Exorcist

by Steven Piziks

  Granville’s words brought another pang to Merrin’s stomach. He was seized with the urge to run out the door and straight down to the dig site before more damage could be done. “Have you been to the site, Father Francis?” he asked instead.

  “No,” Francis replied. “I’ve only read the reports.”

  “Then what is your capacity here?”

  “Him?” Granville looked up from the dead butterfly, surprised. “Well, for one thing he’s quite an admirer of yours, and he asked—”

  Francis set his untouched whiskey on Granville’s desk. “I’m about to begin missionary work in the Turkana district, Father Merrin.” He cleared his throat. “This is a little awkward. Cardinal Jenkins is somewhat…concerned about an exploration of this significance being conducted by a priest on…on sabbatical. The cardinal wants a Church representative on site at the dig.”

  “Oh?” Merrin said, liking the situation less and less. “In what capacity?”

  “Just as an observer for the Church,” Francis said hurriedly. “In addition to my missionary work. I need to make sure that any holy relics are treated properly.”

  “The Church doesn’t trust me to do it?” Merrin asked. “No, don’t answer that, Father. I know what the Vatican thinks of me.”

  “They think you’re the best archaeologist ever to complete seminary,” Francis said stoutly. “I have to say it’s a pleasure to meet you, Father Merrin. I’ve read all your work.”

  “It’s Mister Merrin.”

  The reply made Francis falter. “Of course. Er…I was especially impressed with your treatise on the Roman rituals. Tell me, have you heard the rumors of their revision?”

  “I’m afraid I’m no longer privy to those discussions, Father.” Merrin leaned one hand on Granville’s desk. “But surely you didn’t come all this way to discuss archaic Catholic rituals.”

  Francis gave a small laugh. “No. I was actually headed to Kenya to begin missionary work when Rome learned of the discovery. As I said, they’ve asked me to make sure the site’s religious aspects are given proper consideration.”

  “Are you an archaeologist, Father Francis?”

  “I…have my degree,” Francis said evasively.

  “How many digs have you been on?”

  “Two. One in Jerusalem and one in Egypt.”

  “When you were a seminary student?”

  “…Yes.”

  “How many digs have you overseen?”

  Francis hesitated. “Technically, none. Though I was second assistant on the Jerusalem dig.”

  Merrin narrowed his eyes. Experience had taught him that “observers” usually tried to poke their noses into parts of the dig where they only made trouble, and it was obvious that this boy barely knew one end of a trowel from the other. One mistake could destroy priceless information forever. Even experts made their fair share of errors, and they knew what they were doing. Putting an inexperienced digger in charge of a major find was like handing a Ming vase to a toddler. Will Francis seemed nice enough, but who knew what the man would be like when they got to the site?

  Granville, meanwhile, unscrewed the jar lid and eased the blue butterfly out onto his desk. From a drawer he took a mounting board and a box of pins. Merrin’s stomach turned. He didn’t want to watch what was coming next.

  “I suppose we should get on our way, then,” Merrin said. “The sooner, the better.”

  “Of course,” Granville agreed, not looking up from the butterfly. “Chuma, your foreman, is waiting out back with a lorry. When you get to Derati, you’ll want to talk to Trenton Jefferies. He was the only white man working at the dig when the previous chief archaeologist left, and I asked him to keep an eye on things until we could find a replacement.”

  “And where do I find this Mr. Jefferies?” Merrin asked.

  “From what I hear tell, if he’s not at the dig, he holes up in the local bar. Good luck, and keep me apprised.”

  Merrin thanked the major and left, with Francis trailing after him like a lost duckling.

  Three

  Turkana, British East Africa

  It is not right to beat the messenger.

  —Kenyan proverb

  A TWO-VEHICLE CONVOY crawled slowly over East African terrain. The rich vegetation and red earth surrounding the frosty peaks of Mount Kenya gave way to rough black hills to the north. The hills grew flatter and more barren until they disappeared entirely, swallowed up by the sandy plains of Turkana.

  Although Turkana was a desert, it wasn’t filled with blowing sand and featureless dunes. Acacia trees dotted a landscape of rocky, scrubby hills, canyons, and dry riverbeds lined with palm trees. The convoy had found one of the latter and was using it as a handy natural highway.

  The second vehicle was a Rover. The first was an ancient lorry filled with supplies and people, a good half of whom were native hitchhikers picked up along the way. Will Francis, seated in the Rover, had initially fumed at the delay created every time the little convoy stopped to pick up someone new; he was eager to reach the site and see this impossible church. But Merrin, who seemed to know a great many African customs, had tersely explained that cars and lorries were rare in Africa, and it was considered the height of rudeness to refuse anyone in need of transportation.

  “If you want to play missionary to these people,” he had firmly suggested, “you should keep your mouth shut until you understand their customs. Otherwise you’re going to spend most of your time tasting your own feet.”

  Will had started to argue, but then he saw the wisdom in Merrin’s words. Offended people wouldn’t hear his words, or God’s. So Will said nothing. Instead, he turned his attention to the hitchhikers in the lorry ahead of him. Many of them wore western dress, but equally many were dressed in the bright colors of their native land. The women in native garb wore long shoulderless dresses that shone like rainbows while the men wore bright red wraps that covered them from waist to knee. The other men wore tattered khaki brown explorer shirts. None of the women, Will noticed, wore western clothing. At least they didn’t seem to be immodest. Will had, of course, heard stories about bare-breasted jungle women, but he hadn’t yet seen any. He wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or disappointed. With a pang, he sent up a quick prayer for forgiveness and added it to his mental tally of sins to confess later.

  Abruptly it occurred to him that there would be no one to hear his confessions. He himself was, of course, empowered to hear confessions and assign penance, but who would hear his own? With Merrin’s status uncertain, Will wasn’t sure the other man was able to grant any kind of absolution. What if something happened out here in the middle of nowhere and he died without absolution or last rites? Accidents happened all the time. Will swallowed, then forced himself to think rationally. God wouldn’t have sent him out here without a safety net. God wouldn’t let him die without absolution. He had only to trust in God.

  The thought made him feel a little better as the lorry jolted across the uneven riverbed. Will clung to the door handle with grim determination. He was going to be sore tomorrow, he could tell already. The terrain just wasn’t made for driving. The Rover jolted over sand and stone, kicking up a cloud of dust. More dust from the lorry ahead caked in Will’s throat and itched on his skin. They were almost to the site, and every so often the riverbed walls fell away, revealing the sparkling waters of Lake Rudolf on the horizon to Will’s left. To his right lay a series of low hills.

  Merrin was making the trip north in cold silence, speaking only when necessary. Will felt disappointed. Lankester Merrin was one of the great archaeological minds of the twentieth century, and Will had been looking forward to talking to him. As a seminary student, he had read everything Merrin had written, even done two papers on Merrin’s findings. Now he was sitting in the presence of the man himself, and Merrin didn’t want to talk to him.

  Will grimaced. He couldn’t really blame Merrin. Will had to look like an interloper, swooping in and taking over. To tell the truth, he was nervous.
No, he was terrified. He had a degree in archaeology, had been on one dig in Jerusalem and one in Egypt. But he had never actually been in charge of a project before, and certainly not one of this magnitude. Cardinal Jenkins, however, had insisted. Will was the only priest in Africa who had an archaeological background and who could get to the dig in time to ensure the Church’s interests. And although Lankester Merrin may have been a renowned archaeologist, he wasn’t, of late, a very good priest.

  Chuma maneuvered the Rover around a large boulder. He was a tall, powerful Kenyan with small eyes and an expansive expression. Chuma, Will had decided early on, was a people person, good at talking, good at listening—and apparently the biggest gossip in all Kenya.

  “…and that is why my uncle can no longer have children,” Chuma said, gesturing at the people in the lorry ahead of them. “Now Odaka—he is the one talking to my second cousin Kulu on the left side of the lorry—Odaka thinks we of his family do not know about his mistress. He also thinks his wife knows nothing of her, but of course she does.”

  “Adultery is a sin,” Will said, feeling obliged to point this out. “Why does the community tolerate it?”

  “For her sake, of course. If Tula, his wife, wished it exposed, she would expose it. We remain silent so she will not be embarrassed. And of course I have been trying to convince Odaka to do the right thing.”

  “End the affair?” Will said.

  “Take his mistress as a second wife,” Chuma corrected.

  “Of course,” Will murmured, realizing his missionary work had been cut out for him. He couldn’t help asking, “Why doesn’t Odaka take his mistress as a second wife?”

  Chuma looked surprised. “Because Tula would never allow it.”

  The Rover hit a particularly hard bump, and Will nearly banged his head into the ceiling. Grimacing, he caught a glimpse of a small smile beneath Merrin’s hat. Because of the bump or because of Chuma’s remark? Maybe it was both.

  “So the mines are in the hills?” Will said in a change of subject, gesturing out the open window.

  “Were,” Chuma answered. His English was British and perfect. “They are all closed down now. Derati was quite a boom town once. Gold—that’s what brought the British here.”

  “That,” Merrin chimed in, “and a cheap source of labor.”

  “What do you mean?” Will asked.

  Merrin gave him a hard look. “If you want to be a good archaeologist, Francis, you should do your research,” he said flatly. “I did. The discovery of gold in Derati touched off a sensation in British circles. But they needed someone to mine it. Getting their own hands dirty was out of the question, so naturally they turned to the ‘lesser people.’ ” Merrin’s lip curled at the last phrase. “However, even the British balked at conscripting laborers out of the blue. There had to be a reason to snatch them up. Fortunately for the British, they had Major Granville.”

  “I don’t understand,” Will said.

  “Granville is in charge of the province around Derati. He declared that the gold deposits increased the value of the land tenfold, and he levied new taxes accordingly. Within a month, every native inhabitant of Derati defaulted his land. Entire families, including children as young as five, were conscripted to work in the new mines to pay off the new tax debt. Think of it, Father. Small children forced underground to work the mines for twelve hours a day. And every penny went straight to Granville’s office.”

  Will pursed his lips. “I see.”

  “It gets better,” Merrin continued. “The people revolted three times, and all three times Granville’s men smashed them down. Then the gold gave out. The British disappeared, leaving behind impoverished people and poisoned wells. And they’ve done nothing to help these people since. Perhaps now, Father, you can understand why I was less than enthusiastic about British and Vatican involvement in this discovery, whatever it turns out to be.”

  In the lorry ahead of them, someone said something funny, and all the passengers burst out laughing, a strange counterpoint to the serious conversation in the Rover.

  “You were a foreman at the mine?” Will Francis said to Chuma.

  The man nodded. “It was where I learned English.”

  “How long have you been with the dig?” Merrin asked.

  “Since it began. The British brought me in as an interpreter.”

  “What’s Derati like now? Do you have a source of income or trade?”

  “We raise goats and cows and camels,” Chuma said. “And there are the wells. Before the mines, traders came to Derati for the water. They still do, but several of the wells were poisoned by the mining, so not as many come as once did.”

  “Don’t your people get water from the lake?” Will asked in surprise.

  “The lake has always been brackish. It is a hard life, but we make do as best we can.”

  A tense silence fell on the Rover after that. An hour later, the miniature convoy left the riverbed and came to a halt at the outskirts of Derati. Merrin, Chuma, and Will all climbed down from the Rover, stretching their legs and arms after the long ride. Will beat some of the dust from the khakis he wore over his collar. A hot sun burned overhead, and the air lay perfectly still, like held breath. Ahead of them, the hitchhikers clambered down from the lorry. Will looked around, squinting in the harsh African sunlight.

  The village outskirts consisted of a series of beehive-shaped huts made of mud and brown palm fronds woven over wooden frames. Will, however, could see the roofs of European-style brick and plaster buildings poking up inside the outer circle of huts. A squad of naked and near-naked children dashed out from the village to see who had arrived. They surrounded Merrin like a flock of chattering birds. Merrin smiled at them and dug a handful of sweets from his pockets for general distribution. Each child got two—one for now and one to save. They ran off in a shrieking pack, comparing the brightly colored bits of hard candy as if they were valued jewels.

  “How did you know to do that?” Will asked. “Have you been here before?”

  “I’ve been to Ethiopia,” Merrin said, “but it’s the same everywhere—the children like sweets and the parents like people who are nice to the children. Something for you to remember next time.”

  “So why are we stopping? We aren’t in town yet.”

  Merrin gestured toward the hitchhikers, most of whom were staring at something off to one side. “I think they want to watch.”

  Will shaded his eyes in an attempt to follow their gaze when an enraged bellow brought his head around and he saw what everyone was looking at.

  In a nearby field stood a group of Turkana tribesmen, all dressed in long red sarongs. They were circling a full-grown black bull tied to a stake driven deep into the rocky ground. Red designs had been painted on the animal’s hide, and its horns were tipped with gold. The men carried long spears decorated with bright paint, beads, and feathers. They danced around the animal, feinting at it in a ritual pattern. One man, slightly taller than the rest and wearing an elaborate headdress that spread like a peacock’s tail, stood to one side with his arms folded across his bare chest.

  Abruptly one of the men thrust his spear deep into the bull’s flank. It bellowed in rage and pain and whipped its head around to gore its attacker, but the man had already danced out of the way. Once the bull’s attention was distracted, another man slipped in and speared it a second time.

  Will stared in shock and horror as the bull bawled and snorted red foam. “Why are they tormenting that animal?” he demanded.

  “It is a sacrifice,” Chuma said. “The new wife of our chief elder, Sebituana, will soon give birth. So the people make sacrifices in the hope that the gods will provide a male heir.” He noticed Will’s aghast expression and turned to face him. “You think we are savages.”

  “No. Simply good people lost in confusion,” Will said carefully.

  Merrin squinted idly up at the sky. “That’s the problem with missionaries. They confuse difference with ignorance.”

 
“Brutality is always ignorance, Father Merrin,” Will countered before he could stop himself. “You of all people should know that.”

  Merrin looked at him and Will braced himself for a verbal onslaught. Even though he firmly believed he was right, being castigated by Lankester Merrin would not be pleasant. But to his surprise, Merrin stared for a moment, then simply nodded.

  The bull bellowed again. Blood flowed from the panting animal’s nose. For a moment, Will seriously considered running over and yanking the spears from the Turkana’s hands, then realized as quickly that it would accomplish nothing and probably make the people angry to boot. And angry people wouldn’t listen to God’s word. Best to keep silent for now. He couldn’t prevent this cruelty, but he might prevent it from happening again.

  Another thrust, another bellow, and the bull’s front legs buckled. One of the tribesmen, a tall and impressive man, leaped onto the back of the animal’s neck with a machete. In a lightning movement, he whipped it down and across the bull’s throat. The beast crashed to the ground as the machete wielder danced free. The man in the headdress—Sebituana—nodded his praise. Two more men ran forward bearing an earthenware trough. They held it under the ghastly wound and caught the steaming rush of blood. Will felt sick. He turned to Chuma and asked, “You can’t believe in these superstitions, can you?”

  “I believe that we have much to learn from the whites,” Chuma said with great diplomacy.

  “And your countrymen?” Will nodded toward the men with the bloody trough.

  “They,” Chuma said gravely, “believe that you bring trouble.”

  “What the hell?” Merrin muttered, striding away before either of the other men could react. Will scrambled to follow, with Chuma bringing up the rear. They covered fifty or sixty yards before they caught up with Merrin, whose eyes were now transfixed by something on the ground.