. In addition to the books contradicting Brown, there are numerous articles written by scholars available on-line, and I used them."

       "Who won?" In her mind's eye she could see an impassioned Carl debating.

       "I don't think one wins that kind of debate. I just tried to show that Brown was in error in numerous small and large details, as specialists showed time and again."

       He laughed. "No fictional work can stand the scrutiny Brown received. I've published scholarly articles, and I can tell you, academics can be vicious. If he hadn't said the 'facts' were accurate—and sold millions of copies worldwide—he wouldn't have had scholars reviewing his book and his assertions. He kind of asked for it."

       He gave Brown his due. "The book is full of nonsense, but once I got started reading I couldn't put it down. He really carries the reader along, though the theology and many of the facts are a crock of . . ."

       He left the expression incomplete. He battled all his life over using uncouth expressions, and they rose to the surface whenever he grew agitated. A lifetime of living in profane Montana, college, and the Army had filled his mind with expressions he would never use in polite company. Nevertheless, they came to mind, time and again.

       Rebecca saw his passion and scholarship and was ashamed she had believed Brown's book. It gave her no comfort to realize that many others also believed his history was correct.

       She had since returned to the church and attended Mass regularly. She was a Catholic and thought like one. When she broke the moral law of the Church she felt the need to confess. She ended her inner reflection.

       "Well," she reluctantly admitted to Angela, "maybe it has something to do with my return to the church."

       "I like you, Rebecca, but a liberal Jew living with a renewed Catholic has its moments." Angela intended the quip to be humorous, but it came out as critical. "OK," she continued, trying to patch up the momentary flub, "what are the reasons why you and Sir Galahad don't have a live-in arrangement called marriage," she paused for emphasis, "in your future?"

       "He's an intellectual and a member of the upper class. Whose firing ranges do you think we use? They aren't public. And I'm a pubkeepers daughter. Are those good enough?" She followed the comment with a bitter laugh.

       "Did he say that?" Angela was truly surprised.

       "No, of course not, but I can see. We spend time together, discussing books or even studying the Bible, something I've never done. But he's in a different class, and you know what that means."

       "No, I don't. Look, if he's really hung up on class, then stop going with him. He's not worth your time."

       Rebecca's lower lip quivered just a touch, enough for Angela to notice, before she burst out, "But I love him, and I don't want to lose him!"
"Then pray to God, or Christ, or Mary, that he also loves you enough to marry you. You once said he's Protestant. Is he concerned about your being Catholic?"

       "Yes, although he was more concerned about my having left the church for a time."

       "If he's that biased, what must he think of me as a Jew?"

       Rebecca leaped to Carl's defense. "He doesn't have prejudices against Catholics or Jews. He even uses The New Jerusalem Bible, which was translated by Catholic scholars. He thinks that devout followers of different beliefs shouldn't marry because their conflicting beliefs will create havoc in a marriage."

       "That's ridiculous. I'd marry anyone—Protestant, Catholic, Jew, even Muslim—if I love him enough."

       "Yes, because you don't have any beliefs, Jewish or otherwise. But how would you feel if your husband was a devout Catholic and took your children to Mass every week, and you were left out?"

       Angela pursed her lips. "Ummm, maybe you have a point." That was as far as she would relent on that issue. She recalled what had gotten the conversation started. "I still think you ought to get him into bed, then he'll either prove worthy or . . . "

       "Or, we'll marry, and you'll need to find a new roommate!"