The Prisoner

A rooster crows.

The pale moon light pries its way through the iron bars of his cell and falls upon the stone floor with a whisper of dawn, giving the dull stone a marble glow.  Outside his cell is the harmony of bronze keys rattling together to the rhythm of leather sandal footfalls.  The melody grows louder. The guard moves closer.

It’s been days since the prisoner has talked to another person and he is worried about his wife and friends.   Visitors have been forbidden to enter and many of his friends would be wise to stay away considering all that has taken place.  The current stint isn’t his first incarceration, he’s been behind bars or in chains, on more occasions than he can count on his fingers.  But in all honesty, he didn't foresee chains and bars to be a part of his lord's kingdom when he was called to become a fisher of men.

 Despite his experiences, the current stint is by far the loneliest with the hours of silence passing by like a long gray winter.  He has prayed and sang hymns to assuage the sting of his solitary confinement but he is nearly out of words.  He hopes that it will end soon, or that the guard will stop and offer enough distraction to drown out the obnoxious crowing of the rooster.  

The orange glow of a torch peeks beneath his cell door.  The prisoner lifts his head off the balled up cloak he uses as a pillow.  A small prayer is answered, the rattling of the keys and the rhythmic footfalls cease abruptly, replaced with the scrape of metal against metal, the unlatching of a lock.  The door opens with an aged groan and the torch light floods the cell.  The prisoner can feel the warmth.   He pushes himself off the floor and rubs his eyes, beckoning them to adjust to the welcomed sight of light.  When they do, he sees the soldier standing in the doorway, a giant hand resting on the hilt of his sword as if to say, "I bare this weapon for a reason."

Though the prisoner has longed for this moment, he is suddenly without words.  The soldier, with his large brown eyes and curly black beard, shares a striking resemblance to his younger self.  A resemblance that can’t be tossed aside as mere coincidence.  The two study each other as if trying to discern a hidden truth between them.

“You come to give me good news,” the prisoner says eventually.

“Just news,” the soldier responds, as he hangs the lantern on a hook halfway up the wall.

“Well?” the prisoner asks.

The soldier pulls out a wooden stool from behind the door and takes a seat.   “Do you know what today is?”

“Days and nights have a way of blending together in here,” the prisoner says, “but I suppose by your presence that my release is at hand.”

“I’m afraid to say you are not being released.” He pauses, then says gravely, “Caesar has rendered his judgment.  You are to be executed.”

The prisoner nods to himself as his gaze falls upon the flickering shadows dancing on the wall beside him. 

“Have you no words?” the soldier asks.  “I’ve heard you Christians never stop talking.”

“Words and I haven’t always got along.”  The prisoner lifts his eyes and smiles a bit.  “You could say that I have a way of putting my foot in my mouth.” 

The soldier leans back on his stool, surprised by the old man’s response.  “You jest.  Are you not afraid?”

“Afraid?” he responds.  “I’m terrified.  But my fear cannot change what is to come.”

“And what is to come?”

“My release.”

“You are confused old man, you are not being released.  You are being put to death.”

“I know and death is just the beginning,”

“I’ve seen death, old man, it isn’t pleasant.”

“And I’ve seen life and it is beyond words.”

The soldier is silent for a moment.  He narrows his eyes.  “This life you speak of, is it part of your silly superstition?”

“My silly superstition?” the prisoner repeats to himself.  "You mean the Gospel of the Christ."

The soldier rolls his eyes. "Yes, the gospel of the Christ."

"The Gospel is about life," the prisoner says. 

"You say that, yet, all I see of Christ's followers is death.  I served in Palestine, there is a trail of blood from there to here.  Even today, more will be fed to the lions or crucified."

"They do not die in vain, for their deaths will bring life to others."

"That is an admirable philosophy, but what is a philosophy when facing the sword?"

The soldier's words conjure up the prisoner’s most painful memory.   He falls silent racked with regret.

The rooster crows again.

The soldier shifts his weight from one side of the stool to the other.  "Some will renounce your Christ," the soldier states.

"Some have already," the prisoner replies, solemnly. 

"And what of you?  What will you do when the time comes?  Will you deny your savior as well?"

Fear, like the darkening of clouds from an approaching gale, creeps into his heart.  The prisoner pulls in a breath to calm himself and exhales.   "I will face what the Lord has prepared for me."

The soldier leans forward. "You will die for a lie?"

"No," the prisoner says, shaking his head.  "I will die for the truth."

The soldier laughs, "That's right, the truth."

When the soldier's laughter eases to a stop, the prisoner asks, "Did you come in here just to mock me?"

"No," the soldier reaches behind his back and retrieves a bundle of cloth.  "I came to give this to you."

The soldier tosses the bundle to the prisoner, who makes a feeble attempt to catch it.  The bundle escapes his grasp and drops to the stone floor, spilling its contents.  The prisoner reaches between his legs and peels a piece of unleavened bread from the stone. "Where did you get this?" he asks.

"Your companions begged me to give it to you."

The prisoner furrows his brow. "And you agreed?"

"Yes." The soldier is slightly offended. "Because I have pity for you.  For you will die believing a man rose from the dead."

"I will die for what I witnessed," the old man responds.

"Well if that is the case," the soldier says, "forgive me for being skeptical, it is not every day that a man returns from Hades."

The old man raises an eyebrow.  "It is not every day that a soldier violates his command and sneaks in bread for a prisoner."

The prisoner’s statement quiets the soldier.  He folds his hands together introspectively.

"Soldier, what is your name?" the prisoner asks.

"My name is Felix."

"Felix…” The prisoner pauses, as if to gather the right words.  "As a soldier in Caesar's army, I'm sure you have at least a few regrets.  What if you had the opportunity to make them right again, would you do it?"

"Of course," Felix says matter-of-factly.

"What is about to come," the prisoner says, "is another chance to wash away my regrets.  To make them right again.  My silly superstition, as you called it, is a second chance."   

 The cell lapses into silence, one that is heavy with the anguish that awaits the old man.  The soldier no longer pities him, like the ache in his bones, the prisoner can feel it.  The old man takes the unleavened bread and breaks it in two.  With trembling hands, he wipes off the dust from the floor and offers a piece of the bread to the soldier.  Without saying a word, Felix grabs the bread and eats it.

Shortly after, the silence is broken by the sounds of heavy doors opening at the end of a long corridor accompanied by the pounding of footfalls. 

Felix stands.  "It is time."  He offers a hand to the prisoner.  "Let me help you up."

The prisoner takes his hand and the soldier carefully pulls him to his feet.  With great effort, the prisoner stoops to grab his cloak but the soldier stops him. 

"No," he says, "Let me."

Felix grabs the cloak, unfolds it and gently slips it over the prisoner’s shoulders.  The other guards arrive at the door.  One of them is carrying a set of cuffs which he hands to Felix.  Felix looks at prisoner sorrowfully.  The prisoner stretches out his hands and Felix places the cuffs on his wrists.  With Felix holding onto the prisoner’s chain, the guards lead him down the corridor and out of the prison.

Outside, the breaking dawn births a mahogany sky.  Below it, the city awakes.  There is the sound of workman's hammers on crucibles, the bleating of sheep in the market place waiting to be sold and the anxious whispers of those who have gathered to witness the crucifixion.

However, one voice is missing among the morning chorus...

the crowing of the rooster.