Dark Eye of the Jaguar

by Robert Mitchell

It was now our ten to their four. I was smiling once again. Surely they would turn and back away.

  But even as I went to speak, to tell them to leave, the right hand that had been hidden within the folds of the dark cassock of the priest moved slowly out, an ungloved hand, the fingers clasping a large revolver. His left hand reached over and grasped Joseph by the hood of his parka. The hand holding the gun moved up to Joseph’s head, the barrel at his forehead, the hammer of the revolver already cocked, requiring only a slight pressure on the trigger to send the bullet smashing into Joseph’s brain.

  It was now our eight to their six, with the revolver added into the equation.

  The cowled figure yelled at us, his voice strangely familiar, the words spoken in Chinese, but in a tone I had heard before. Nobody moved, and he yelled again, this time waving the pistol at Christopher before bringing it back to Joseph. I heard the man holding the heavy butcher’s knife, the thug with his right arm held loosely by his side, snap quick words at this person, this person dressed as a priest, the large knife pointing at Terrence. I was thankful that it was the priest who held the gun. If it had been the other one, Terrence would have been dead in an instant.

  Joseph spoke quietly to the monks and they backed away from the chest. The fake priest pulled Father Joseph back and to one side. And then this man, this person dressed in the heavy cassock of a Jesuit priest, this impostor, threw the cowl back over his head and looked at me. It was the face of a young man, not Chinese and not western.

  “Move back, Mr Dunlop,” he snarled. “You too, Mrs Dunlop. Move away or I will shoot this English priest.”

  “Jackson Lee!” I gasped, stunned as recognition hit. “You bastard!”

  “Not Jackson Lee!” Joseph shouted, his voice filled with sorrow, with disgust. “He is Brother James. This is Brother James, an acolyte of the Church, but an acolyte no more.”

  Lee, or rather, Brother James, laughed. “You all look on me as a freak, as a person neither of one race nor the other. You delay my ordination. You give me menial tasks to perform. You treat me as something low, as a peasant, someone to do your bidding, but never to be your equal.”

  “You were never treated in that way, James,” Father Joseph said to him in a low even voice. “All acolytes are treated in the same way as you have been treated. An acolyte must learn humility before he can begin to earn the love of his fellow man. He must follow in the footsteps of our Lord Jesus.” He paused, his voice full of sorrow, and then asked quietly: “Why have you done this thing?”

  “Why, you fool?” Lee snarled, the frosty vapour pouring from his mouth. And then he yelled: “Why? For riches of course! Why else does a man work and strive? This chest will contain treasures which I will sell for a king’s ransom, for a pope’s ransom. I will finally take my proper place in the world!”

  I could almost hear madness in his voice.

  His words echoed around the temple forecourt, and then silence took over once more and there was only the sound of men breathing, waiting for whatever was to come, our misty breaths heavy on the air. That silence was finally broken as words were spoken by the man behind Lee, standing a little to his left. He was speaking in Chinese, arguing. It was the voice that had spoken to me on the telephone back in the seminary, Lee’s business associate.

  “Listen to him, James,” Joseph urged. “Listen to him!”

  Lee snapped back at the man, a rapid burst of Mandarin.

  The man stepped forward and placed his hand on Lee’s left shoulder and argued again, pulling at him, trying to get him to discuss whatever it was he wanted. Lee spun and fired the gun. There was not even a split-second of deliberation. There was no threat made, no chance for the man to withdraw whatever it was he had demanded. The bullet went through the man’s right eye and the back of his head exploded.

  He sank to the ground. There was no groan, no nerves jerking the body, no sound at all except the deafening crack of the revolver as it echoed off the stone wall surrounding the courtyard. And then it was quiet again, quiet except for the snicking of the revolver as Lee cocked the hammer once more.

  It was the hushed stillness that was worst of all. The man had been killed in front of us and not a word had been spoken. Lee had killed in the same manner as he would have swatted a fly, without passion, without remorse. I stood with my mouth wide open, my breath held, my knees starting to shake. And suddenly there was a scream from Sue which broke that stillness, and I knew that she was to be next.

  But before any of us could move, the pistol was back at Father Joseph’s head. It was almost silent again. There was only the muted sound of Sue’s scream still echoing through the early morning hours. Before the scream had even ended I had spun to her, put a hand on either shoulder and turned her from the scene, then thrown both my arms around her and held her tight until the shaking ceased. I looked over my shoulder to see what would happen next.

  Jackson Lee spoke again, this time in English, speaking to both Sue and me, but I kept her shielded from his gaze.

  “He was stupid,” he said, a sneer across his face as his eyes went down to the body on the brick paving at his feet. “But he was necessary. Without his contacts I was powerless. But now I have all of this!” His eyes flicked towards the unopened chest. “He wanted me to spare you two. He thought that the police would chase us forever if I killed a pair of western tourists.” He tapped the end of the revolver barrel against Joseph’s head. “But he had no problem with me killing this priest, nor the others. The man’s great-grandfather was a Boxer. Did you know that?”

  “No,” I replied. “I didn’t know.”

  What the hell did it matter anyway?

  “Yes, he was a member of the Society of the Righteous Fists, as they were known to the western powers. A pathetic title, don’t you think?”

  “I’d never thought about it,” I said.

  “Yes, they were neither righteous nor did they fight with fists. Heathens. They were all heathens, but they served their purpose. They have brought this day and the chest to me.”

  He was mad. Even in the dim light I could see the madness in his eyes as they flashed from me then to Joseph and back to me again.

  “Yes, his great-grandfather was a leader of one of the Boxer bands. He was extremely proud of the fact. He was proud that his great-grandfather had killed priests and Christians. I was able to convince him that his great-grandfather had been killed by the Lancer Captain, and that you were stealing his family’s wealth.”

  “And was he?” I asked.

  “Was he what?” he snapped back, spittle trickling down the left side of his lower lip.

  “Was his great-grandfather killed by Captain Jenkinson-Smythe and his Lancers? Was his great-grandfather one of the Boxers who stole the chest from the church and killed the priests?”

  “No, of course not, you stupid ignorant fool!” he yelled. “His great-grandfather did die during the uprising, and he could have been one of the Boxers killed just where we now stand, but I think it would have been too much of a coincidence, don’t you?”

  The light of rationality had come back into his eyes and he turned his head to look down at the chest. The quiet voice of Father Joseph broke into the silence that had been left by my failure to reply.

  “I beg of you, James, don’t do this.” His voice was shaking, pleading; the sudden violence from an acolyte of the Church both stunning and terrifying him, shattering his beliefs in the integrity of his fellow man, his fellow Jesuit. “The chest contains the sacred relics that were lost a hundred years ago. They belong to the Church! They must be returned to the Church!”

  “What relics!” Lee snapped. “Again and again I have asked what these relics are, where they have come from, and each time I have been told to be patient, that I must wait, that I must wait until I have reached a higher position in your secret Church.”

  “But they are sacrosanct,” Joseph replied. “They must be kept as safe as they had been for those many centuries. They were hidden and cared
for. They were safe until those evil Boxers saw fit to desecrate the most holy Church. They belong to the Church, to Christ. They belong to God!”

  “They will belong to whoever pays me the most!” James snarled at him. “Now stand back.” He pushed Joseph to one side and snapped orders to one of his men in Chinese. It was the one who had questioned me in the room while Sue had the knife at her throat. The thug stepped forward and kicked at the lid of the chest three or four times and then leant down and wrenched it up, flinging it back, uncaring that the chest was a religious antique in itself.

  We could see by the dim light from the moon that the chest was almost full. He reached in and lifted out a small, blackened, gold-bound metal box and tossed it onto the ground, and then reached in and took out another, holding it up so that the others could see what they had won.

  “No!” Father Joseph screamed. “The relics, the sacred relics! Leave them, leave them!”

  But the thug just sneered and threw the second small box to the ground. It was only an object of tarnished silver to him, the value in the bullion content only. These men cared nothing for antiquity, nor for beauty. All they were after was the silver and the gold. Jackson Lee would share out the silver, and maybe some of the gold, but he would keep those things that he could sell, those things that were from antiquity. But would he share with them? He had killed one man, why not the others as well? He wouldn’t do it now. No, it would be later, when this mess was cleared away, when the chest was safely stored in some place of refuge in this huge city. But then again, perhaps he would leave one or two bodies of his own men behind. The one who had broken open the chest seemed to be his lieutenant, the others just hired hands. He could make it look as though nobody had survived whatever fight would take place this night.

  This man, this lieutenant, laughed at Father Joseph. He understood English. He had shown this when the knife had been held at Sue’s throat. He kicked the second silver box forward to within a metre of Joseph’s feet, then stepped forward and raised his heavy-booted right foot above the small dark metal box and grinned at Joseph again.

  “Your box mine now! I open, okay?”

  Before the foot could fall even one centimetre, Father Joseph gave a loud cry and lunged forward at the man, knocking him off balance and onto the flagstones. Lee, or Brother James, or whatever his name was, grabbed Joseph by the sleeve of his parka and swung him back. They crashed together. Joseph snatched at the revolver, grabbing Lee’s wrist in both hands as he tried to twist the gun away, both of them grunting, vapour billowing into the cold early morning air.

  There was no movement from anyone else, all of us standing like spectators; Lee’s lieutenant crouching on the ground, not wanting to face the revolver barrel as it jerked from side to side. His other three men stepped back quickly, out of the line of fire.

  Nobody spoke. Nobody seemed to take even one step forward as the two men twisted and struggled, although I could sense Terrence rising up on to the front of his feet, perhaps looking for an opening between the two men. And almost in that same instant there was another loud cracking sound that reverberated around the inside of the walled enclosure, and Joseph slumped against his assailant, his hands still around the barrel of the revolver, holding it tight, pushing it towards the ground as he sank even further.

  At the sound of the shot, time moved again. There was a blur of movement from the four Buddhist monks and then Christopher and Terence leapt forward as well. I didn’t know which way to go. My first thought was of Sue. I pushed her out of the way of one of the gangsters who was making a run at me and then leapt sideways after her.

  The blade of the shovel seemed to come out of nowhere, and then crashed down on Lee’s head, sending him to the ground, the revolver falling from his fingers. I saw the shovel swung another couple of times, and the crowbar just the once – straight across Jackson Lee’s forehead with a blow that almost knocked his head from his shoulders, crushing his forehead. I didn’t see who had smashed the heavy iron bar into his head. I hoped it had been one of the Buddhist monks and not Terrence, for he would never have forgiven himself. Jackson Lee might have been evil, but it was an evil brought on by circumstances outside his control; his abandonment at birth, and the conflict between the two widely diverse cultures that controlled his psyche, his loneliness.

  I dragged my eyes from the now lifeless body of this man who had caused so much pain and anxiety in my life, knowing that danger was still there, and turned to Sue.

  Time seemed to slow. I saw the heavy cleaver move in an arc above his snarling head, and watched as Lee’s lieutenant moved towards her; long striding steps. As I shouted, she twisted towards me, her face turning from one of horror at the sight of death on the ground at her feet, to terror as she saw the cleaver now reaching for her, too far for me to do anything but watch. There was a flash of dull grey metal and something heavy smashed into the man’s face, knocking his head sideways. The monk who had thrown the box containing the sacred relics leapt forward the three or four paces separating them and threw the thug to the ground, then stomped viciously on the man’s neck, crushing his windpipe and breaking the spinal cord. I spun from the body now on the ground to the men behind me, expecting another attack, but it was over, over almost before it had started.

  The other three gangsters were on the ground, unmoving. One had his leg sticking out at an unnatural angle; the two others were either dead or unconscious. The body of Jackson Lee’s partner lay where he had fallen, blood slowly pooling on the hard cold flagstones and trickling into the cracks and crevices.

  Brother James, the man we had known as Jackson Lee, lay with one leg twisted up and under the other; his eyes wide open to the night sky. There was no blood, even though his forehead had been crushed back into his brain. The second or third blow from the shovel would have killed him, the shovel still held in the quivering hands of Father Christopher, his face as pale as the snow that had fallen on this place only weeks before. The iron bar which had smashed into Lee’s head had not really been needed, but was necessary in the heat of the moment. The monk who had swung it let it drop to the ground with a noise that seemed to echo the finality of it all.

  And then Father Terrence bent down, closed Lee’s eyes, made the sign of the cross and quietly recited some words in Latin. Christopher laid the shovel on the ground and bowed his head, and I could see clearly the tears as they began to flow.

  When the words had finished, Christopher wiped his eyes and knelt down on the brick courtyard, and raised Joseph’s head and shoulders on to his thighs. There was blood trickling from the corner of Joseph’s mouth. The front of his jacket was darkened with the same redness. He coughed and tried to speak, but the words wouldn’t come. He tried again.

  “Rest, Father,” Christopher was saying. “Rest. You will soon be in the arms of the Lord.” And then he too started intoning in Latin, but with a moving sincerity that almost made me weep.

  Joseph tried to speak again, interrupting the liturgy, the blessing that would take him into the afterlife, whatever and wherever that might have been. Christopher tried to quieten his efforts to speak, but Joseph was even more insistent, using the last of his strength to say what he wanted to say, to ask the one question that he wanted answered. I bent down close to him as Christopher continued his intonation.

  “It’s okay, Joseph,” I said quietly. “The chest is safe. He didn’t damage the box. The relic boxes are safe.” I was now certain that the two blackened silver boxes bound in gold which the gangster had unceremoniously thrown to the ground were the boxes that had held the Church’s sacred relics.

  “But…,” he said softly, “But are they there?”

  “Yes, Joseph,” I replied. “The boxes are here.”

  “But are they there?” he asked again, his voice even weaker.

  “Yes, Joseph.”

  “But is the nail…., the sacred spike.., is it there? And the silver…, the pieces, the three pieces of the thirteen…, are they…., are they there
?”

  I looked up and saw the stunned shock in Christopher’s eyes as he realised what Joseph might have just revealed to me.

  “What did he say?” I asked Christopher, not really certain whether I had heard correctly.

  “He is asking about the relics,” Terrence said from my side, the two boxes now tightly clasped to his chest. “He wants to know if they are safe.” He moved back a step, perhaps worried that I might suddenly leap forward and snatch them from his grasp.

  “Are they the boxes the relics were kept in?” I snapped, pointing at both boxes.

  There was no reply from either of them. And that told me what I wanted to know.

  “Look, damn you!” I said to Christopher through clenched teeth. “He’s dying. Open the damn boxes and tell him! He’s giving up his life in the hope that the relics will be restored to your blasted Church! For God’s sake! Open the damn boxes!”

  Christopher looked across at Terrence, and after a long few seconds nodded to him. Terrence gingerly opened the first box, the bigger of the two. His eyes went wide and the relief that flooded across his face brought a lump to my throat. He bent down and spoke to Joseph in Latin. Then he opened the smaller box and his eyes lit up even further. He repeated the words again, perhaps not the same words, but similar. I’d done enough Latin in my junior school years to know that the answer to both questions had been in the affirmative. He closed both boxes and laid them on Joseph’s chest, on the rich dark blood, and then placed Joseph’s left hand over the top, a hand now pale and cold.

  The fingers of Joseph’s right hand beckoned to me. As I knelt by his side, he clasped the front of my parka. “Thank you,” he said quietly, then closed his eyes and died. I pushed the hair up over his forehead, and looked up at Christopher and saw the tears in his eyes and knew that mine were filled as well.

  I knelt there for the longest moment, wanting to say a prayer for him, then telling myself that I didn’t believe in an afterlife, but wanting to say something to help him to wherever he had thought his soul would eventually go. I finally raised myself up from the cold stone bricks of the courtyard and went back to Sue.