The Indigo King - James A. Owen [99]
“We’ll find another way,” John began. “There must be another way, Chaz!”
“Blood for blood, a life for a life,” Circe repeated. “There is no other way.”
“I’ve been wondering all along,” Chaz said slowly, eyes downcast, “if maybe things back in Albion might have been different, if I had only been more like Charles instead of Chaz, then. We’re not that different now, he and I, I think.”
“Chaz,” said Jack, “you can’t hold yourself responsible. The Winter King was centuries old before you were even born. He had thousands and thousands of minions at his command. Against all that, what can one—”
“What can one man do?” Chaz asked, looking up at Jack with a grin. “Is that what you were going to say, Jack? I’ve been wondering that myself. Especially with things I’ve been reading in the Little Whatsit. And it seems that one man, in the right place, an’ at th’ right time, can do an awful lot. And I could have, and didn’t. Not when it meant the most.”
He was talking about Bert, John realized. Since the last passage from Sanctuary, they hadn’t mentioned the death of the old traveler, but now he understood that it had weighed as heavily on Chaz as it had on him or Jack, and perhaps more so.
“Besides,” Chaz went on, “in’t all of what we’re doing based on one man, anyway? This ‘Christ’ everyone’s been going on about? He was just one man, wasn’t he?”
“That’s different,” Jack replied. “That was … well, a mythology. A real mythology, based on a real person, but you can’t use that story as a reason for choosing to sacrifice yourself in this way.”
“And why not?” Chaz shot back, annoyed. “Isn’t that why we come all this way, to this island? T’ find the Holy Blood who are his children?
“You say it’s just a mythology, a story,” Chaz continued, “but here we are anyway, centuries later, pinning all our hopes for the future of the entire world on whether or not this girl is his kin, and carries his blood. And maybe she is, and maybe she isn’t—but what else are stories for, ’cept t’ learn from, and improve yourself? T’ learn t’ do th’ right thing?”
“Because the story is mythical,” Jack retorted. “There probably was a man called Jesus Christ, and he probably was crucified. But all the value of that sacrifice came from the mythology that sprang up around it, and maybe the whole reason that there is power in his bloodline is because people have chosen to believe in it—not because of the value of the literal event itself.”
“What’s the difference?”
Jack started to reply—then realized he couldn’t. Not that he didn’t want to, but because he really had no way to answer the question.
Chaz stepped over to Jack and put his hands on his shoulders. “If I do this,” Chaz went on, his voice low, “it will be literal, not mythical. Only you, those here with me, will ever know the literal truth of the choice I’m making. But maybe, in time, my friends will make a story out of it, and it might even become a myth. And others can learn from my example, the way I’ve learned from the ones I’ve read about, and seen, and become friends with.”
Jack met Chaz’s eyes and realized that his unlikely ally had indeed become a friend. “You realize,” he said, struggling to voice the words, “what we’re trying probably won’t work, right, Chaz? We’re taking this child to a battlefield to resurrect a dead man who may or may not have been the rightful king. And there’s no way of knowing if it will work.”
“That’s where—what did you call it, John? Faith? That’s where faith comes in, doesn’t it?” Chaz said. “You have t’ admit, it sounds familiar … sacrifices, and bringing someone back t’ life … Even if it doesn’t work, it’ll be a great story. Just don’t forget me, hey?”
“Never, Chaz,” Jack said, embracing his friend in a tight hug. “I’ll never forget.”
John also gave Chaz a hug and a solid clap on the back, and even Hugo gave him a warm two-handed shake.
Chaz turned to the enchantresses and spread his arms. “Okay,” he said with as much bravado as he could muster. “Y’ got me.”
Circe looked at Calypso, who nodded and looked at Gwynhfar, who also nodded.