I hummed to myself, smiling at the little boys racing around my legs, and wove my way through the chattering laughing crowd. A bright fruit stand caught my eye, and I paused, swinging the basket on my arm. I glanced up, trying to decide how much I wanted to spend, and something up near the top of the street caught my glance. It was just one figure, trudging along, but I froze as I recognized him.
It was Mark.
I started running, skirting old women and talkative merchants, dodging young mothers balancing babies and baskets on their hips, avoiding unsteady carts and skittish pack mules.
“Mark!” I screamed, waving my arms. His head snapped up, and he scanned the crowd. “Mark!” I screamed again, snatching off my headscarf and waving it over my head. He saw me then, and he stopped where he was. Not thinking, not pausing, just shocked and overjoyed to see him, I burst out of the crowd, still running, and flung myself at him. Just like old times, he caught me around the waist, but as soon as he touched me, I knew my mistake. He was taller, stronger, bigger than when I’d last seen him. While he’d been gone, he’d become a man, and I, a woman. We were no longer children, and there was no propriety in my actions.
He spun me around, like he’d always done, then set me down. I stepped back, flushed and embarrassed, and draped my scarf back over my hair.
“It’s good to see you,” I managed. His eyes flicked to my face for a second, then back down the ground, and I realized he’d not smiled once. Nor was he looking at me; instead, his eyes roved over the buildings, the sky, the market, the ground—anywhere but me. I flushed more deeply. I’ve shamed him, I realized, and I dropped my eyes as well. “I’m sorry if I offended you, sir,” I said, my voice low. Mark made a sound, deep in his throat—either a sob or a gasp, I couldn’t tell—and I glanced up at him.
“Don’t call me that, Sarah,” he muttered. Wiping sweat from his forehead, he stared out toward the horizon. I felt my temper rise and my patience failed.
“Why not?” I burst out, my anger flashing through my heart. “You’ve grown up while you’ve been gone! We’re no longer children! I owe you respect, as any woman owes a man respect!”
I stopped, shocked at my lack of restraint, and covered my mouth with one hand. Shouting at him was something I would have done far in the past. But Mark just laughed, sounding bitter.
“That’s what you think? Well, let me tell you what I’ve really become. I left them, Sarah—abandoned them when they began to need me most. I did exactly what I did with Jesus, only this time—” He lifted anguished eyes to meet mine. “This time,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “I didn’t go back.” Again, he stared at the ground, kicking at the dust. “I was more of a man then, as a child, than I am now.” His voice was sad, and I stared at him, silent and devastated. He looked up and smiled at me, his eyes sharp, his lips tight. “Well?” he asked. Slowly, I shook my head.
“I’m sorry,” I said, my voice quiet. “I’m so sorry, Mark.” Surprise crossed his face, and his shoulders jerked. Then he frowned.
“Sorry for what, Sarah? Sorry for a traitor?” he snapped. I shook my head again, feeling helpless.
“No, not that at all.”
“Then what?” I’d never seen him that impatient, and I wasn’t sure what to do except tell him the truth.
“I’m sorry you failed like that.” My words were blunt, and I expected him to be furious. Instead, I watched in horror as his face crumpled. He turned away quickly, but I had already glimpsed the tears on his face. “Mark,” I murmured, reaching toward him, but he jerked his arm away.
“I don’t need your pity.” His strangled voice belied his words, and I bit my tongue. He wiped his eyes, then faced me. “Goodbye, Sarah,” he said, his eyes hard and cold. As he began to walk away, I dropped my basket and grabbed his arm. He stopped, refusing to look at me, but I shook him slightly.
“Where are you going?”
“Home.”
“And you’re staying there?”
“No.”
“Mark, your mother will be—”
“Don’t tell me what she will or won’t be!” His voice was sharp and bitter, and I released his arm. “She’ll be glad, Sarah, when she finds out what I did. She’ll be glad I’m leaving.”
“You’re leaving the city?” I gasped.
“Did you think I could stay here after what I’ve done?”
“Mark—”
“No.” He faced me again, putting his hands on my shoulders and shaking me. “Don’t say anything else.” For a moment, we stared at each other—I , trying not to cry; he, just staring at me with empty eyes. Then he took his hands off my shoulders and jogged away. I stood still, as if rooted to the ground, trying to gather myself.
“Mark!” I cried. He didn’t stop. I tried again, louder—“Mark!” Soon he was out of sight in the winding streets, and I was left alone. My mind reeled with what he’d told me, and I tried to decide what to do. Tears blinded me, but I wiped my eyes hard, stooped to pick up my basket, and began running. He’d said he was going home. My only chance was to beat him there and make him stay. He was fast, but I knew strange little alleys and back ways that I knew he’d not think of. My urgency pushed me faster than I’d ever run before, and it was only a few minutes before I burst into Mary’s house.
“Sarah!” Mary leapt up from the loom, her eyes concerned. “What is it, child?”
“Mark,” I panted. “Where is Mark?” Mary’s eyes widened, and she took my hand.
“Mark’s not been home for months, child,” she said in a low voice. “Surely you remember that.”
“Yes, yes, I know. But I saw him in the market, and—and—”
“You saw him?” Mary gasped. Before I could open my mouth to answer, there was a knock at the door. I grabbed Mary by the shoulders.
“Don’t let him leave,” I whispered, my voice fierce. “No matter what he says, make him stay.” Mary stared at me, looking like she thought I was crazy, then went to answer the door. I heard her scream Mark’s name, then burst into tears. I dropped my things in a corner of the room and sat down to wait for them to come in. In a few moments, Mary led Mark into the room, laughing and crying and trying to talk. I met Mark’s eyes and nodded to him.
“Sarah.” He returned my nod as his mother hugged him again.
“I can’t believe you’re back, safe and sound!” she sobbed, burying her face against his neck. “Oh, my son, how I’ve worried about you!”
“You needn’t have worried, Mother.” His voice was still as cold as it had been, and I shivered. Mark pulled back from his mother, and she stepped back, confusion in her eyes, as he continued. “At the first sign of trouble, your son showed himself for what he is—a coward concerned with only the safety of his own hide.” Mary’s eyes widened, and she flashed a glance at me. “Oh, so Sarah told you already,” Mark snapped, glaring at me. “I see.”
“No,” Mary gasped. “She did not. She—she only said to keep you here and not let you leave. I—I didn’t know why . . .”
“But now you do?” Mark cut in. “Well, Mother, I knew what you’d say—I knew what everyone would say—before I even came back. I only stopped to get my money, a few extra changes of clothing, some odds and ends, and then I’ll—”
“John ben-Mark.” Mary’s voice was quiet, but both Mark and I froze at her tone. I saw Mark pale at his full name, and he dipped his head.
“Yes, Mother?” His voice was meek as his mother glared up at him.
“If you think I’d even think of letting you leave—” she seethed, her eyes furious. “John ben-Mark, don’t you know me? Don’t you know the Lord you serve at all?” Mark paled even more, and dropped back a step.
“What does that have to do with this?” he muttered, licking his lips. Mary planted her fists on her hips.
“Everything!” she cried. “John ben-Mark, did you not learn anything during your time with Jesus?”
“Mary—” I tried to interrupt, but she whirled on me and I shut my mouth.
“Will you excuse me and my son, please?” she asked, her voice furious, and I understood she wasn’t angry at me. “We have some talking to do.” Reluctantly, I stood up and made my way to the door, stopping only to pick up my headscarf. Once I was outside, I walked a few steps away and sat down on a neighbor’s step, resting my chin on my hands and my elbows on my knees.
It seemed like hours before the door opened and Mark stepped out. I scrambled to my feet and began to speak, but was stopped by the sight of the traveling bag that swung at his hip.
“So you’re really leaving,” I whispered, tears choking me, and he nodded. I stepped forward, stretching out my hands. “But why didn’t Mary—”
“Oh, it’s not for lack of her trying,” he told me. “She tried, all right—talked up one wall and down the other, but after all that . . . she agreed to let me go.”
“Mark . . .”
“Don’t talk to me about it, Sarah.” He lifted one hand in warning, then jerked his head. “Walk with me?” The question was so plaintive, so much like other questions he’d asked when we were children, that I simply nodded. We fell into step together and walked in silence for a few paces. My mind whirled with arguments to give him, questions to pose to him, clever persuasions I could present. But no—I could see from the stubborn tilt of his chin that his mind was set. As we drew closer to the city gates, the streets became more and more crowded, until finally, our walk had become a slow trudging gait. Just as we reached the gate, I stepped in front of Mark and laid one hand on his arm, forcing him to stop.
“Won’t you stay?” I kept my tone gentle, so gentle he had to lean down to hear what I said, and I saw him waver for a moment. Then he set his jaw and shook his head.
“Don’t try to convince me,” he said, his voice sharp. “I know what I did; I know what I am. I can’t stay here, I can’t watch the eyes shifting away from me, hear the tongues wagging behind hands, know what people say and think. I can’t do it, Sarah. I can’t bear it.”
“Do you forget what I was?” My voice was quiet, but Mark recoiled as if I’d slapped him.
“Sarah, this isn’t about you.”
“You’re right, it’s not. But things I’ve done—” I couldn’t go on, and Mark touched my hand.
“Don’t talk about it. It’s over. You know you’re forgiven.”
“How can you say that to me?” I whispered, tears filling my eyes. “How can you say that to me, when you won’t believe it for yourself?”
For a long moment, Mark stared at me. Then he bent forward and kissed my forehead, as if I was his blood sister.
“I have to go, Sarah,” he whispered, resting his head against mine. “I just . . . I just need to leave for now.”
“Go in peace, then.” I was weeping now, and not even trying to hide it. “Go in peace and return safely to us.” For a moment, Mark was silent. Then he stepped back and looked me in the eyes.
“Goodbye, Sarah.” His words were simple and held no promise, but neither did he refuse my plea. As he turned and walked away, I stood and watched him and cried. My tears were not for myself and his mother; my tears were for my friend who believed there was no forgiveness for what he’d done.
I trudged back to Mary’s house and slipped inside. As soon as Mary saw me, she opened her arms and I fell into her embrace. We needed no words, but simply stood and cried together. As my tears slowed, I wiped my eyes.
“Why, Mary?” I whispered. “Why does he have to leave?”
“Oh, Sarah,” she murmured, stroking my hair back from my face. “I told him he didn’t have to. I tried to remind him of the love and forgiveness Jesus offers. But for now, he can’t see it. And so I agreed that he could leave. It won’t be forever, child—” She hugged me tightly again. “But for now, this is what he needs to do. So I let him go.”
“You’ll miss him so,” I sobbed into her shoulder, my tears bursting forth again. “I’ll miss him,” I choked out. She nodded, her own tears dripping down her face.
“Yes,” she murmured, her voice breaking. “Yes, I will. But I know sometime, when he realizes what forgiveness really is, when he remembers what love has done for him, he’ll be back.” She pulled back, smiling into my face, and nodded, wiping my tears away. “Yes,” she whispered in my ear. “He’ll be back.” And she hugged me once more.
