Mission

by Philip Spires

  Why was it that he could not write such things to the Bishop, but only to Janet? Having failed to express a single relevant feeling in his letter to O’Hara, and having been disturbed by his encounter with the scorpion, he decided to shelve the project and write a short note to Janet instead. First, however, he re-read her last letter which had told so much, as ever, of her clearly non-relationship with Pete. As he read on, the thin yellow sheets told of her fears that she might be pregnant. A hurried postscript said simply, “Oh hell, Michael, I’ve just got a positive result. What can I do? I’ll write soon.”

  Could it be that all these frustrations with his work were merely by-products of an unattainable desire to be with Janet? Every time he re-read her letter the feeling grew that he could be of more help to her in London than ever he could be to anyone in Kenya. Was he imagining this bond of friendship between them? Is it possible to imagine love? Is it possible to do anything other than imagine it! How else could he explain this tendency of his to allow petty frustrations to come between him and his work? And was the feeling so great that he should lose the motivation to continue? Surely there was only one possible conclusion. His one desire was to be with Janet, to try to help her through her difficulties, not out of vague ideas of Christian charity, but because he loved her! To admit to himself that above all else in life he would choose Janet and marriage was a revelation of the most powerful kind. For some minutes he was nervous with happiness, unable to suppress the smile that eventually gave rise to tears of relief. The mere thought, the committing of it to paper thus confirming its existence released knots of unacknowledged inner tension.

  Emotions pent up by months or even years of suppression flooded to the forefront of his mind. Surely the fact that he could so easily communicate these things to her whilst their expression to John O’Hara had been impossible, surely this proved that she was something very special to him. Every time he had tried to write that letter to O’Hara he had failed. Every time he had written to Janet instead and he suddenly would find that he could express everything he wanted with ease. He could communicate with her. He could express his ideas simply and be sure she would understand. Why could he not write about the same things to O’Hara and have done with it, once and for all? John O’Hara would demand that every argument, every point raised should be neatly worked out and wrapped up in watertight logic. Michael could never hope to do that. To Janet he simply said what he felt and that was enough. His frustrations were not born of any reasoned analysis of his position; they were instinctive, gut reactions to obvious contradictions. Or could it be that the source of all this discontent was his as yet unacknowledged desire to be with Janet? How could he ever hope to explain that to someone like O’Hara?

  Surely in this letter he had uncovered the truth. It was his love for her that was changing his attitude to life. She had to realise this. Once stated, it seemed so obvious, even trivial. Would she take the revelation seriously? Would she agree that the best thing for everyone concerned was what he had suggested? He undoubtedly loved her enough to marry her. He undoubtedly loved her enough to be a father for her child. Without re-reading what he had written to her, he folded the letter, placed it in an envelope and added the address.

  It was a sharp tap of a stick on the kitchen door that cracked open his inner world this time. He glanced at his watch before rising from his seat at the table. It was very late indeed. Taking the storm lamp, his only light, with him, he went to answer the call. As the door swung open it revealed a sorry sight. Standing, hunched and shivering in a puddle of water which had dripped from the tap on the rain-water tank was Munyasya, a vague smile still showing through the contortions which the cold night had set his face. “Oh Christ,” muttered Michael beneath his breath, expressing both pity and anger.

  The old man made no sound. Neither did he move as Michael withdrew into the kitchen. A moment later, Michael reappeared in the open doorway to hand over first a cup of water and then a piece of bread that the old man’s grip holed and tore. He took one sip of water and then emptied the rest onto the ground. Much of it splashed over his feet. Without a discernible word coming from his lips, he mumbled to himself, handed back the cup and walked slowly away with his thin fingers clutching the bread like blades. After locking the kitchen door, Michael yawned. The day’s exertions had at last caught up with him. On his way through to the bedroom, he paused to pick up the letter to Janet, knowing full well that unless he placed it now in his jacket pocket, he was bound to leave it behind when he set off for Kitui in the morning.

  He awoke in a smoke-filled room. When he gasped for air the acrid fumes stung his throat. He rushed to the door, opened it and peered down the hallway. He saw through the open door at the end of the corridor what appeared to be a wall of flame. He was trapped and began to panic. All the mission windows were iron-framed and barred against thieves. They would certainly keep him in. As he left his room, another glance confirmed that the fire in the living room really was there. He crossed the hall into the bathroom. He was relieved to find that he had not flushed the toilet that day. The bucket of dirty water reserved for that purpose was still there and it was full.

  He took a blanket from his bed and soaked it in the bucket. He then draped it around himself and moved quickly along the hall. The fumes were almost overpowering. With his hand over his mouth, he ran across the blazing living room to the front door, turned the key and stepped outside. After several hacking coughs and a moment to regain his senses, he rushed to the window to look inside. From this safe viewpoint, the fire seemed nowhere near as bad as it had looked from inside. The table was burning and all the softboard ceiling above it. The books and bookcase were just beginning to catch fire. As yet, however, only the kitchen end of the living room was alight. He felt sure he could put it out.

  Luckily all three of his water tanks were full after the recent rain. He had three thousand gallons of water in the compound if he needed it. If only he could get the back door open... Deciding that now, while his blanket and clothes were still wet, was as good a time as any, he went back inside the house. In one headlong dash he reached the far end of the room. He seemed to be surrounded by flames. Then, with a staggered turn to the right he was there, in the kitchen. He had the door open in a flash. He had forgotten to lock it. But now he could get at the tank that was right next to the door.

  The first bucket of water he threw did no good at all. He had filled it to the top and then found that he was not strong enough to throw its contents anywhere near the still high flames. All he managed to put out were a few embers on the concrete floor. He felt more confident, though, that he could put out the fire with each subsequent trip to the tank. It was only the ceiling that was properly alight and only the ceiling that was likely to burn quickly. The more the fire was doused, the less oppressive became the fumes, enabling him to get closer to what flames still burnt.

  He became completely lost to time and maintained the frenzied pace with which he began right to the very end. Within twenty minutes he had doused most of the flames, but the fire had continued and in fact rekindled in a score of nooks and crannies that his cascading buckets of water had not penetrated. Not until some three hours later, after making a complete inspection of the ceiling from above did he finally consider the job finished. Then, after climbing down from the rafters, he surveyed the remains of the living room by the light of the torch he kept in his bedroom, which had remained untouched by the fire throughout.

  The entire ceiling had gone and his torch beam shone straight onto the underside of the tin roof. The metal sheets had become so hot that they had pulled off their securing nails. A whole sheet was flapping in the wind, the noise echoing right through the house. The table was badly charred but amazingly still in one piece. The fridge had melted. His chairs were destroyed, as were the bookshelves and all the books they had contained. The kitchen door had burnt through and the living room curtains had completely disappeared. The other rooms
had been largely untouched. Most of the ceilings had burnt through at least in part, but the only real damage below them was occasional scorches caused by hot embers that had flaked off the ceiling boards.

  In fact the damage cause by the fire seemed negligible when compared to the mess produced by trying to put it out. Everything was dripping with soot-blackened water. The floor was covered with an ankle-deep layer of semi-solid black sludge of water, charred paper, wood, and ash. For an hour or more Michael simply sat on the metal frame of an armchair from which the cushions had been burned and listened through the constant drips of water for a telltale hiss of renewed burning. But he heard none. He could obviously do no more. After a wash to get some of the smell of smoke from his hair, he changed into dry clothes and set off for Kitui to tell John O’Hara of his mishap. He remembered, however, to take the jacket with Janet’s letter in it. After deciding to drive to town immediately, rather than wait until the morning, it had been the first thing that came to mind.

  Dawn came during the return journey. By the time Michael and John reached Migwani - the Bishop had insisted on coming in person to inspect the damage - it was fully light. In daylight the damage looked much worse than Michael thought it would. During his absence the central part of the roof had collapsed, pulling more down with it. As the two men stood silently surveying the charred, sludge-covered remains of the living room, loose sheets of roofing metal swung in the wind, clanking against the rafters, occasionally hitting the charred ceiling and knocking down pieces of half-burned softboard and flakes of ash.

  “What a mess,” said O’Hara. “Any idea what caused it?”

  “The only thing I can think of is the fridge.” Michael set off across the room and beckoned O’Hara to follow. The tangle of fallen timbers had created an obstacle course. On the wall behind the fridge, previously unnoticed by Michael were several long black streaks of soot, too solid and even and certainly at the wrong angle to have been deposited by dripping water.

  “That’s your culprit.”

  “The flame did have a tendency to go out sometimes,” said Michael. He gave a short laugh and continued, “I even filled the tin with fresh kerosene last night. I suppose that’s what they call the luck of the Irish. One day we might even get electricity here so then we won’t have to use these stupid kerosene machines. They’re dangerous.”

  A knock on the door behind them demanded their attention. Framed in the doorway, clearly reluctant to venture any further was Munyasya, smiling.

  “Not you again! I’ve got no drinking water. I threw it all on the fire.”

  The old man smiled and put his finger to his lips. “I think he wants a cigarette,” said John. “Here, give him one of mine.” Michael made the tortuous crossing of the room and offered Munyasya a cigarette from the packet of Sportsman O’Hara had given him. The old man took it with a mumble. When Michael lit it, he inhaled deeply and then blew a long column of smoke high into the air. Michael watched pensively as then he turned and left without a word.

  “Well Michael you’ve got a lot to do. Don’t worry yourself about money. I’ll see to that. Get started right away. Try to get Daniel to come over from Kanyaa to have a look. He’s a very dependable fellow and the best carpenter I know. It’s not as bad as it looks. Once you get all the materials here it will be presentable again in a fortnight.” O’Hara was soon ready to leave. “Don’t bother coming back with me for the car. The lads from Mwingi will be in town later today. I’ll get one of them to drive it back for you.” With that O’Hara turned and left the room. Michael suddenly remembered the letter to Janet, which he had managed to take into town and then bring straight back home again. He called after O’Hara.

  “John, will you post this letter in Kitui? I forgot about it earlier. It’s quite important.”

  As the Bishop took the airmail envelope, Michael felt the irony of the situation. He might not be able to communicate his difficulties to the man, but at least he could get him to post his proposal of marriage. As the car disappeared over the hill to the south, however, Michael realised he had again missed an opportunity to have a real talk with O’Hara. Was the Bishop really so unapproachable, or was it Michael that simply could not face up to his dilemma except in his own imagination where his motives and reactions were safe from scrutiny? “Ah well,” he said to himself. “One step forward and two steps back.”

  ***

  O’Hara is smiling whimsically as Michael finishes. “I don’t believe it. Any of it. To think that I posted the letter in which one of my own priests proposed marriage to a girl half his age on the other side of the world. And it’s quite laughable that the old fellow should come to the house after it’s burned down and ask for a smoke!”

  Michael was thoughtful and silent for a moment. “You don’t think there could be more to him than we’ve allowed up to now?” he asked.

  “In what way.”

  Michael utters a short laugh and then stretches his neck. “I must be suffering from a persecution complex or something. It’s just that he keeps on cropping up doesn’t he? He was in the bar when I had the argument with Mulonzya. He was around both before and after the fire... and now this morning...” He pauses for a moment to seek a change of tack. In that moment, the lighter tone that had grown during his description of the fire disappeared suddenly, to be replaced by a return of the earlier gloom. “I’ve had run-ins with him before as well.”

  “Didn’t he attack Janet a couple of years ago?”

  “He did. She was in one of the dukas near the market, I think, and he came along and did one of his spitting acts. I don’t think he meant any harm. He seemed to want to confront every mzungu he saw. He was a strange man.” Here Michael’s speech tapers to an inconclusive silence.

  Both remain silent for some time, each lost in his own thoughts. Michael is considering how he might proceed with his case, but now there seems to be nothing left to relate except the events of that morning. He is surprised that O’Hara has made no reference to the content of his letter to Janet. He had hoped, by seeking a perspective in which to place the events of the day, to offer an explanation for his apparent carelessness. He had hoped also to promote an understanding of his current state of mind, which he believed, had been responsible for his thoughtless behaviour, but now he begins to see that nothing could possibly temper John O’Hara’s judgment. However he tries to change the reality, the conclusion remains the same. Old Munyasya is dead and he, Michael, is responsible. There can be no escape.

  Considerations of how or why begin to seem insignificant when weighed against the indisputable, tangible evidence of the old man’s corpse at the roadside. Michael finds that there is no way forward, no path along which he can continue to explore his own motives. The inevitable is still as unacceptable now as it was when he began, except that now there appears to be no refuge in the past, no further reminiscence which could shed more light on his actions or endeavour to provide an excuse for his crime.

  O’Hara on the other hand finds that two considerations have come between him and the matter in hand, relegating it, for the moment at least, to a position of relative insignificance. First he is struck by a realisation that during the eight years or so that Michael has worked under him, he has never really talked to him before simply as one person to another. All contact between them seems to have revolved around their respective functions of bishop and priest, of leader and disciple, whilst all conversation has been directed whether explicitly or obliquely towards the further accomplishment of the task to which they have both devoted their lives. As their conversation this morning has progressed, however, Michael has revealed ever more openly his personal feelings and motivations and has thus become steadily less recognisable as the priest O’Hara knows. Paradoxically, the more they have talked, the more like a stranger Michael has become.

  This saddens O’Hara deeply, for it reminds him that his position as a figurehead often precludes him from
such simple human contact. If he has never before found either the time or the opportunity to talk like this with one of his own priests, how far must he now be from the desires, hopes and needs of the common folk he has pledged his life to serve? It was after all for their benefit that he originally chose this life. He thus begins to feel that he has become parted from his mission, enwrapped in a cocoon of tasks and functions which prevent him from doing what ought to be his real work. Furthermore, he sees no refuge in the stance that all the good work of his priests is made possible by virtue of his direction and guidance. All too often it seems that he is the one who tries to dampen the enthusiasm of the priests. It is they who approach him with their schemes, their ideas and projects; most of them with truly laudable aims and then it falls to him, and him alone, to point out possible difficulties or undesired repercussions. He is always the one saying “no”.

  Rarely does he criticise his priests’ ideas or ideals on grounds of their motivation or desired ends. Far from it, he has often found himself filled with admiration for their achievements. The strictures he has imposed could loosely be described only as ‘practical considerations’. Sometimes a shortage of money has caused him to use his veto to block some of their ideas, but for the most part his reasons for appearing to thwart his priests’ sincere desires to attack the root causes of the area’s poverty have been purely political in the widest sense, born of a desire to retain some support from those with the influence to assist the Church’s continued work.