Mission of Honor

Chapter Seven

It felt good to breathe again.

For the first part of his ordeal, Father Bradbury was on the edge of panic. The man of the cloth could not draw breath easily nor could he see through the hood. Except for his own strained breathing, sounds were muffled by the mask. Sweat and the condensation from his breath made the fabric clammy. Only his sense of touch was intact, and he was forced to focus on that. The priest was hyperaware of the heat of the plain and the ovenlike convection inside the vehicle. Every bump, dip, or turn seemed exaggerated.

After lying in the vehicle for a long while, Father Bradbury forced himself to look past his fear and discomfort. He concentrated on drawing the air that was available, even if it was less than he was accustomed to. More relaxed, his oxygendeprived mind began to drift. The priest went into an almost dreamlike reverie. His spirit seemed to have become detached from his weakened body. He felt as if he were floating in a great, unlit void.

Father Bradbury wondered if he were dying.

The priest also wondered if the Christian martyrs had experienced something similar, a tangible salvation of the soul as the flesh was consumed. Though Father Bradbury did not want to give up his body, the thought of being in the company of saints gave him comfort.

The priest was torn from his reflection when the vehicle stopped. He heard people exit. He waited to be pulled out. It never happened. Someone climbed into the vehicle. Father Bradbury's hood was lifted at the bottom and he was given scraps of bread and water. Then the hood was retied and was left there for the night. Though the priest kept drifting into sleep, he would invariably suck the cloth of the hood into his mouth, begin to choke, and wake himself. Or his perspiration would cool just enough to give him a chill.

In the morning, the priest was hauled from the vehicle and placed face forward on someone's back. As the men entered what was almost certainly a marsh, Father Bradbury's body returned, vividly alive. For a time, his shoulders, arms, and legs were hounded by mosquitoes and other biting insects. The humidity was greater here than on the plain. Breathing was even more difficult than the previous day. Perspiration dripped into his dry mouth, turning it gummy and thick. The paste caused his throat to swell, and swallowing became a chore. The clergyman once again succumbed to mortal despair. But he was too — weak to struggle. Father Bradbury went where he was taken.

Whenever he opened his eyes, the priest saw dark orange instead of black. The sun was up. As the humidity increased, the priest became dehydrated. He found himself fighting to stay awake. He feared that if he lost consciousness, he would never regain it. Yet he must have passed out. When they stopped, the sun appeared to be much lower in the sky.

But he could not be sure. Even as he was walked across thick, almost muddy soil, his captor would not remove his hood. Once again, he would not tell the priest why he was brought here. It was not until Father Bradbury had been taken into a structure of some kind that he was given any information at all.

Unfortunately, not all of the communication was verbal. And none of it was encouraging.

Father Bradbury was led onto a rug and was ordered to stand there. The man who had brought the priest in released him. Through the hood, he saw a gauzy spot of light directly ahead.

"May I have a drink?" Father Bradbury rasped.

The priest heard a high whistling sound from behind. A moment later, there was a sharp snapping sound followed by a blaze of intense heat behind both knees. The fire jumped up through Father Bradbury's thighs and down to his ankles like an electric shock. He sucked a deep, involuntary breath. At the same time, his legs folded, and he dropped to his knees. When he was finally able to let the air from his lungs, he moaned miserably.

The burning grew worse as he lay there. He knew at once that he had been struck with a switch.

After several moments, he was hoisted roughly back to his feet and cuffed on the side of the head to get his attention.

"Do not speak," someone ordered.

The speaker was standing a few feet in front of the priest. His voice was soft but commanding. Father Bradbury's ear was ringing from the blow. He turned the side of his head toward the man who had just spoken. There was something compelling about his voice.

"This island has been sanctified with blood of fowl and day dancing," the man continued. "The voice of a reverend from outside the circle can only be used to advance or accept our faith."

The words made sense, but Father Bradbury was having difficulty concentrating on them. His legs were weak and trembling violently. He fell again.

"Help him," the voice from in front said.

Strong hands moved under the priest's arms. He was raised from the rug. This time the hands held him upright. The priest's breath was tremulous. The pain behind his knees settled into a regular, forceful throbbing. His head, overheated and aching for water, sagged forward. The hands released him after a moment. The priest wobbled but forced himself to remain standing.

The only sound the priest heard was his own breathing. And then, after a minute or two, the man in front spoke again. He was nearer now. Though the voice was barely more than a whisper, it was deep and compelling.

"Now that you understand my position, I want you to do something," said the speaker in front.

"Who… who are you?" Father Bradbury implored. The words were cracked. It did not sound like his own voice.

A moment later, he heard the terrible whistle. He cried out as he felt the bite of the switch. This time, it struck a little higher, along the backs of his thighs. The pain was so great that he actually danced forward several steps before collapsing. He fell on the dirt floor, panting and whimpering. He had a flashback to when he was a boy and had been hit with a strap by his father. This was how he sounded then. The priest lay writhing on his belly, hooting pain into the hood. He could not control what came from his mouth. His bound hands pulled against the ropes. But Father Bradbury was not trying to get free. His body had to move, to keep from letting the pain be his only stimulus.

"You were told not to speak!" someone yelled from behind. It did not sound like the man who had brought him here. This was some other tormentor. Perhaps they had brought in someone who was proficient with a switch. Many villages had people like that, men who were skilled at corporal punishment. "Nod if you understand the instructions."

Father Bradbury was curled on his side. He nodded. He barely knew what he was doing anymore. His body was in agony, yet his mind was numb. His mouth was dry, but his hair and face were greasy with sweat. He was struggling mightily with his bonds yet he had never felt so weak.

Only the priest's spirit was intact. It had been shaped and reinforced by over two score years of reflection, reading, and prayer. He needed that part of him to stay strong.

The switch nipped the backs of his bound hands. Father Bradbury yelped and stopped moving them. He thought of restless young boys whose knuckles he had rapped in catechism class and apologized to God. He was pulled back onto his feet. His knees folded inward, but the priest did not fall. The powerful hands continued to hold him.

"You must believe me," said the gentle man in front. He was leaning close again, his voice even more compassionate now. "I do not wish to hurt you. On my soul, I do not. The creation of pain is a black deed. It hurts you, and it attracts the attention of evil spirits. They watch us. They feetj on evil, and they grow stronger. Then they attempt to influence us.

That is not what I wish. But for the sake of my people, I must have your cooperation. There is no time to debate this."

Father Bradbury had no idea what this man was saying. Everything around him was confusion.

"Now," the voice said as the man stepped away. "You will be taken to a telephone. We have been watching your seven deacon missionaries. We have the numbers of their cellular telephones. You will call them and tell these men to leave my country. When their departure has been confirmed, you will be permitted to leave our camp. Then you, too, will leave our Botswana. You and the other priests of a false divinity."

"He is not false," Father Bradbury said.

The clergyman braced for a blow that did not come. Then it came, just as he was relaxing. It struck his lower back. He felt the shock of the blow race up his back to his neck, and he whimpered loudly. No one said anything. There was no need. He knew the rules.

The hands holding Father Bradbury were joined by another set of hands. They pulled the priest forward. He could not keep his wounded legs under him. He did not even try.

The priest was dragged across the room. His legs were screaming, but he could do nothing to quiet them. His head was throbbing as well, not just from the blows but from thirst and hunger. One set of hands pushed him onto a stool. The edge of the seat brushed his leg where he had been hit. It burned terribly, and he jerked away. The men settled him back down. Another man untied the bottom of the hood. It was lifted to just above the priest's mouth. As warm as the evening was, the air felt wonderfully cool on his face.

"There is a speakerphone in front of you," said someone close to Father Bradbury. This was the man who had originally captured him. "The first person we are calling is Deacon Jones."

No one was holding the priest now. He slumped forward slightly, but he did not slip from the stool. His feet were spread wide, and his hands were still bound behind him. His arms served as a counterbalance to keep him from falling. His legs and hands burned furiously where he had been struck. His arms shook. Tears slipped from the edges of his eyes. His parched lips were trembling. He felt violated and forsaken. But Father Bradbury still had one thing neither pain nor promises could take from him.

"You will tell him to return to the church, collect his belongings, and go home," his captor told him. "If you say anything else, we will end the call, and you will be beaten."

"Sir," Father Bradbury croaked. "I am… Botswanan. So is… Deacon Jones. I will not tell him… to leave."

The switch came down across his slender shoulders. The heavy blow snapped the priest erect and bent him backward. His mouth flew open, but he made no sound. The pain paralyzed his vocal cords and his lungs. He sat there frozen, arched away from the telephone. After a few seconds, the little air that was left in his lungs wheezed out. His shoulders relaxed slowly. His head fell forward. The pain of the blow settled in as a now-familiar heat.

"Do you need me to repeat the instructions?" the man asked.

Father Bradbury shook his head vigorously. Shaking it helped him to work through the aftershocks of the blow.

"I am going to punch in the number," the man went on. "If you do not speak to the deacon, then we will have no choice but to go after him and kill him. Do you understand?"

Father Bradbury nodded. "I still… will not say… what you want," he informed the man.

The priest expected another blow. He was trembling uncontrollably, too unsettled now to even try to prepare for it. He waited. Instead of striking him, someone relied the hood under his chin. Then he lifted the prisoner to his feet. His legs seemed to be disconnected, and the priest began to drop. The man grabbed the meat of his upper arms and held him tightly. It hurt, but not as much as the rest of him.

The priest was dragged back outside. He was taken to another structure and tossed roughly inside. His hands were still tied behind him, so he tucked his head into his chest to protect it from a fall to the floor. The fall never came. Father Bradbury struck a corrugated metal wall and bounced back toward the door. He landed against metal bars that had been shut so quickly they literally pinned him to the wall. His legs were still wobbly, but that did not matter. His body sagged but did not drop. There was no room. He tried to wriggle to the left and right, but that was not possible. The side walls were as far apart as his aching shoulders.

"Lord God," he murmured when he realized he was in a cell, a cell so small that he would not be able to sit, let alone sleep.

Father Bradbury began to hyperventilate through the hood. He was frightened and rested his cheek against the metal. He had to calm himself, get his mind off his predicament, off his pain. He told himself that the man who had been leading this action, the man in the hut, was not an evil man. He could feel that. He had heard it in his voice. But Father Bradbury had also heard strong determination. That would cloud reason.

The priest folded the fingers of his bound hands. He squeezed them together tightly.

"Hail Mary full of grace the Lord is with Thee," he muttered through the damp cloth.

In the end, only the body dies. Father Bradbury would not stain his soul to save it. But that did not stop him from fearing for the lives of his friends the deacons, from acknowledging that he had no right to sacrifice them.

Yet he also feared for his adoptive home. Only one group spoke of white and black magic. A group as old as civilization and terrifying to those who knew of the pain black magic could cause. Not just supernatural magic, but dark deeds such as drugging, torture, and murder.

A group that had the power to subvert the nation and the continent. And then, possibly, the world.