The Christ Clone Trilogy 01 - In His Imagery
By
James Beau Seigneur
When in the Woods and Meeting Wild Beasts
The next morning Decker and Tom got up early and drove to Jenin to talk to the
Palestinian boy. On the way there it occurred to them that they really didn't
have a plan.
"Okay, so when we get there, then what?" Tom asked.
"We'll just talk to the kid and tell him to tell the people he was with last
night that some American reporters want to talk to them. We're not their enemy.
They like the media. That's the only way they can get their story out. Besides,
if they didn't want coverage they certainly wouldn't have called us on the phone
to tell us it was going to happen. The bigger problem will be Lt. Freij wanting
us to reveal our sources once the story comes out."
When they arrived at the boy's house, Tom decided to leave his camera in the car
just to be extra sure nobody got nervous. They walked the short path to the
house and Decker knocked on the door.
"Do you think anyone's home?" Tom asked after a moment. But before he had even
gotten the words out, the door opened and the boy's mother motioned for them to
come in. "Great," Tom said, pleased at the reception. "Maybe I should have
brought my camera, after all."
As the door swung shut Decker heard a loud crack and felt a sudden intense pain
spread through his head as his skull absorbed the impact of a wooden club.
Somewhere in Israel
The pain in Decker's head crawled down his neck and shoulders and came to rest
in the pit of his empty stomach. Ropes bound his feet and hands. They were loose
enough to allow circulation but no movement. Lying on his side with his face to
the floor, he wondered where he was and how long he had been there. The air was
stuffy and from the stench and the slight dampness of his pants it was apparent
that while he was unconscious, he had urinated on himself. From this he judged
that he had been unconscious for less than a day, because any fluids in his
system would have been vacated in the first twenty-four hours. After that his
body would retain any remaining fluids as dehydration set in.
He could hear two men talking in the room. For right now it made sense to not
let them know he was awake. Slowly he opened the eye closest to the floor to a
small slit; then just a little more. When it became clear no one had noticed,
Decker strained to look around as much as he could, but with each eye movement
he winced at the pain in his head. And what he saw told him very little. He was
in a room with one small boarded-up window. About five feet away Tom lay on the
floor in much the same condition, facing away from him. Two men sat playing some
kind of card game on a makeshift table, paying very little attention to their
captives. Decker closed his eye and rested from the strain. The men were
speaking in an Arabic dialect, so Decker had no idea what they were saying.
Still, as he tried to ride out the pain, it seemed somehow reasonable just to
lie there without moving, listening to the men in hopes of learning something of
his situation.
Some hours later, Decker realized that he had fallen asleep. The nausea had
subsided and the pain in his head was somewhat less than he remembered. What
woke him was the sound of a door closing and men talking, which he took to be a
changing of the guard. With his eyes still closed he could feel the men moving
about the room, stopping to look down at him and then moving away. Carefully he
opened one eye and saw the men gathered around Tom.
"Wake up, Jew," said one of the men in English. Decker watched as the man pulled
back his right foot to get a good swing and then threw it forward with the full
weight of his body, landing the toe of his army boot squarely in the middle of
Tom's back. The force of the blow drove Tom several feet across the floor. His
back arched in agony as he let out a yelp, muffled by the fact that the blow had
also knocked the wind out of him.
"Stop!" Decker shouted. The four men looked over at Decker who had somehow
managed to sit most of the way up. The man who kicked Tom walked over and looked
down at Decker. Decker had the feeling that he was being inspected by the man;
he was looking for something. When he failed to find whatever it was, he shoved
Decker back to the floor with his foot and went back to Tom.
Tom had caught his breath and a deep, anguished moan issued from within him
which seemed to come from his very soul. The man had hurt Tom badly and he was
preparing to do it again.
"Stop!" Decker shouted again.
This time the man returned to Decker and kicked him in his left shoulder. It
hurt terribly but it was obvious to Decker that the man had not kicked him with
nearly the enthusiasm or force he had used to kick Tom.
"Keep your mouth shut, American, or you'll get the same as the Jew dog," the man
warned, and then moved back to Tom.
"Wait!" Decker said, sitting up again and failing to heed the warning. The man
looked over at Decker who continued, "He's not a Jew!"
For an instant the man's eyes registered uncertainty. He paused, and then looked
as though he was going to ignore Decker's infraction of his order and
concentrate on Tom.
Decker persisted. "He's not a Jew, I tell you. He's an American, just like me.
Check his passport. It's in his pocket."
"We've already seen your passports," the man responded. Decker had at least
bought Tom a little time: he had gotten the man talking. "It makes no difference
to me whether he is an Israeli Jew or an American Jew."
"But he's not a Jew at all!" Decker said.
"He looks like a Jew to me," the man said, as though that made it
so.
"I'm telling you, he's an American and a gentile," Decker responded with the
same intellectual level of argument.
Decker knew that, right or wrong, if the Palestinian was really sure, he
wouldn't be taking the time to argue about it. But there was another force at
work in the room simple but powerful. Peer pressure. The other men were
watching their comrade to see what he would do. His judgment was being
challenged and he felt he had to respond.
Tom had stopped moaning and was lying nearly motionless on the floor, taking
short, labored breaths. The Palestinian was unimpressed with Decker's response
and decided to refocus his attention on Tom.
Decker thought fast and blurted out the first thing he could think of. It was
risky but neither he nor Tom had much to lose: another blow from the man's boot
might break Tom's back. "If you don't believe me," Decker said, getting his
captors' attention again, "pull down his pants."
The Palestinians looked at each other, not sure that they had understood him,
and then started to laugh as they realized what Decker meant. If he were a Jew,
he'd be circumcised.
The one who kicked Tom was not so sure about the idea. He didn't want to risk
appearing foolish. But the other three laughed and went to work loosening Tom's
pants. They were enjoying the contest between their leader and the American.
Besides, it seemed an amusing way to settle an argument where a man's life hung
in the balance.
There was just one problem, and therein lay the risk: Decker had no idea whether
or not Tom was circumcised. But with Tom's life on the line, Decker's only
choice had been to set that as the defining criterion. When the three lackeys
pulled down Tom's pants, they committed themselves to that criterion. Knowing
that many American men, Jew and gentile alike, are circumcised, Decker was well
aware that he still might be condemning his friend to death.
The leader was disappointed with what he saw. The foreskin of Tom's penis had
saved his life.
The three Palestinians gave Tom's pants a tug and pulled them most of the way
back up. Again they were laughing, but this time, in part at least, they were
laughing at their leader. An angry glare abruptly stopped their merriment. The
leader quickly changed the subject and, after pushing Decker back to the floor
with his foot, signaled for the others to follow him out of the room. As soon as
they were gone Decker tried, as best he could, to check on his friend's
condition. He helped him get his pants back up but with their hands tied behind
them it was impossible to fasten or zip them.
That night one of the men brought them food and water. In the morning they were
fed again and allowed to clean up, one at a time. In the evening two of the
guards came in and blindfolded them, shoved rags in their mouths, and gagged
them to keep them from making any noise. Decker guessed that they were about to
be moved to another location. They lay in that condition for about twenty
minutes, choking from time to time on the rags, before having their feet untied
and being led outside.
Once outside, their captors did something which seemed very strange to Decker.
He was taken by two of the men and laid on his back on top of something which he
recognized from the way it felt as a mechanic's creeper, used for sliding under
a car. His feet were then tied again. All he could imagine was that this might
be in preparation for some grisly form of torture by dragging them behind a car
or truck. On the other hand, why would they blindfold him? If sadism was the
goal, wouldn't they want him to see the torture that awaited him? Certainly, he
thought, they wouldn't stuff his mouth full of rags. They'd want to hear him
scream.
Decker felt himself being pushed about eight feet, and then rolled off the
creeper onto his stomach on the ground. He could sense that he was under
something, something large. A moment later eight hands grabbed him and lifted
him about eighteen inches until his back pressed firmly against the object above
him, and he was strapped tightly into this position. The next thing he heard was
the sound of a squeaky metal door sliding shut.
He realized that he was in a box of some sort, coffin-like, but he thought he
could feel air moving around him, so he didn't think he would suffocate. As he
hung there face down, strapped in, waiting, he heard the sound of the creeper's
wheels again, followed by men straining under a weight and then another metal
door closing. Decker assumed his captors had done the same to Tom. The voices of
the
Palestinians were now muffled beyond distinction, but since no one was speaking
English, it really didn't matter.
After about five minutes Decker heard a door slam, followed by an engine
starting. Now he understood. He and Tom were strapped under the bed of a truck.
They had been placed in metal boxes which were built to fit under the truck in
order to ship weapons and, on rare occasions, people through check points and
past border guards.
Decker and Tom were on their way to Lebanon.
Tel Aviv, Israel
Elizabeth Hawthorne and her two daughters walked through the concourse of David
Ben Gurion International Airport in Tel Aviv. A few days earlier, Elizabeth had
been sitting in her office thinking about how slow business was and how much she
missed Decker when she decided, on the spur of the moment, to take some extra
vacation time, get the girls out of school, and fly to Israel a week early.
Surprises had always been Decker's affinity, but this time Elizabeth decided
that she would do the surprising. She was totally unprepared for the news that
awaited her.
As she and the girls walked toward the exit with their luggage, a somber looking
man and woman in their mid-sixties approached them.
"Mrs. Hawthorne?" the man asked, requesting confirmation.
"Yes," she answered, a bit surprised.
"My name is Joshua Rosen. This is my wife, liana. We're friends of your
husband."
"Yes, I know," Elizabeth responded. "Decker has mentioned you. Did he send you?
How did he find out that I was going to surprise him?" she asked, not discerning
the seriousness of the situation.
"Could I speak to you for a moment in private?" Joshua asked.
Suddenly Elizabeth realized that something was wrong. She wanted to know what
and she didn't want to wait. "Has something happened to Decker?" she demanded.
Joshua Rosen preferred not to talk in front of Hope and Louisa but Elizabeth
insisted. "Mrs. Hawthorne," he began, "according to the clerk at the Ramada
Renaissance, Decker and Tom Donafin left their hotel in Jerusalem five days
ago."
"Last night Bill Dean from News World called me on the phone to ask if I had any
idea where they were. He said that their editor had been trying to reach them
for three days. He tried to call you at your office but they said you were on
vacation. He couldn't reach you at home either."
Elizabeth was growing impatient with Rosen's explanation. She wanted to know the
bottom line. "Please, Mr. Rosen, if something has happened to my husband, tell
me!"
Joshua understood her anxiety but hated to just blurt it out with no
explanation. "I'm afraid that Decker and Tom have been taken hostage in
Lebanon."
Elizabeth was struck with disbelief. "What?! That's crazy. That can't be," she
said, shaking her head. "They weren't even supposed to be in Lebanon. They're in
Israel! There must be some mistake!" The denial in her heart hid itself behind
the authority in her voice, as if by sufficient insistence she could alter what
she could not bear to face.
Joshua and liana looked on sadly. "I'm sorry," he said. "This morning the
Hizballah, a group of militant followers of Ayatollah Oma Obeji, announced that
they were holding Decker and Tom hostage. They sent a note to a Lebanese
newspaper claiming responsibility and included pictures of Decker and Tom."
Hope and Louisa were already crying. Elizabeth looked for some place to sit down
but finding none, accepted the offer of support from liana Rosen who held her as
she wept.
Somewhere in northern Lebanon
As near as Decker could tell, he had now been held hostage for six and a half
months, which would make it about June 24th, his wedding anniversary.
Twenty-three years. He tried to remember if he had ever heard what the
traditional present was for the twenty-third anniversary. He hadn't. He tried to
imagine what Elizabeth might be doing that day. He could almost endure the
separation. But the isolation and not knowing if it would ever end was more
than he could bear. Feelings of total helplessness filled him both with self
pity and with rage at his captors. He just wanted to be able to tell Elizabeth
that he loved her and that he was alive. He knew he might never go home. He
might never see his wife's face again or his children. In his anger and
frustration, he pulled at the bonds which held his hands and feet. He could not
have broken the ropes even when he was in peak condition, but in his weakened,
half-starved state it was doubly futile and only added to his despair.
He had not seen Tom since that night in Israel when they were blindfolded and
gagged. For that matter, he had not truly seen anyone. The men who held him
captive wore masks every time they came into the room and they almost never
spoke to him. He had not seen anything outside the locked door of his room, but
he perceived that he was in an old apartment building. The ropes on his feet
were tied manacle-style with about twelve inches between his ankles so that he
could take small steps. To prevent him from untying himself an act which would
have resulted in severe punishment the ropes that held his hands provided no
slack at all. He was, however, able to hold his food bowl and take care of most
of the necessary toilet activities. Personal hygiene was impossible, and he was
only allowed to bathe every other week or so. He took some consolation in the
fact that things could be worse. His captors had not tortured him since early in
his captivity. All of the cigarette burns had healed by now. Only the most
serious ones left noticeable scars.
At first his captors seemed to enjoy threatening him with knives and razors.
They were not all just threats, however. At one point, one of the men had gone
to elaborate lengths for sadistic satisfaction. He began by tying Decker so that
he could not move and then told him he was going to cut off his ears for
trophies. If Decker moved at all, the man said in broken English, he would slit
his throat instead. Starting at the top-most point of Decker's left ear the man
made a deep, bloody gash, then pulled the blade away, laughing uncontrollably at
the pain in Decker's eyes as he gritted his teeth, trying not to flinch. When
the man left the room and closed the door, he was still laughing under his mask.
Decker was left tied in that position overnight. With some effort he managed to
shift his weight, roll onto his stomach, and turn his head so that he could lay
it on the floor with the weight resting against his partially severed ear. The
pressure was agonizing but necessary to stop the bleeding.
Despite his fear and pain throughout the ordeal, Decker had found it amazingly
easy to not cry out. His surprise and curiosity at this fact was an extremely
propitious distraction from the pain. Lying there, he remembered a short poem he
had read years before by Nguyen Chi Thien that explained his silence under
torture. Nguyen, a prisoner of the Communist Vietnamese for twenty-seven years,
had written a volume of poetry about his life called Flowers From Hell. The
particular poem Decker recalled was:
I just keep silent when they torture me,
though crazed with pain as they apply the steel.
Tell children tales of heroic fortitude
I just keep silent thinking to myself:
"When in the woods and meeting with wild beasts,
who ever cries out begging for their grace?"26
Several hours later Decker woke to find that the pool of blood had dried, gluing
his ear to the floor. As he tried to pull free he felt the scab begin to tear.
He knew he couldn't just lie there. If he didn't move himself, his captors
would, and they would not be gentle about it. For the next three hours Decker
let spittle run from his mouth, down his cheek to the floor to soften the dried
blood while he carefully worked his ear loose. Still, some fresh blood was added
to the pool.
Now Decker's biggest problems were boredom and depression brought on by the
feelings of helplessness, hopelessness, and anger. Decker had read about an
American P.O.W. in Vietnam who handled the boredom and kept his sanity by
playing a round of golf every day in his mind, but Decker had never had time for
sports. For the last twenty-three years it seemed that all he had done was write
and read.
For a while, he tried to recall every article that he had ever written. Then he
hit on the idea of rereading novels from his memory. When he couldn't remember
how the story line went, he'd make it up. Somewhere along the way, like Nguyen
Chi Thien, Decker began to compose poetry. Silently he'd recite each line of the
poem over and over in order to be sure to remember it. Mostly he made up poems
to Elizabeth.
Moments lost, I thought would last; Promises broken that cannot mend; Dreams of
days from a wasted past; Days of dreams that never end.
Nights and days form endless blur. Walls of drab and colors gray, Pain and loss
I scarce endure, While dirty rags upon me lay.
I've wasted such time that was not mine to take, Leaving sweet words unsaid,
precious one. Now walk I on waves of a limitless lake of unfallen tears for
things left undone.
There are many things a man can think about when left alone for so long, and it
seemed to Decker that he had thought about them all. Usually he thought about
home and Elizabeth and his two daughters. He had missed so many things because
he had always put his job first. And now, because of his job, he might never see
them again. So many chances and opportunities lost.
As he lay on his mat in the room, illumined only by the light which came through
the cracks in the boarded-up window, it suddenly seemed strange to him, almost
funny in some pitiful way, that he had always called his wife Elizabeth and
never Liz or Lizzy or Beth. It wasn't that she was somehow too proper to be
called by a nickname. It just seemed that they had never had enough time
together to become that informal.
26 Nguyen Chi Thien, "I Just Keep Silent When They Torture Me," in Flowers From Hell (Southeast Asia Studies, Yale University, 1984), p. 105.