Exorcist

by Steven Piziks

  “What is it?” Will demanded. “What’s wr—”

  Will stopped beside Merrin, now seeing what had caught his colleague’s attention. In a slight hollow in the ground before them lay row upon row of white stone crosses. Hundreds of them. They stretched across the hollow like giant snowflakes. Merrin adjusted his hat, clearly uncomfortable. Will swallowed.

  “What happened here, Chuma?” Merrin asked.

  “A plague,” the foreman replied matter-of-factly. “It ravaged this valley fifty years ago.”

  “How many died?”

  Chuma shrugged. “All of them.”

  “We should get back to the lorry,” Will advised. “Someone might…I mean, the equipment…”

  “You fear the villagers will steal from you,” Chuma said. Before Will could protest, he continued. “It is a legitimate concern. Many people are poor these days.”

  “When you say, ‘all of them,’ Chuma,” Merrin said as they headed back to the lorry, “were you being rhetorical? That old riddle—where did they bury the survivors?”

  “No.” Chuma wiped sweat from his forehead with his sleeves. “I mean everyone died. The plague killed the entire village.”

  “Why are they buried in Christian graves?” Merrin asked. “I thought Christianity had nothing more than a toehold here, and then only recently.”

  “Not quite true,” Will put in. “We’ve had missionaries in this area for a long time. The Church’s influence was pretty strong a while ago. Derati used to be very Christian in the years before the gold rush.”

  “And how do you know that?”

  “If you want to be a good archaeologist, Merrin, you should do your research,” Will said blandly. “I did.”

  Merrin snorted. Will couldn’t tell if it was a good snort or a bad one, so he decided to take it as a good sign.

  As they reached the lorry, Will saw that most of the hitchhikers had gathered around the men who were butchering the carcass of the bull. Flies were already swarming in a thick cloud, and one of the older warriors was handing enormous green leaves to some of the nearby children, clearly instructing them to use the leaves as fans to keep the insects from settling. The chatter of foreign language and the buzz of angry flies filled Will’s ears. The buzzing grew louder as he approached the lorry.

  “The Church didn’t keep records about Derati during the gold rush,” he continued, raising his voice slightly. “But Cardinal Jenkins had the journals of some of the missionaries who worked here near the turn of the century. I read them before we left.”

  “So everyone died in the plague,” Merrin said, climbing into the cab. Several hitchhikers leaped into the back. “And without the firm, guiding hand of the missionaries, the place reverted back to its pagan roots. Guess the Church wasn’t as strong as it thought.”

  The remark needled Will, whose nerves were already shortened by the long and tiring journey. “We’ll see what we can do to change that,” he said shortly.

  “Bit of a temper,” Merrin said as he scooted into the Rover beside Will. “Good. I was afraid you were one of those annoying priests who’s always sappy and serene.”

  Chuma started the Rover, which only reluctantly ground to life. Will didn’t know what to say to Merrin’s remark, so he remained silent as they left the dead bull and white crosses behind to drive into the village proper.

  The village of Derati was pretty much what Merrin had been expecting—a boom town gone to seed. Once they cleared the outer ring of low, thatched mud huts, they encountered European brick and plaster buildings. Chuma drove them into a town center complete with a main street and a square. Shops, restaurants, and bars that at one time catered to mine workers and their British overseers now catered to nobody. Most of the buildings were boarded up, and the boardwalk had sagged and cracked. Rain and sun had beaten the whitewashed buildings gray. Children played in the streets, forcing Chuma and the truck driver ahead to slow to a crawl as they reached the square. Women spread wares to sell on blankets, and a scattering of shoppers, both European and African, browsed through them. A white man in a pith helmet with a rifle on his back trooped up the boardwalk followed by two natives carrying yellow bundles of ivory tusks on their heads like firewood. Blood still stained the ends. An Indian merchant stood outside his store, watching the Rover and lorry with idle interest.

  As the vehicles came to a halt, a European woman stepped from the doorway of another building. Her shoulder-length blond hair was pulled back into a practical French braid, and she wore a doctor’s field kit. A stethoscope dangled from her neck. She was wiping her hands on a white towel. Behind her came a native boy, seven or eight years old, if Merrin was any judge. About the same age as the boy who had sold him the Anubis puppet in Cairo. He had short brown hair, long, skinny arms, and a solemn face.

  Merrin climbed down from the Rover a second time, with a pair of small, weather-beaten suitcases in his hands. Although he technically didn’t need to keep his onetime vow of poverty anymore, money hadn’t exactly been falling into his pockets since the war, and he had few possessions. He made a wry face. At least poverty—whatever its source—let you travel light. He stretched again, glad after three days to be standing on something that didn’t bounce, jolt, or bump.

  The lorry, meanwhile, shed hitchhikers like autumn leaves. The children had reappeared, scampering around the little convoy, puppies around a mother dog. Merrin watched the European woman approach, still holding her towel. She was very pretty, with a wide smile and sky-blue eyes. He found it surprisingly hard to take his gaze off her.

  That’s another vow you don’t need to keep, murmured an inner voice. Merrin told it to shut the hell up.

  The woman nodded briefly at Merrin and Will, then headed straight for Chuma. “Welcome back,” she said, shaking his hand. “Did you bring the supplies?”

  “They are in the lorry,” Chuma said. “Everything you asked for. Joseph, take Dr. Novack’s supplies inside for her.”

  Joseph, the young boy, nodded and dashed to the rear of the lorry. Since it was apparent the woman had no intention of introducing herself, Merrin set down his suitcases and stepped forward, hand outstretched. “I’m Lankester Merrin. This is Father Will Francis.”

  “Dr. Sarah Novack,” she said, returning the handshake.

  “A woman doctor?” Will asked, eyebrows raised.

  “I get very tired of hearing that,” Sarah sighed. She had a Polish accent. “Yes, Father, I am a doctor. Yes, I attended medical school. Yes, I practice real medicine. Yes, with real patients. No, they do not die more often than anyone else’s patients. No, I do not just handle pregnancy and pediatrics.”

  “Uh, sorry,” he said, cheeks flushing.

  “You’re here to take over the dig, Mr. Merrin?” Sarah asked.

  “Yes, with Father Francis. He’ll be keeping an eye on Church interests.”

  “I see.” She turned to Chuma again. “Chuma, was there any mail for me?”

  Chuma handed her a single envelope from his breast pocket, then told Merrin, “There is only one hotel in Derati. You can also eat and drink there. Please come this way.” He strode off.

  Merrin threw Sarah an apologetic glance. Her face was completely neutral, as if she hadn’t decided yet whether to like him or not. At least she didn’t seem to hate him. For some reason, that felt dreadfully important to Merrin. He caught up his suitcases and followed Chuma, with Will once again trailing behind. The priest carried two suitcases as well, one of which appeared to be very heavy. Merrin wondered if it was full of books—Bibles for the Derati, or something.

  Chuma had already reached the boardwalk and was entering a door beneath a sign that read EMEKWI’S BAR AND HOTEL in uneven handwriting. Merrin followed him inside, and felt as if he’d been struck blind. The interior was black as a grave after the harsh light outside. The place smelled of stale beer, and the air was rather cooler than outdoors. As Merrin’s vision adjusted, he made out a few figures sitting among wooden tables and a few more seated at
a long bar. He took off his hat.

  Behind the bar stood a large African man dressed in western clothes. A twelve-year-old African boy was sweeping the floor while the barman rinsed glasses in a basin of water. He looked up when the three men entered, and a smile burst across his face. The boy stopped sweeping to stare at the newcomers.

  “Harabi, Chuma,” the man said, “and also to you, gentlemen! It’s always a fine thing to see new faces in my hotel. Do you need rooms?”

  “Eventually,” Merrin said. “Right now I’m looking for Trenton Jefferies.”

  “He is in the corner behind you, sir,” the barman said.

  Merrin turned. Shadows clumped around a corner table, and Merrin could barely see the man occupying it. Merrin set his bags by the door and approached, not bothering to check for Will Francis to follow. He put out his hand.

  “I’m Lankester Merrin, the new chief archaeologist. Major Granville said you’ve been in charge of the dig since the first archaeologist left?”

  Jefferies leaned forward to shake Merrin’s hand, and his face came into the light. Merrin froze. The man’s face was covered with boils as large and red as wine grapes. Some of them leaked yellow-green pus. Merrin thought he caught the smell of rotten meat. His stomach made a slow, nauseating twist.

  “Something bothering you, mate?” Jefferies asked.

  Merrin came to himself. “No,” he said blandly, and took back his hand. There was a beat, then Jefferies gestured at Merrin to sit. Merrin hung his hat on the back of the chair and obeyed, trying to keep polite eye contact without staring. On the table in front of Jefferies was a bottle of scotch and a single glass.

  “Long trip?” Jefferies asked.

  “Cairo,” Merrin said, “then Nairobi. I feel like I’ve been traveling for years.”

  “Sounds like you need something to wash the dust out of your throat, then,” Jefferies said. “You drink, Merrin?”

  “I shouldn’t.” Merrin looked long and hard at the bottle. Amber liquid rippled enticingly inside. “But my will is weak.”

  A grin crawled across Jefferies’s face like a spider. A boil on his cheek split, and clear liquid trickled into his collar. Jefferies didn’t seem to notice. “Then you might just survive this place.”

  He filled his glass with scotch and pushed it across the table to Merrin, then took a swig directly from the bottle. Merrin thought about where the glass had been and had to force himself to pick it up. A dead fly was floating in the scotch. Merrin’s stomach turned again. He brought the glass to his lips and pretended to sip.

  “I understand you’ve uncovered the church dome, but progress has slowed a little.”

  “You could say that,” Jefferies replied, looking past Merrin. “Right, Doctor?”

  Merrin turned. Sarah Novack was standing in the bar doorway talking to Will Francis. She looked at Jefferies when he said her name. “What’s that?”

  Jefferies raised the bottle to her. “You still haven’t made it by my room, Doc. I’ve been having a little swelling in the evening. Perhaps you have something I can put on it?”

  “How about a muzzle?” Sarah said. “Or I could lance it for you.”

  Jefferies guffawed and took another swig. Merrin ran his glass over the tabletop. The fly sloshed around, caught in the waves of scotch. Was it kicking? He cleared his throat.

  “So how are the interior excavations coming on?” he asked.

  “They’re not,” Jefferies said, his eyes still on Sarah.

  Merrin looked surprised. “Has the structure collapsed?”

  “No, the church is perfect so far. But none of the men will enter. The ones we have left, anyway.” He drained the rest of the bottle and gave a small belch. Merrin smelled a warm puff of scotch. “I’m leaving for the dig in five minutes if you want to come along. It’s only a short drive away.”

  He rose from the table, gave Sarah one last look, then stumbled out the door. The moment he was gone, Sarah sat down in the chair he had occupied. Francis and Chuma were talking to the bartender.

  “Pleasant fellow, that Jefferies,” Merrin said, gladder than he should have been that Sarah was now sitting across from him. “What’s wrong with his face?”

  “Other than that it’s attached to his head?” Sarah growled. “Actually, I’m not sure what the problem is. Every time he comes in for an examination, he drools and asks if I want to undress him, so I haven’t been able to give him a good going-over. It could be an allergic reaction or some kind of localized infection.”

  “I suppose I should feel sorry for him.” Merrin raised his hand to the bartender and mouthed “Beer?” at him. “What are you having?”

  “Sobriety,” Sarah said. “I drank a lifetime of gin just after the War. Not,” she added quickly, “that I think everyone else should abstain.”

  Merrin smiled. He was smiling at a pretty woman, something he hadn’t done in a long time. He found he liked it. After a moment he realized neither of them had spoken for quite some time. He cleared his throat.

  “So why won’t the men enter the church?” he asked.

  Sarah shrugged. “Evil spirits. If you believe the Turkana.”

  “And do you?”

  “Hardly. I’m a doctor.” She laughed. “But as a priest, surely you must believe in such things.”

  “I’m an archaeologist, Doctor, not a priest.”

  Sarah tilted her head becomingly. “That’s funny. I was just talking to Father Francis over there, and he said you were.”

  “Did he?” Merrin felt his earlier irritation rise again. “Well, he’s mistaken.”

  “Doctor! Dr. Novack!” Joseph, the solemn-faced boy who had met the lorry, dashed into the bar. “I put your boxes in the clinic.”

  “Thank you, Joseph,” Sarah said warmly. “You’re a good helper.”

  “I’m going to be a doctor, too,” Joseph told Merrin. “Dr. Novack’s going to help me.”

  “Then you’ll probably be the best doctor in the world,” Merrin said.

  Joseph grinned shyly. He turned to rush away, and almost barreled into Father Francis and the bartender, who had come over to the table. The bartender put a hand on Joseph’s shoulder to steady him.

  “Be careful,” he admonished. “Doctors heal. They don’t harm.”

  “This is my father,” Joseph said. “But I don’t know your name.”

  “You can call me Mister Merrin,” he answered with a hard look at Will Francis, who had the grace to flush. “I’m going to be working at the dig.”

  “This is Emekwi,” Francis said, gesturing at the bartender. “He’s donating the use of a room here in the hotel for the mission school.”

  Emekwi set a beer bottle on the table and reached down to pump Merrin’s hand enthusiastically. “We’re so glad you’re here. As he said, I am Emekwi, owner of this bar and the hotel attached to it, and this is my son Joseph. My other son”—he nodded at the older boy who was sweeping the floor—“is James. They are learning the Bible.” He leaned forward with an enormous white grin. “We are Christians, you know.”

  “I’m sure Father Francis is pleased,” Merrin said, carefully neutral.

  A horn honked impatiently from outside, and a small rhesus monkey raced into the bar. It shot across the floor and scampered up to James’s shoulder. The boy paused in his sweeping long enough to pet the animal before going back to work.

  “That would be our Mr. Jefferies,” Sarah said.

  “The monkey?” Merrin said with a straight face.

  Sarah aimed a mock slap at his shoulder. “In the jeep outside. Emekwi, Mr. Merrin has to go. Can you see to his bags?”

  “Of course,” Emekwi said. “James! Joseph!”

  James hurried over to Merrin’s suitcases and hoisted one with some effort. The monkey made a small screech of protest. Joseph, however, moved toward Merrin.

  “What do you do best?” he asked.

  Surprised, Merrin thought a moment. “I dig a nice hole.”

  “Why would you want to
dig a hole?”

  “To see what’s inside,” Merrin told him. “Sometimes you can find little pieces of history.”

  “Is it like rock collecting?” Joseph asked.

  Merrin smiled. “Exactly.”

  Another impatient honk from outside. Merrin rose and shook Emekwi’s hand. “I’m afraid I’ll have to put the beer off until later,” he said, and turned to Sarah. “Doctor, it was nice…”

  He trailed off and stared at a fly crawling around the edge of his abandoned glass. The insect shook its wings in a tiny spray of scotch, rose from the glass, and buzzed away.

  “Mr. Merrin?” Sarah said in a tone that hinted…concern?

  Merrin shook his head. Outside, the horn honked a third time. “Sorry. It’s been a strange day. Very nice to meet you, Dr. Novack.”

  Without turning to see if Francis was following, he said gruffly, “Father. Shall we?” He snatched up his hat and strode out the door.

  The harsh afternoon sunlight slammed into Merrin, and he hurriedly clapped his hat on. It was still roasting hot outside, and it dawned on him that he hadn’t actually had anything to drink in the bar. Maybe Jefferies would have a canteen. Then Merrin shuddered. Better to stay thirsty until they reached the site before sharing a water container with Jefferies.

  Jefferies, meanwhile, sat with obvious impatience in a scruffy Rover parked in front of the bar. Behind it was the lorry, with Chuma at the wheel. It still contained supplies for the dig, fresh from Nairobi.

  “You ready, mate?” Jefferies shouted. His face looked all the more horrific in the sunlight. Some of his boils were large enough to cast sharp shadows, and Merrin could see every pustule with perfect clarity.

  “Ready.” Merrin climbed into the passenger seat. Francis, who had indeed followed him, got quietly in the back.

  As Jefferies drove the Rover through the town with the lorry behind, Francis finally said to Merrin, “I really didn’t ask for this, you know. I know I’m not very experienced and that this is your dig. You must be…unhappy with the cardinal—and with me.”