Free When Heaven Weeps by Ted Dekker Page B

chest.
    â€œNadia!” he called. “Nadia.”
    She disappeared over the horizon. He looked out to the man.
    Gone!
    But the voice still filled the sky. Michael’s bones felt like putty. Nothing else mattered now. Nothing.
    They suddenly came at him again, streaking in from the left, led by this beautiful child he’d once thought was ugly. This time she had her head down. She drilled him with sparkling, mischievous eyes while she was still far off.
    He wanted to join her train this time. To leap out in its wake and fly with her. He was planning to do just that. His whole body was quivering for this intoxicating ride that she was daring him to take. The desire flooded his veins and he staggered forward a step.
    He staggered! He did not fly as she flew!
    Nadia rushed up to him, then veered skyward with a single leap. His mouth dropped open. She shot for the streaking light above. Her giggles rose to a shrieking laughter and he heard her call, crystal clear.
    â€œCome on, Father Michael! Come on! You think this is neat? This is nothing!”
    It reverberated across the desert. This is nothing!
    Nothing!
    Desperation filled Michael. He took another step forward, but his foot seemed filled with lead. His heart slammed in his chest, flooding his veins with fear. “Nadia! Nadia!”
    The white field turned off as if someone had pulled a plug.
    Michael realized that he was crying. He was back in the village, hanging on a cross before his parishioners . . . crying like a baby.

CHAPTER SIX
    JANJIC WATCHED the priest’s body heaving with sobs up on that cross, and he pushed himself unsteadily to his feet. Nothing mattered to him now except that the priest be set free. If need be, he would die or kill or renounce Christ himself.
    But with a single look into the priest’s eyes, Janjic knew the priest wanted to die now. He’d found something of greater value than life. He had found this love for Christ.
    Karadzic was shaking his gun at the priest, glaring at the villagers, trying to force apostasy and carrying on as if he thought the whole thing was some delicious joke. But the priest had led his flock well. They didn’t seem capable of speaking out against their Christ, regardless of what it meant to the priest.
    â€œSpeak now or I’ll kill him!” Karadzic screamed.
    â€œI will speak.”
    Janjic lifted his head. Who’d said that? A man. The priest? No, the priest did not possess the strength.
    â€œI will speak for my children.” It was the priest! It was the priest, lifting his head and looking squarely at Karadzic, as if he’d received a transfusion of energy.
    â€œYour threat of death doesn’t frighten us, soldier.” He spoke gently, without anger, through tears that still ran down his face. “We’ve been purchased by blood, we live by the power of that blood, we will die for that blood. And we would never, never, renounce our beloved Christ.” His voice croaked. “He is our Creator, sir.”
    The priest turned his eyes to the women, and slowly a smile formed on his lips. “My children, please. Please . . .” His face wrinkled with despair. His beard was matted with blood and he could hardly speak for all the tears now.
    â€œPlease.” The priest’s voice came soft now. “Let me go. Don’t hold me back . . . Love all those who cross your path, they are all beautiful. So . . . so very beautiful.”
    Not a soul moved.
    A cockeyed, distant smile crossed the priest’s lips. He lowered his head, exhausted. A flutter of wings beat through the air. It was the white dove, flapping toward them. It hovered above the father, then settled quietly to the cross, eyeing the bloodied man three feet under its stick feet.
    The sound came quiet at first, like a distant train struggling up a hill. But it was no locomotive; it was the priest and he was laughing. His head hung and his body shook.
    Janjic instinctively took a step