by Alan Baxter
Samuel made a dismissive sound. ‘How can I believe my magic would work without blood when I’ve only ever pulled it off with blood?’
‘It’s a matter of belief, Samuel. If you had really believed it would work, then it would have. Anything you believe in, really believe in, can be true. You can make anything happen, make anything manifest. It’s only limited by your faith, your imagination, and your endurance to channel and manipulate the energy that is the universe. And you have a remarkable natural ability and endurance, Samuel. More than most.’
Samuel smiled. ‘Really? So it’s the same with God? Believe in God and he’ll be there for you.’
‘Not quite. Believe in God and he’ll exist for you. Believe in anything and it’ll exist for you. If you truly believe it.’
Samuel’s brow creased into a frown. ‘What’s the difference between something being there and existing?’
‘There are gods far older than the one you call God. There are gods younger than that too. People need something to believe in, and very few, for some reason, seem to have the ability to believe in themselves.’
Samuel held up his hand, shaking his head. ‘Wait a minute, wait a minute. You’re saying that people don’t believe in themselves so they invent gods?’ Isiah nodded. ‘But the God’s there. I’ve met the Devil, so there must be a God.’
‘Of course. Not just yours either. Thor and Odin exist, Dagda exists, you saw one of the voodoo gods yourself, so you know he exists. There are literally thousands of gods and deities in existence.’
Samuel’s frown was deepening. ‘What? That’s bullshit, man. How can they all exist?’
‘Faith lends substance, Samuel. Everybody is a part of the whole universe. Everybody’s consciousness is a fragment of the entire conscious energy of the universe. Therefore, everybody’s thoughts actually form the universe and everything in it. The universe is an infinite, random thing, governed by chaos, ruled by uncontrollable forces, until people start to think about things and attempt to manipulate that universe. They don’t have the ability to think in terms of the enormity of it all, so they begin to construct personalities and environments in an attempt to understand themselves and give themselves some direction, some purpose. And those personalities and environments are the gods and heavens and devils and hells that just about everybody believes in, in one form or another.’
Samuel was shaking his head. ‘No, man, no way. You’re saying that whatever people believe is what they’ll get. If that was true, people would believe that they were millionaires that would live forever.’
Isiah sighed. ‘It’s far deeper than that. People don’t realise what the power of their belief is. It would be incomprehensible to believe millions into existence, so no one would pull it off. Although, it’s not actually impossible. Nothing is impossible.’
‘So, by your rationale, all we really need to do right now is stop believing in the Devil.’
Isiah chuckled. ‘But you do believe in him, don’t you, Samuel. He actually exists for you and he wants to get you.’
Samuel slumped in the pew. ‘So how about I start believing in something else too. You mentioned Odin before, and Thor. So okay, I believe you.’ He looked up, raising his hands theatrically above his head. ‘Thor, I believe in you, almighty powerful warrior god of the Norse folk. I beseech thee, I pray to thee, step down and strike Lucifer low with your thunderbolts so that I may be free to worship you with impunity!’ He looked at Isiah with a grin. ‘How’s that? We safe now?’
‘It would be nice, wouldn’t it. But you don’t really believe, and even if you did one god wouldn’t step into battle with another just for your worthless soul.’
‘So I can’t change what I’ve set for myself? Some decision years ago when, for some reason, I started to believe in God and the Devil has set my course forever?’
‘Basically, yes. If you thought about things, considered them and actually came to believe in them, then you would be creating new vistas for your existence over time, incorporating them into your general beliefs. People’s beliefs develop and mutate all the time.’
Samuel sat quietly, thoughtful, for a while. Eventually he said, ‘I dunno, man. It’s all so confusing.’
‘That’s where religion stems from, Samuel. It’s simply a tool to explain the powers of existence, to comprehend the enormity of it in a way that’s acceptable to the average human mind.’
‘So you’re against religion, then, or for it?’
‘Neither. It simply is. If it’s a tool a person wants to use, then fine, but it’s the single most powerful inhibitor of personal growth. Spirituality is what people strive for. Understanding. But they bog it down in layer upon layer of religion in order to control their thoughts and, all too often, the thoughts of others. When people finally stop burying spirituality under leaden layers of religion I might finally be allowed to rest. In the meantime, a balance must be maintained.’
Samuel stared blankly into the depths of the shadows above him. ‘Fuck, man.’
Isiah smiled, leaned back on the pew, resting his head on his interlaced hands. He wondered how long it would take Samuel to ask another question.
11
The early morning sun was already hot, lancing between dense, green foliage of the surrounding jungle. Ignoring his throbbing head, Carlos began packing essentials into a backpack. He seemed to have been drunk or had a hangover ever since he left that stinking hospital. But now he was ready to make up for that discomfort, ease the burden of his suffering at the hands of that kingshit priest. Hangover or not he felt good this morning, his leg stronger than ever, the ache in his side almost gone.
The day was humid, already alive with flies and mosquitoes, but he felt charged. It was good to be back in the jungle, back in familiar territory. He pushed a few packets of dried rations into a side pocket of the backpack. He didn’t need much, water mainly. He wasn’t planning to be away for more than a day or two. What he needed most were weapons of various kinds to use making that priest suffer hours of torture until he begged for the release of death. Carlos was grinning evilly as the screen door behind him swung open.
Rat stepped into the doorway, leaning heavily against the frame. His eyes were puffy, half closed, his hair pointing in at least a dozen different directions. He made a deep, guttural sound in his throat, spat a large gob across the porch into some dew-damp leaves. ‘You have a remarkable ability for good humour early in the morning, Carlos,’ he said, his voice thick and slurred, morning voice.
Carlos barked a short laugh. ‘I have things to do which are not only important, but enjoyable. It’s easy to motivate oneself when pleasure is involved.’
Rat coughed, phlegmy, harsh sounding. He spat again. ‘Shit, man, I gotta cut back. So what’s the deal? You’ve been a bit cagey about this business you say you have.’
Carlos stopped packing to look at his friend. His face was calm, expressionless. ‘You know how it is when somebody insults you? When someone really treats you badly?’
Rat laughed. ‘Sure, Carlos. Someone call you chicken or something?’
Before Carlos could answer, Marco’s head appeared over Rat’s shoulder, his eyes equally swollen and red. ‘What the fuck are you two doing up and about? It’s early, man, let’s sleep.’
Rat looked back over his shoulder. ‘Carlos was just about to tell us who called him a girl, to make him so excited about his work.’
Carlos shook his head. ‘Not that kind of insult, you idiot. I mean a real insult. When I was hurt I ended up in this stinking mission hospital in the middle of nowhere.’
Marco pushed past Rat, stepped onto the veranda. ‘So you said, man. Unlucky. Missionaries, huh?’ He squinted at the bright morning sun before slumping into the hammock, his forearm draped across his eyes. ‘I been in one of them places once, everybody praying for me and shit.’
Carlos nodded. ‘Exactly, my friend. And there was one priest in this place who simply would not let up. He would come and sit by me every day,
several times a day, and he would crap on about God and Jesus, about how I could still save my soul. Like my soul really needs saving by his stinking god! I grew to truly hate this priest!’
Rat shook his head, sitting down on the doorstep. ‘Fuck, man, it ain’t that bad. Priests are like that, it’s their job.’
Carlos spun around to face him, his expression one of fury. ‘Fuck their job, Rat! If I’d have wanted to convert, I’d have found a church. I’m lying there injured, weak, unable to move away and this bastard priest sits there, hour after hour, harping on about the beauty of God, saving my evil soul, while I’m trapped, forced to listen to his bullshit!’
Rat grinned. ‘You really hate religion, huh?’
Marco chuckled under his arm.
Carlos turned back to his bag, tucking boxes of ammunition next to his flack jacket. ‘I hate their pomposity, their superiority. And I really hate them trying to cram it down my throat.’
Rat gently massaged his eyes with forefinger and thumb. ‘So anyway, we’re getting off the point here. You were telling us what’s so enjoyable about this forthcoming job.’
‘Yeah. Well, I’d been in this hospital, slowly getting stronger, feeling better, but still this priest won’t leave me alone. So I start planning, preparing for when I’m strong enough to leave that sick and reeking place, and then I can come back fit and well, with weapons of all kinds, and I can slowly squeeze the life out of that super holy motherfucker.’
Marco’s arm muffled his giggling slightly. Rat gently shook his head. ‘You are one nasty son of a bitch, man! Remind me never to insult you. So what happened?’
Carlos pulled the backpack closed and put it on the floor next to his rifle. He began tucking knives into his boots. ‘The day I decide to leave I go looking for the priest, but the son of a bitch has left. He went the day before. He robbed me of my chance to prove to him that his god is a fallacy, nothing more than lunatic ravings.’
Marco squinted out from under his arm. ‘You really believe that, man? You don’t believe in God?’
Carlos rolled his eyes. ‘Of course not, Marco, what kind of a child are you? This is all there is,’ he said, holding up his fist. ‘And this,’ picking up his rifle, shaking it for emphasis. ‘All we are is all we are. All we can do is survive, gather power by controlling those around us, live autonomously from any kind of authority, from any government, any police force or army, and any fucking priesthood!’
Rat looked at his friend, his eyes slightly sad, though amused. ‘Carlos, man, you are one fucked up individual.’
Carlos grunted, leaning the rifle back against the veranda’s railing. ‘What do you know? I don’t expect you to understand.’
Rat shrugged. ‘So your enjoyable task is to hunt down this priest?’
‘And kill him for preaching to you,’ Marco added.
‘Exactly.’
Rat pulled a battered packet of cigarettes from his pocket, took one from the pack with his teeth. ‘Fair enough,’ he said, lighting the cigarette. He drew smoke deep into his lungs, then coughed hard. Ignoring his health he said, ‘So you know where to start looking?’
Carlos reached into his pocket, drew out a crumpled map. He tossed it to Rat. ‘See there. To the north is an area marked off. It’s some kind of archaeological dig, some old Indian shit or other. The priest has been sent up there to spout his bullshit.’
Rat looked at the map for a while. ‘So you’ll be wanting me to fill up that jeep of yours then?’
Carlos shook his head. ‘No, man. Besides, it’s stolen. Paint it up for me, and change the details for when I get back.’
‘Carlos, it’s miles to this site. You’re going on foot?’
‘Yeah. I want to be in the jungle again.’
‘Why, man? It’ll take you forty eight hours to get there through the jungle.’
‘Thirty six at most. I’ll get there Friday night, early, then wait till after dark to go in and take out that priest.’
Rat chuckled. ‘You can be one obsessed soldier, Carlos. So it looks like you’re about ready to leave.’ He tossed the map back.
Carlos slung the backpack up over his shoulders. He put the strap of the rifle around his neck, settling the weapon at an angle across his hip. ‘Yeah, I’m ready. I’ll see you boys in a few days, when my mind will be on business, without these distractions.’
Rat stood, slapped Carlos on the shoulder. ‘Be careful, my friend. Psychotic or not, we’d hate to lose you.’
Marco’s voice, muffled by his arm, was lazy, tired. ‘Yeah, man. And I got work for you when you get back. Don’t be more than a week, okay?’
Carlos stepped down from the veranda. ‘I appreciate it, Marco. I’ll see you soon.’
Marco raised his free arm, waved briefly before letting it slump across his chest. Rat wandered back into his house, shaking his head.
Carlos strolled into the familiar depths of the jungle. In the shade of the trees it was still relatively cool, though damp and humid. His bare arms were already sweating, he could feel beads of perspiration trickling down his back. He was used to this, it was where he felt most alive, deep in the buzzing, sweltering jungle. He could easily ignore the flies constantly invading his ears and face, he didn’t care about the mosquito bites he would get. The jungle was a dangerous place, populated by deadly creatures, but none were as deadly as Carlos himself. He knew this and revelled in it, scared of no man or beast.
He paused to look at his map, take a compass reading. He could avoid the few roads easily, sticking to old paths and animal tracks. He had his machete with him, and would surely need it from time to time. He patted its wooden handle, feeling the bulky weight of it against his thigh. He took a deep breath of the thick, musty, damp air. It felt good.
Katherine Bailey was dreaming about ice cream sundaes when a loud shout made her jump awake. Immediately the pleasurable sensation of eating ice cream was torn away as she registered the heat and humidity in her small hut. Thin, sharp beams of sunlight lanced in between the leaves and sticks of its walls. She checked her watch. Seven a.m. and already her back was soaked in sweat where she lay on the cot, her long, dark hair clinging to her forehead and cheeks. There were various noises outside, men talking and shouting, tools clanging. She sat up, rubbing her eyes. She really needed a shower.
There were several irritating red lumps on her arms and hands, the remains of mosquito banquets. She gritted her teeth, determined not to scratch them. She lasted about fifteen seconds before her nails gouged sweet relief down her forearm. She was still scratching absently when she stepped from her hut into the bright, muggy day, her towel and washbag in hand.
In the light of day she could clearly see the layout of the site. It was bigger than she had realised. Her hut stood at the end of one row of similar structures, marking off one edge of the site. A longer line of huts marked another edge, where Thomas and Father Paleros had gone. There were a number of small fenced off areas around the middle ground, all with blue or green tarpaulin stretched over them as makeshift roofs. Men bustled around each one, or crawled under the tarpaulin, with small spades and brushes.
At the far end of the site was the main focus of attention, making Katherine’s jaw drop in wonder. The jungle was thicker that end but had been painstakingly cleared, trees, vines, lantana cut away. This had revealed an ancient, worn stone construction, a huge pyramid with stepped sides. Work was continuing around the pyramid, clearing away the jungle that had swallowed it centuries ago. A dark rectangle in the front marked a doorway, with a blue tarpaulin stretched over it like a porch. Men were coming and going through the doorway like ants.
‘Magnificent, isn’t it?’
Katherine jumped slightly at the voice, so close behind her. ‘Oh, Father Paleros. You startled me.’
The priest’s expression was benign. ‘I’m so sorry, my dear. You were rather absorbed by the sight I think.’
‘Yes, I was. It’s very beautiful. Was it really only just discovered?’
The priest nodded, taking her elbow. He had seen her towel and led her toward the shower tents. His voice was very soft when he spoke, calm and benevolent. ‘Yes, my dear, it was.’ Katherine stood about the same height as the priest, though she was fairly tall. As they crossed toward the showers a couple of local working men looked up and whistled, appreciating Katherine’s dusky good looks. The priest smiled, almost apologetic. ‘The jungle had hidden the pyramid for centuries,’ he continued, ‘until Senor Sanchez financed the effort to explore this area. The whole place was engulfed by the jungle. Once he realised what he had found, the first job was to cut the road that leads here to get equipment in. In archaeological terms, he struck gold.’
‘He had to build the road here too?’
‘Of course. It’s little more than a rough track as you know, but there’s no other way to get here. A helicopter can land in the clearing now, but before it was no different from any other square mile of jungle.’
‘How did he know where to look?’
The priest shrugged. ‘I have no idea. The Lord moves in mysterious ways.’
Katherine chuckled. Thomas and this guy will get on famously. ‘You think God guided him to it?’
Still smiling, the priest said, ‘I think God guides us in every way. Maybe you should talk to Senor Sanchez to find his motives, however.’
‘Of course.’
The priest pointed to the tent they had arrived at. ‘I must warn you not to expect too much. The facilities here are really very basic. The shower is simply a container of water with a hose and a tap, but I’m sure you’ll cope.’
