Father Bradbury was urged forward. He tried hard to keep his legs under him. At the very least, he wanted to be standing on his own when he faced his own inquisitor. He failed. Sweat was collecting in the bottom of the hood. It was pooling faster than the fabric could absorb it. The priest wished they would at least take the hood off.
"Have you changed your mind?" the voice asked.
Father Bradbury stopped thinking. He answered from the gut. "No," the priest replied. His voice was a rough whisper.
There were sounds from ahead. Someone was coming toward him. Father Bradbury did not know whether to expect words or blows. Once again, he prayed silently for strength.
"You may relax," the speaker said. "I am not going to let anyone strike you. Not today. There must be a balance. Wrath and mercy. Otherwise, neither has any meaning."
"Thank you," the priest said.
"Besides, some men refuse anything they art forced to do," the voice said. "Even when these are things they would do willingly at another time."
The speaker was very close to him now. Even more than the previous night, his voice had a soothing, oddly comforting quality. It also sounded young. For the first time, he heard a hint of innocence.
"I would never recall missionaries who are doing God's work," Father Bradbury rasped.
"Never?" the voice asked.
Father Bradbury was too tired, too distracted to think back. Had he ever done that? He did not think so. Would he ever do it? He did not know. He could not answer the question.
"I am certain you would warn your people of an impending flood or hurricane," said the voice.
"Yes," Father Bradbury agreed. "But so they could help others, not save themselves."
"But you would not want them to stay and perish," said the man.
"No."
"You would tell the missionaries to leave because life is dear," said the speaker. "Well, your people are in danger. The gods want this land restored to them and their people returned to the olden temples. I am going to give the gods what they want."
"What about the wishes of the people?" Bradbury asked.
"You hear their confessions," said the speaker. "You know what many wish. They wish to sin. They wish to have an easy life. It is for the heralds of the gods to teach them a better way."
"Not everyone wants those things," the priest wheezed.
"You are in no position to say that," the speaker said.
"I know my parish-"
"You do not know my parish," the man shot back. "It is also for you to decide only whether you and your missionaries will be alive to preach elsewhere. Do not act from pride but with wisdom. But act quickly."
Father Bradbury could not help but think of Proverbs 16:18. "Pride goeth before destruction, and an haughty spirit before a fall."
Perhaps it was the speaker's intention to remind Father Bradbury of that passage from the Bible. To make him doubt himself. Since the priest had been abducted, everything seemed designed to disorient him. But knowing that did not make it any less effective. Nor did it change the truth of what the man was saying. Father Bradbury did not have the right to keep anyone in danger's way. And what of his own soul, let alone his life? The priest asked himself the same question he had asked the night before. What would God think of a man who knew that others were at risk and did nothing to save them? The answer seemed clearer now. Or maybe his resistance had diminished. But he was not being asked to disavow his faith. He was being asked to help save lives.
A sudden sense of outrage flooded the priest. Who were these people to insist that he and the other clergymen leave their adopted home? Who were they to demand that the word of God Almighty be silenced? But the indignation faded quickly as the priest asked himself whether he had the right to make these decisions for the missionaries or for God.
He needed time that he did not have. Father Bradbury wished he could remove the hood and have a drink. Taste clean air. He yearned to sit down, to lie down, to sleep. He wanted the time to think this through. He wondered if he should ask for these things.
"I can't think," he muttered.
"You're not being asked to think," the speaker replied coldly. "Make the telephone calls, and then you will be fed and permitted to rest. When you are refreshed, you will understand that you acted wisely. You will save lives."
"My job is to save souls," the priest replied.
"Then live, and save them-somewhere else," the man replied.
Even if Father Bradbury had the will to fight, he was not sure exactly what he was fighting for. Or against. Or if he was even fighting for the right cause. It was all too confusing. The man was right about one thing. He needed a clearer head. He needed time. And there was only one way to get that.
"All right," Father Bradbury said. "I will do as you ask. I will make your calls."
The priest felt hands working around his neck. He eagerly anticipated the removal of the hood. It only came up partway. The men tugged the front only as high as the top of his mouth. They lifted the right side above his ear. The cool air felt like a breath from Heaven. He was walked forward and gently lowered to his knees. It was a little kindness that he appreciated. He was given a short sip of warm water from a canteen. That, too, was a gift from God.
"The first call is to Deacon Jones," another man told him. Father Bradbury recognized the voice. It was the gruff-throated man who had brought him to this room the previous night.
Strong hands continued to hold his shoulders as numbers were punched. The clergyman remembered someone saying the night before that there was a speakerphone.
The priest was told to say that he was being well cared for. Then he was to give the deacon missionaries their instructions. He was to tell each missionary that he would join them soon at the diocese in Cape Town. He was to reveal absolutely nothing more.
Deacon Jones answered the phone. The young man was excited and relieved to hear from the priest. In as clear and firm a voice as he could generate, Father Bradbury instructed the missionary to return immediately to the compound, pack, and go to Cape Town.
"What is it?" Deacon Jones asked. "What is happening?"
"I will explain when I see you," the priest replied. He felt a reassuring squeeze on his shoulders.
"As you wish," Jones replied.
The deacon had never disputed the priest's judgment. Nor did Deacon March. Nor did any of the other deacon missionaries.
When Father Bradbury was finished making the calls, he was taken to a wicker chair. His legs were stiff, and his lower back was tight. It was difficult to sit. He jumped as the edge of the seat scraped behind his knees. That was where he had been struck the day before. The priest waited for the mask to be removed and his hands to be untied. Instead, he heard another chair moved beside him.
"You will be given water and food now," said the man who had done most of the talking. "Then you will be allowed to sleep."
"Wait!" said the priest. "You told me I would be released-"
"You will be set free when your work is finished," the man assured Father Bradbury.
"But I did as you asked!" the priest protested.
"For now," the man said. "You will be asked to do more."
Father Bradbury heard a door shut. He wanted to scream, but he did not have the energy or the voice. He felt betrayed, foolish.
A canteen was once again pressed to the priest's lips.
"Drink it or else I will," the gruff-voiced man said from beside him. "I have things to do."
Father Bradbury put his mouth around the warm metal. He drank as slowly as a thirsty man could. Then he sat while the man fed him pieces of banana, papaya, and melon. He sat and he thought.
Reason returned along with some of his strength. As Father Bradbury began to think back through the events of this morning, he began to feel extremely uneasy. He realized that he may have made the greatest mistake of his life.