“Wilhelm von… Ah! Yes, Wilhelm there you are. Jane? Where are you, Jane?” Judah clicked his tongue impatiently, tapping the eraser ended pencil against the edge of his sturdy old writing desk. It was an antique, his desk, beautifully carved from a dark wood with many small drawers and hidden sections to keep ink, pens, and paper and of course the multitude of little notes, books and charts. “JANE! Alright, that’s another one done.” He crowed proudly, giving a little wiggle of enthusiasm in his seat, marking the name onto his photocopied chart. Hours had been spent bent over this desk, making markings of relatives past and present, adding each to the ever-expanding family tree. His Grandfather had warned him it could become addictive, but the old man had said it with a laugh and a pat to young Judah’s back; how could he have known how scarily accurate his prediction was?Matthew 7:7-8
"Ask and it will be given to you; seek and you will find; Knock and the door will be opened to you. For everyone who asks receives; he who seeks finds; and to him who knocks the door will be opened.".
Judah von der Marck wasn’t exactly a stranger to addiction, he’d tasted more than his fair share of the sacramental wine, the body of Christ doing little to soak up the booze laden blood pumping through Judah’s veins. His eyes ached behind his thick-framed glasses, a pale hand lifting to push them up the bridge of his nose. What time was it? 12 a.m.? 1 a.m.? The clock had been shoved off the desk, it’s insistent ticking doing little to soothe Judah’s frazzled nerves and he hadn’t bothered to try and fix the poor wounded object. He didn’t care about the time, anyway, if he stayed up all night so be it. Wouldn’t be the first time he’d managed to get through an entire service with a nasty hangover and a fake smile. Half of his congregation was from the seedy under belly of Harper Rock, too absorbed in their own demons to acknowledge his and the others too afraid of the darkness to say boo.
Sinners, all of them, when it came down to it and there was only so much confession could do to absolve them of their sins, his church didn’t buy fully into all that anyway, absolution was gained through song. Jude had spent his life devoted to the church, at least at face value, he’d done everything expected of him and found it easy. He had learned the hymns, sung them beautifully and even found a way to modernise them without offending the Pastor’s of his youth. He had learned scripture, learned enough Hebrew, Greek, German, Swedish and enough of various other languages to read ancient texts so that he might better study them and spread the gospel. He’d cried out amen with relish, and sung hallelujah to the sky. Even when he’d played boyhood pranks, when he’d snuck a sip or two of his old pal Christ’s blood he was praised as being a good Christian boy, a pillar of his community. Anyone that knew Judah had no doubt in their minds of his future profession, it was always going to be the work of the lord for him.
He was too humble to pursue his many other talents, he chose to use them to further show his commitment to his faith and his community. Judah chose to study theology and history, to get himself an honest to goodness college education before eventually going through seminary and joining the Church, enduring with god given grace the trials and tribulations of becoming a Pastor. It was fate, or so it seemed, that he would complete his studies as the old Pastor began to grow frailer in his age. Pastor John groomed him to be the replacement, he’d always been a forward thinking man, open to new ideas and welcomed Jude’s fresh approach. He managed to breathe some life back into their congregation, to attract young men and women with his bright smile and soulful voice; his often lighthearted and well presented sermons delivered with Judah’s personal brand of enthusiasm didn’t hurt either. His parents were proud, his family and friends were proud and Judah… Was absolutely full of ****.
When exactly was it he began to question his faith? Was it something that had happened years earlier and he had simply not been able to identify it? Maybe it was around the time his hand had brushed Kevin's and he’d felt a strange stirring within him, one he’d explored in one passionate moment when the other boy had kissed him while they were sneaking out the back of the church after late night choir practice, drinking the watered down wine Scott had lured him out with. It could have been when he’d witnessed the harshness of death for the first time and heard his beloved Uncle declare there was no true God, only the family. His faith had been mostly firmly shaken through when he moved back to Harper Rock for the last time, after his studies were completed with his wife and young son. Her death left him questioning everything he had ever known, and spiralling into a cycle of self-destruction. Of course he’d questioned the gospel, questioned the existence of his god but the power of the music, of the voices raising high and echoing out through the church had always restored it. Judah had begun to wonder if he had confused faith with passion, with love of community rather than love of God. His Grandfather and much of their family had held onto religion as a habit more than anything else, and had warned Jude not to do the same. Yet here he was, twenty nine, a Pastor and thinking “How the hell did I get here?”
The question of his faith, of his belief had only grown the further he delved into the history of the von der Marck family, his family. His parents had thought it all ludicrous, and his Uncle Jakob, who like Judah had studied history, had passed away before Jude’s 16th birthday. His Grandfather, Gasto von der Marck, had gifted him the writing desk he sat at when they’d moved to Harper Rock, along with the journals, the records and lineage charts. Uncle Jakob had been set to inherit them, and would pass them all to Jude when he was older as the man had no children of his own. Gasto had passed away himself not long after, leaving his logging business and the money split between his remaining sons. His beloved grandson Judah got the writing desk, a hefty inheritance fund and more secrets than he could count. They all knew the stories, they all heard whispers of the ancient patriarch Alaric von der Marck, and the many rumours and mysteries surrounding the man. Even though many believed it to be mere stories, von der Marck’s generally stood together in times of crisis and enjoyed discussing the man.
When tracing the lineage back it was interesting to see where it branched off, and just how closely knit it was. How many of them had married second cousins, third cousins, or when one of the many members chose to marry outside the family it seemed their children were often married back in down the track. His own parents were in fact quite distant cousins, and his Uncle Otto had married his fourth cousin. When he thought too hard on it his family seemed unusual, there was at times a cult-like quality, or perhaps more akin to a religion and Alaric was a deity they looked to in times of darkness, his name revered amongst them. In modern times the family grew more widespread, arguments left some branches crossed out entirely, others simply too difficult to fully track. Lost records and distance made the task trickier, but this was his calling. More important than his faith, than his congregation, than his own ambition; the family was everything and it had to be maintained. He was a Chronicler, the Head Chronicler in fact. A title that came with great responsibility and many sleepless nights if one took it seriously. Jude took it very seriously.
His devotion leant itself well to study, to research and Judah excelled in his tasks. Already he had managed to locate lost branches, to reach out to other closer family members to access what records other more minor Chronicler’s had. Bit by bit the many pieces of the puzzle began to fit together, giving him a clearer view of the von der Marck’s and their penultimate Patriarch. He’d noted with interest that a majority of the family had money, a lot of money, including his own. Largely inherited, thanks to early business ventures or positions of power, and some like his lived happily with their old money wealth. His own Father, Frederic, had little ambition. Working at one of the smaller businesses he’d inherited kept him appearing busy and delegating most of the tough work via his assistant meant the operation ran smoothly. His brother Otto had gotten the major logging business their father had developed, and Judah’s favourite cousin Louvel had only recently come into an impressive inheritance after Otto’s demise. Frederic had little imagination, rarely thinking outside the box and he’d married a woman similarly as plain in mind. Both had book smarts, both were attractive in a very normal way and both bored Judah senseless.
If it were up to him to make decisions regarding who deserved the name of von der Marck, who Alaric might have been proud of, his parents would not make the list. In fact he had done the work of highlighting names here and there throughout the family tree, making note of those who had been and were worthy. His part of the family often shortened the name to Marck, it was a mouthful and growing up many people got it wrong, or teased. Judah was proud of the name but he too understood that sometimes it was best to make things easier for the simpler folk of the world, and so he went by Judah Marck, or just plain old Pastor Jude most of the time. He stared at his name written in full on the page before him, his branch of the lineage, “Judah Gasto Ric von der Marck”, son of Frederic the religious and boring, Grandson of Gasto the upstanding and distant relative of the glorious Alaric. Widower, father to one. Worthy? His grandfather believed him so, he had given him their secrets to protect, their mysteries to solve and yet here he sat, close to drunk and doubting.
His hand grabbed the neck of the wine bottle that sat before him, draining the last drops of crimson with a great gulp. He considered it fuel, the last of the fuel to get him through the next ten pages. He was looking into a different branch, a cousin more closely related than most he had found over the past few months, one that was due to be arriving in Harper Rock soon. He was happy to welcome family, but Judah had also travelled far and wide to search through their journals, making copies and adding them to files. Jude pulled his laptop over, plonking it atop the various pages that littered his desk, pulling up his email and looking for any new replies, his favourites were those with attachments. He opened now, a picture from a few hundred years ago, a family grinning and waving from a ship, von der Marck’s seeking greener pastures. He downloaded the image, moving it into the relevant folder and once more shut the lid of the devise, returning to his beloved papers. Jude preferred more tactile methods, he loved sitting cross legged on the floor flicking cautiously through books that had grown delicate with age, his white cotton gloves on for those of a particularly precious nature, inhaling that smell that only old books held.
History, it smelled like history and potential, like mysteries crying out to be solved. What was it Louvel had said to him? Ah yes, that he ought to “chill out”, that he should get some sun and just enjoy things as they came. How could he chill out? How could he sit back and kick his feet up when he could almost hear Alaric in his head whispering the final secret, the greatest of all? He wanted it so badly. He’d finally gotten Lou’s agreement of help, and was ready to call The Summoning, the first in almost 80 years. Judah had always been such a bright spark, and now he burned with a passion that threatened to consume. It was like a word hovering on the tip of your tongue, you can feel the weight of it, taste it in your mouth yet never push it passed your lips. The great puzzle, never ending no matter how much of the scenery he filled in, so close and yet so far. Seeking out mysteries wasn’t overly Christian of him, he was supposed to surrender entirely to God’s will, to turn to the gospel, to the Bible when he wanted answers and yet here he was, at his desk, turning up history perhaps best forgotten and for what? Obsession. It always came back to obsession, and addiction. He would send out his invitations to the worthy, to those of title or potential and they would feed his addiction. Yes, Pastor Judah von der Marck was no stranger to addiction.
