Margaret Eve is a British author of speculative and historic fiction and a regular attendee of the British Fantasy Convention. When not writing, Margaret enjoys good company, crochet, and terrible television.
~~~
Don’t go into the caves.
There had been a lot to go over when preparing for the Saint Juliana mission. What to do if you found a venomous snake in the outhouse. A crash course in the languages of the area. As much as they could drill in about the local customs, so they didn’t step on too many toes in the community they were serving. All covered in the classes Michael had attended before even leaving the States, or the briefing pack when they'd finally been bundled onto the plane. There had been explanations and reasons given for all of it. Everything except this.
Don’t go into the caves.
The words went round and round in Michael’s head. He shifted on his narrow bunk, the thin frame creaking underneath him. The noise drew a sound of sleepy disgruntlement from Albert on the other side of the small shack they’d been assigned, and Michael forced himself into stillness. At least Samuel seemed to be a deep sleeper.
It was strange being somewhere so deeply quiet. Back home life never seemed to stop, and its noise permeated all hours of the day and night. But out here...the villagers had all gone to bed at sunset, the nuns and Father Joel not long after, prompting Michael and his new bunk mates to follow suit. He could hear the other two breathing, the slow even breaths of deep sleep, and the soft creak of his own bunk as he carefully tried to get comfortable. But beyond the hut walls? A few scattered animal noises to break up the otherwise total silence. Nothing to try and smother the thoughts rattling around in his skull.
Don’t go into the caves.
He had no cause to go to the caves. They were more than a mile from the village, with a well-documented swathe of wildlife between here and there. And he'd been promised plenty of work to keep him busy and out of trouble. Digging wells, building the new school, maybe even helping the nuns with their teaching. Nothing that would take him anywhere near the caves. But still the thoughts haunted him.
Don’t go into the caves.
Why?
* * *
“Maybe it’s where the nuns brew their moonshine,” Samuel suggested.
“The nuns don’t drink,” Albert said, rolling his eyes.
Samuel snorted. “You think Sister Mary Frances comes by those rosy cheeks naturally? And Father Joel? Trust me, they’re into something much stronger than the sacramental wine.”
“Father Joel drinks very expensive, single malt whisky,” Michael said. “He wouldn't be caught dead drinking home brew fermented in a cave. But my point is that none of the villagers go their either. You can't tell me Massawa and the other elders would care if the nuns were making bathtub gin.” It could have been something imposed on them by the mission, but Michael didn’t think so. The rule had the feeling of something old, something built into the bones of the land rather than the brief presence of Saint Juliana.
“Maybe it’s where Father Joel goes so he can keep pretending he’s quit smoking,” Albert said, clearly fed up with the speculation. “Maybe they’re all secretly in the rebel militia and the caves are where they stash their guns! Who cares? If you’ve got this much time to dwell on it, we’re clearly not working you hard enough. Come on, break’s over. We’ve got the foundations to finish.” He got up and headed back over to the construction site without a backward glance, clearly done with the topic. Samuel’s shrug was slightly more apologetic, but he didn’t look displeased to be dropping the subject.
Michael sighed but got back to his feet to trail after them. They’d been here nearly two weeks now and the secret of the caves no longer held any interest for the others. Theories had come fast and thick those first few nights, with little else to provide entertainment, but after the exhaustion of their long days kicked in, they'd rapidly died off. The other two had long since got bored with it.
Not Michael though. No matter how hard he worked, how bone tired he was by the time they turned in, the question still buzzed in his mind. For all they did occasionally indulge him, Samuel and Albert had firmly settled on it being some kind of animal den, or a local superstition Father Joel didn’t care to quash, and put it from their minds. Never mind that there were many examples of those things in the information they had been given, still leaving the question of why this place was so different. Any attempt at pointing this out was just met with a shrug.
‘Trust to God’ they'd told him. Trust that those in charge know what they're doing and remember that this area is one of the bishop's pet projects. Don't go making waves on an otherwise smooth lake.
He did try, honestly, he did. He wanted to repay the faith his local church had put in him, sponsoring him to take part in this rather than fixing up the roof. He'd caused enough trouble as a tearaway teenager. He didn't want to upset anyone else. Not the bishop, not the villagers, certainly not the two men he was bunking with.
The bright sun hammered down like a physical blow, making the already hot, sweaty work ten times harder. It did nothing to diminish his curiosity. However, some company outside of his fellow missionaries was sufficient distraction to at least quiet it.
There were a small gaggle of older children and teenagers that roamed the village, getting into trouble or underfoot much the same as kids back home tended to. The ones not busy tending the village farms or livestock were offered up to the missionaries to help out with whatever projects they were focusing on.
“You call that a support post?” Melusi hollered from his vantage point on a pile of timber. “That thing's wonkier than the cattle when they get at the fermented mango.”
Michael looked at his handywork and groaned. It was leaning to one side. Useless for trying to support anything.
“You could use it to prop the door open,” the teenager went on. “Nice shelter for whatever feels like strolling through the school after hours.”
“All right, smart ass,” Michael said. “If you're such an expert, why not help me fix it? It's your school we're building here, you know.”
“I didn't ask you to build it,” Melusi said archly, but his face broke out into a wide grin as he hopped down anyway. “All right then, boss man. Let's see if we can salvage this mess.”
It was easier than expected. A bit of wiggling and a lot of brute force set the thing to rights.
“We're going to play baseball before dark when we get back to the village,” he said when they started working on the next post. “One of the last Saint Juliana lot that came here was a real fanatic. Got us a few balls and some old mitts. You want to join us?”
Baseball wasn't his thing and the thought of sport after a long day of physical labour made his already sore, tired body groan. But engaging with the village youth was why he was here. Aside from one or two of the nuns, everyone else from the mission was at least thirty. They were supposed to be figures of authority and experience. Michael was meant to be the fun, approachable one, the one to get the next generation interested in what the mission was doing.
“Sure, sounds good.” Maybe it would help keep the question of the caves from his mind.
* * *
“What do you mean you've been there?” Michael asked, astonished. “I thought they were forbidden.”
“So are these,” Melusi said, shaking his battered packet of purloined cigarettes. “But what the elders don't know won't hurt them.”
Michael didn’t smoke back home. He'd stolen one out of his dad’s packet when he was thirteen, been violently sick after trying it, and not touched them since. But out here, away from all his usual vices and without his own friends, the desire to be seen as part of the group was too strong. It felt good to be the one picked to share Melusi’s ill-gotten gains with, even if Michael suspected it was because the younger boy knew he was far less likely to tell anyone about it and get him in trouble.
“Father Joel hammered it into our heads that the caves were off limits,” Michael went on. “Completely. As in we’d be kicked out of the mission and shipped straight back to America for even thinking about going near them.”
Melusi shrugged. “I guess it’s kind of a big deal. I know my mom would beat me good if she knew about it. But all the village kids do it. Sneak out in the dead of night, see how close we get to them before we lose our nerve and run away again.”
“So, you’ve never actually been inside?” Michael asked, trying to ignore the disappointment. What had he really expected?
“Well...no. But it’s a cave. And only one is actually big enough to be worth exploring. Nothing going to be in there but bats and snakes. Although Awate swears she heard singing one time when she got right up to the mouth.” He shrugged. “She was always a little odd though. Only two or three days after that she had to go to the healer.” A medicine woman Father Joel despised but knew better than to speak against. She served multiple communities in the area and rarely came out to any of them. Michael had never seen her. “Don't ask her about it though. She likes to pretend she never heard a thing now. Maybe it’s haunted. They just say it’s bad luck to go there. But they never say why. Just tell us to mind what we’re told.”
Sure fire way of getting any teenager interested in something. Forbid it completely. But if even other members of the community hadn’t been told why they needed to stay away...
Throat and eyes irritated from the smoke Michael went to bed that night with his mind more loaded with questions than ever.
* * *
As the mission went on and the building work grew more intense, the question of the caves was finally buried under work and exhaustion. Michael went to bed, muscles he didn’t even know he had aching worse than after cross country runs at school, and passed out the moment his head hit the pillow. He woke, still sore, and rolled straight onto the truck to the school. In the evening and during meals he spent more and more time with the village kids, trying to mimic the behaviour of his favourite youth pastor from back home. It wasn’t the most exciting routine, but it was fulfilling. He felt he was starting to understand the joy others spoke of when doing this sort of work, serving God and a community both. His mind was at peace and he felt his connection with the Lord deepening, like he could finally hear Him.
Then came the lockdown.
“Do you think this is going to take much longer?” Albert asked. “I'm starving.” He waved one of the papers from their now long ignored info packs to try and generate a scrap of breeze in the hut's stagnant air. “How tight shut are those windows? Any chance of cracking one open.”
There were a few cracks in the wood to let enough light in to see by with the sun still up, but the windows themselves were shut up tight. Michael had never noticed in all his time here how the village doors and windows could only be locked from the outside. Solid bolts that looked stronger than the door hinges. A dangerous feature for an area still plagued by raids from civil war rebels.
“There's no give at all,” Michael said after a brief attempt.
“The door maybe?” Samuel suggested.
“Given the way they stuffed us in here without so much as a ‘by your leave’, I can't see that going well,” Michael retorted. But he still got up to give it a go. They'd been met off the transport by half a dozen of the village elders, faces like thunder and eyes full of fear, and all but marched into their shack. Doors slammed and shutters closer. It was only after the shock of that had worn off that he'd realised the village, aside from the elders, was completely deserted. The village was never deserted, not while the sun was still high enough to give light.
The door was bound up almost as tight as the window, but he was able to pull it back a fraction. Not enough to let the air move but enough he could peer outside and see if he could make anything out. He winced as the bright light cut through their dim home. After a moment his eyes adjusted enough to see beyond the blinding brightness. A thin slice of the empty village.
For a few minutes there was nothing. Just the sun scorched earth and dry grass, stamped flat by the procession of people and cattle over the seasons. There was shouting just out of his line of sight. Fearful words, spoken in the local language, too fast for him to make out the meaning. And then a dun-coloured antelope came into view. He had no idea what kind, just smaller than the deer he’d find back home, with long horns that twisted as they went straight back. It was being forced forwards on the end of a long pole, a wire noose around its neck.
“What the fuck?” he muttered.
“What is it? What can you see?” Samuel asked.
Massawa came into view, an assault rifle braced against his shoulder. The antelope looked distressed, like it recognised the weapon, pulling against its bonds, bleating loudly. The cry sounded very thin and lonely in the quiet village.
One command came through, spoken clearly enough Michael could translate.
“Don’t get too close to it!”
Massawa stopped moving and raised the gun.
Someone thumped the door hard, closing the tiny gap he'd made and plunging them back into darkness. A moment later the gun went off. The bleating stopped. The silence inside the shack was deafening.
“I'm guessing dinner's not anyone's top priority right now,” Samuel whispered.
No one unbolted the door. Darkness crept into the small hut and still no one came for them. In the immediate aftermath of the antelope’s death Michael heard faint noises outside and the harsh smell of burning gasoline. But after that...nothing. It was as if there wasn't another living soul outside their hut.
Michael’s mind was whirring but he couldn't find it in him to speculate. He was tired, hungry, and deeply confused. He felt as though he should pray, but honestly wasn't sure what to say. None of his thoughts could be pinned down long enough for any kind of coherence. Sleep was hard won and brought no refreshment. He couldn't have been out more than an hour or two when the door finally opened. The loud thud jolted all three men awake.
“Get up, get up now!”
Bleary and confused, Michael stumbled out of bed, absently dragging his blanket. Albert followed quickly behind as Samuel untangled himself from the mosquito netting. A dozen or so of the villagers were gathered there: the village elders, a handful of the younger men, and one lone woman Michael didn't recognise. They carried flashlights, a few bundles of wood, and a large jerry can of gas. Michael’s gaze went to charred patch of earth where the deer had been shot and felt queasy.
Father Joel came hurrying up, still tugging his dressing gown over his nightclothes.
“Now look here,” he said. “You can’t get my people involved in this. That’s not part of --”
He was abruptly stopped by Massawa’s strong finger jabbed sharply into his chest.
“You want your mission to be part of our community? You must be part of that community. You may stay here but the others will draw, just like the rest of us.”
“Pray to your God,” the strange woman said. “Maybe if your faith is strong enough it will protect them.”
Father Joel went red, ruddy cheeks deepening further, and shot the woman a look of pure poison. “The bishop will be hearing of this,” he muttered. But he made no further protest, simply stomping back to his own lodgings.
“What the Devil is going on?” Samuel asked.
“You will come with us,” Massawa said. No other answer was given. They started to walk.
They stumbled through the darkness, familiar scrubland made alien by night. Confused and still groggy from sleep, Michael didn't realise where they were until the dark wall of the mountain loomed before them. All flashlights were pointed towards a narrow, humble opening at the bottom of the cliff face.
The cave.
“She's the witch doctor,” Albert said, voice quiet but high pitched enough with panic that Michael still heard. “They're going to sacrifice us. Voodoo or Black magic or --” Michael elbowed him hard, trying to make him shut up. He didn’t, but he did at least get even quieter, a low murmur Michael could no longer hear over the thudding of his heart in his ears. On his other side Samuel was rapidly muttering the Lord’s Prayer, sounding on the brink of hyperventilating. Michael tried to copy him, tried to find comfort in the words and the ritual of speaking them, but they just died on his tongue. He thought back to the strange woman’s words. His faith was not strong enough to provide any protection in the face of this.
They took a collective sharp breath as the medicine woman stepped towards them and thrust out her hand. Michael’s confusion only deepened when clutched in her fist was a set of broken twigs. Michael slowly reached forward and picked one. It was short. Albert and Samuel did the same, Albert after another sharp elbow to the ribs. They both drew short as well. The woman nodded and moved on.
They were drawing lots. One by one, each man present took his turn. Michael watched in pure bewilderment, wondering if Albert’s panicked ravings were actually right. But surely, they wouldn’t have brought up people from the mission and expect them to take part in such a thing. Father Joel wouldn't just send an angry message to the bishop if human sacrifice was a possibility. Right?
In the end it didn’t take long for them to find out, even if once again it posed more questions than answers.
A great cry went up when the long straw was drawn, breaking the tense silence they’d existed in since starting the march up here. It was the sound of sorrow and pain, full of grief. Michael’s gut clenched when he realised it was Biniam that had been the unlucky man: Melusi’s oldest brother.
Biniam was one of the Saint Juliana success stories. While they were only just now starting to build the school, earlier missionaries had still delivered education programmes to the villagers in the local area. Biniam had taken to it like a duck to water. While sending him to university in the closest city for further education and training was beyond their budgets at this time, there had been high hopes that Biniam would become one of the school’s teachers when it was finished. Michael had the horrible feeling he was about to see that dream come to an end.
“What’s going on?” Michael said, finally finding his voice. “What were we drawing for?”
No one answered him. The medicine woman placed something around Biniam’s neck before stepping back and bowing to him. Massawa embraced him and kissed him on the forehead. Then handed him the gasoline. In the torch light, Michael could see the young man’s eyes shining with tears. But, as he solemnly bowed his head to those assembled, he didn’t let them fall. Straight backed and head held high, he strode into the cave and was lost from sight.
Michael took an involuntary step forward, as if to follow him, but Samuel’s tight grip on his arm stopped him. The villagers watched him in silence until Massawa turned to address them all.
“Do not speak of what you have seen here this night,” he said, strong voice booming out in the darkness. “Remember Biniam and his bravery. Provide solace and comfort to his family, but honour his sacrifice. Do not speak of what transpired here.”
No one responded. No one needed to. A thousand questions crowded in the back of Michael’s throat, but none of them found the way out of his mouth. They died as quickly as his prayers. The harsh smell of spilled gasoline filled the empty air. Then smoke, acrid and chemical that caught in his airway and stung his eyes. It billowed out of the cave, thick and blacker than the night, blocking out the stars.
Biniam did not return.
* * *
There was no funeral, no body to bury. Just a quiet memorial service held by Father Joel, attended by the entire village. Biniam’s family was wrapped tightly and held fast by grief. All save Melusi, who had been claimed by anger and it would not let him go.
“What happened?” Melusi asked him afterwards.
“I don’t know,” Michael said.
“Don’t lie to me!” Melusi shouted. He jumped off the pile of planks they’d been using as a seat and stalked away a few feet, hands digging into his close-cropped tight curls. “I know you were there! I heard the priest talking about it. Complaining to the Sisters that you shouldn’t have been involved.”
“Just because I was there doesn’t mean I know what happened!” Michael protested. It was only the truth. He’d turned it over and over in his mind, but still couldn’t make head nor tail of it all. Killing the antelope...maybe it had been rabid. Rabies wasn’t uncommon here, there was information enough about that in the info pack for the mission. But it was common enough back home too, and an antelope was far from the most dangerous animal to come down with it. And if the cave had been home to a bat colony, a far more likely reservoir for the disease, they’d have seen them. Aside from that one awful night, the shack doors had never been bolted before, and if you needed to use the jakes at night there was no option but to go outside.
“But you were still there!” Melusi’s eyes were full of tears, so similar to Biniam’s. But rather than stoic acceptance, the boy’s face was contorted with rage. “Why will no one tell me what happened?” His face crumpled, making him look younger than his years. “Why will no one tell me why he died? We didn’t even get a body. Nothing to bury.”
“I know,” Michael said. In his mind all he could see was the smoke pouring out of the cave. The smell of burning gasoline. “I’m sorry. Just...trust to God. He’ll help you through this.” The words sounded so hollow. He was just parroting what other people had said to him when he ran into difficulty. It had never helped as much as they claimed, never made any of his burdens easier. He hadn't even been able to turn to him when witnessing Bimian’s march towards death.
Melusi snorted. “Will God stop my mother’s tears? Heal the hole in her heart?”
Michael said nothing. Couldn’t say anything without sounding like a hypocrite.
“If you won’t tell me what happened then I will go myself.”
“No!” Michael’s head snapped up. “Melusi, please! I don’t know what really happened, much less why, but going to the cave and looking...it can only end badly. Please, just talk to Father Joel. Talk to your elders. Don’t go to the caves. No good can come of it.”
Melusi just glared at him before walking away from the school site, back in the direction of the village.
Michael wasn’t surprised when another lockdown was called that night.
* * *
“You didn’t try to stop him?” Samuel hissed.
Michael had barely slept. His head ached, his eyes felt grainy, and there was a sick knot of anxiety in his stomach.
“I told Father Joel,” Michael said. “And I know he spoke to the elders. What was I supposed to do? Sit on him until someone came to ask why?”
“You could have tried reasoning --” Albert started before Michael spoke loudly over him.
“He’s a grief-stricken kid! I tried reason, he didn’t care for it.” Michael scrubbed a hand through his hair. The already subdued murmur of conversation at the school site had died with his outburst. When it hesitantly started up again, Michael tried to keep his voice quieter. “I’m his friend, not any kind of authority figure. That’s not what I’m here for and it’s not what he sees me as.”
At least he had been his friend. That's what Melusi had been asking for. Someone to share his anger, acknowledge that something bad had happened to his brother. He hadn’t wanted more of the placation and solemn dismissal he’d already received. And Michael had failed him.
All night he’d lain there in the dark, listening out for a sign of what Melusi might be doing. He hadn’t thought the elders would drag him home and coldly execute him like they’d done with the antelope...but he’d still half expected to hear a faint gunshot on the wind. But nothing. It was as if the boy had vanished into this air.
His mother claimed he was ill and that he’d been taken to the folk healer, but no one would tell Michael where she could be found. Father Joel hated her and didn’t approve of her role in village matters but wouldn't tell him anything more and the elders flatly told him that it wasn’t his business. All he knew was that she lived several hours walk away. Michael wasn’t foolish enough to go marching off into the bush to hope he tripped over her cottage. He didn’t even know which direction to start!
It appeared some people thought he was that stupid. Over the next few days, he noticed that the men who’d accompanied him to the cave the night Biniam died were keeping a close eye on him. No one confronted him directly but after a while he realised that he was never alone. From the time he emerged from his sleeping shack to the moment he returned at night there was always someone there, watching him from just out the corner of his eye. Some of them would look away when he turned to try and catch them at it, but others didn’t care that he knew. Just held his gaze until he was the one to look away. And when he complained to Father Joel, he was just told the villagers were worried he’d caught whatever Melusi had come down with and were just watching him for any signs of illness.
But Michael knew Melusi hadn’t been struck down by some mysterious illness, just as Biniam hadn’t died in some tragic accident. Something strange was going on. The villagers knew about it. Father Joel knew about it. Even Albert and Samuel knew about it. But no one seemed to be interested in doing anything.
It would be difficult while watched so closely, but he would find a way. He was going to get back to the cave.
* * *
It was a miracle, in more ways than one. The Good Lord had to be looking out for him. Otherwise, Michael didn’t think he’d have made it past the watchful eye of the villagers. Just because the village at night was dark with only the stars for light, Michael had no illusions he’d still be being watched.
He laid the groundwork early, claimed he was feeling ill, and had no interest in dinner. He then followed it up with frequently trips to the jakes. The portaloos and outhouses smelled bad enough no one would be able to tell he wasn’t actively contributing, so long as he acted feebly enough around his visits. So, when he left the shack in the middle of the night for the fifth time, no one spared him a second glance. And that was when he kept going. Once he reached the village outskirts he ran and didn’t stop until he reached the mountain.
It loomed out of the darkness, the pale stone catching the moonlight where it shone through the cloud. The cave was a dark stain against it. Like the cliff face was sneering at him.
Michael squared his shoulders and turned on his flashlight. It wouldn’t take long for the villagers to realise he’d not just gone to the bathroom. They would quickly figure out where he’d gone. If he wanted any chance of uncovering this before his absence was discovered, he couldn’t afford to hang around.
It was silent inside. Not just quiet: silent. While far from the noise of a crowded city, the bush surrounding the village was full of noise, even in the dead of night, with the assorted wildlife going about their business. He’d been too panicked to truly notice at the time, but in hindsight, outside of the noise of the crowd it had been just as unnaturally quiet when they’d come up here before.
There was writing on the cave wall, a mixture of the local languages and even a bit of English. All carried warnings to go no further and the stark statement: “Nothing of value will be found within”. Melusi’s footprints were still visible in the ash and soot from the fire his brother started. Michael followed them deeper, every step expecting to find a snake or a leopard or some other dangerous beast that had made this place it’s home. But all he found was the earthly remains of Biniam and a melted gas cannister.
Melusi’s footprints had made it this far and there was another clearer patch by the body where someone looked to have knelt down. The charm the medicine woman had placed around his neck was gone. Melusi must have taken it; a final reminder of Biniam to take home. What must the poor boy have felt when coming across this sight? The painful evidence of his beloved brother’s demise and the horrific way it had happened. Maybe he hadn’t gone to the healer at all. Maybe he’d just taken off into the bush to try and get as far away from this nightmare as possible. Michael wouldn’t blame him if he had.
Kneeling seemed appropriate. Pay his respects to the deceased. He tried to kneel just where Melusi had, but jumped up again as a sharp pain stabbed into his knee. Sweeping his flashlight over the ground, he expected the light to finally show a missed snake or spider hiding under the soot...but it uncovered nothing more than a sharp rock. Pointy enough to draw blood even through his pants but nothing to be concerned about once he’d returned to the village and cleaned it.
However, as for his fanciful ideas of what the cave might have contained, there was nothing here to explain the village elders’ reaction to it. Nothing to satisfy Michael’s curiosity or answer any of his questions. Nothing to fear but nothing to understand either. Just the corpse of a brave man.
God was most assuredly watching over him for suspicion as to his whereabouts had only just started to rise when he finally returned to the village. He didn’t know if they truly believed he’d been in the jakes all this time, but on the surface they accepted his story. They did lock the shack door when he was delivered back into it this time. A problem if he truly had a sour stomach, but Michael was content to stay where he was for now. He’d done what he needed to do, even if he was no closer to the truth. Hopefully they’d let him out before the truck left for the school site in the morning. He turned over in his bunk, trying to snatch a few hours sleep and ignoring the way his scratched knee was already starting to itch.
* * *
Michael dreamt about the cave that night. He knew immediately where it was, but the place looked so different. Bathed in a warm light while angelic song filled the air. It filled him with a peace greater than he’d ever known, even greater than when he first gave his heart to God. He wanted to cry when Samuel shook him awake and tore him from that soothing embrace. The feeling was still there, but painfully diminished. Like trying to find warmth in banked embers when you needed a bonfire.
“Are you sure you’re up to working today?” Albert asked as they piled into the truck. “You’re looking a little peaky. Your stomach must have given you some serious grief the amount you were up last night.”
“Just tired is all,” Michael said. “Probably a good thing I slept through breakfast though. I think I’m over it, but I don’t want to give my system more ammunition, just in case.” But it did mean he hadn’t had an opportunity to get to the medical hut. He’d have to try taking a look at his knee during a quiet moment later. They only had basic medical supplies at the construction site, but it wasn’t much worse than what they kept on hand in the village. Still, it didn’t even itch any more, let alone hurt, so he wasn’t too worried. Below the growl of the truck engine, he could still hear the song from his dream.
* * *
He’d cleaned it as best he could, but he might still need to admit where he’d been to someone. The scratch might not hurt, but the skin around it was red and swollen, with lines of darker red radiating out from it and disappearing into his leg. He knew he should be concerned about that, but whenever worry started to build, all he could hear was that song and the fear went away.
Albert kept saying he should go to the nuns. A couple of them had been nurses before taking orders. Despite insisting he was fine, they forced him onto the truck to go back early. There was talk of sending for the medicine woman, even mentions of hospital. He did admit he looked pale when he caught his reflection in the truck mirror, with sweat beading on his brow. There were hints of those darker red lines elsewhere on his body now too, creeping along his arms and up his neck.
He had to go back to the cave. He had to know if the light was there, if the song was there. He needed to. If the elders saw him they'd know where he'd been. They were already spying on him. Even when he was alone, he could feel their eyes, always watching. But he’d felt the light of heaven, heard the voice of the angels. He didn’t even care if the others would know where he went, so long as he was there.
* * *
Michael couldn’t see the light, but he could feel it. Warm radiance bathing his face, washing away all his sins and making him clean. The blood staining his hands no longer mattered. Albert shouldn’t have tried to keep him from this fragment of heaven. But those that saw the truth of God had always been persecuted, always been pushed to things they would have rather avoided. He knew now that Melusi was dead. The elders would not have risked letting him live with this knowledge. Or maybe he’d been taken up to heaven, an angel drawn here by the song of the Host. He would welcome such a visit. Not even the tomb beneath Golgotha could feel so Holy and he would not be afraid.
Shouting outside, voices yelling for him. Father Joel arguing with Massawa, Samuel howling through his broken nose about Albert, Sister Mary Frances screaming about the wrath of the bishop. Michael didn’t care. It was beyond him now. He had found Eden on earth and would await his salvation, wrapped in the ashes of where the village elders had tried to burn it away.
A quiet voice joined the song, melding so beautifully with the angelic harmony that it took him a moment to notice with the chaos so close. There were no words but the message in the voice was clear: spread the word.
Spread the word. It was so clear now. This glory had to spread beyond this cave. The villagers had kept it suppressed, forbidden, had tried to burn it out of existence. Heathens the voice whispered. Unworthy. But God’s glory could only be hidden for so long. All it needed was the right vessel to carry it. This was why he'd struggled so in his former life, why the words of God had never truly reached him before. He'd been waiting, being made ready to accept this new message.
The pungent smell of gasoline surrounded him, dampness soaking into his clothes and rage bleeding into his heart. He would not be silenced! He would strike down all who stood in his way! Who was the chosen sacrifice this time? Who dared try to keep the truth of heaven from the world? His eyes landed on the powerful form of Massawa. Snarling, he launched himself at the older man, but pain exploded across his face when Massawa swung out with his flashlight.
He collapsed onto the cave floor, splashing in the poured gasoline, no longer able to breathe through his nose. The pain faded and ceased to be relevant, almost like it was happening to someone else.
“I am sorry to do this to you,” Massawa said. But however sorry, he still would. His stern face was implacable.
Michael spat blood at his feet. “Don't pity me,” he said. “I have heard the voice of heaven. I've felt its light. I feel sorry for you, because you're too afraid to embrace it.” Biniam’s scorched bones caught his attention. He wondered if he'd felt it before the end. He hoped so. No one should die without knowing His joy.
Spread the word.
The rest of the elders might be outside, but so was Father Joel and the rest of the Saint Juliana mission. If he could just get past Massawa and out to them, they would listen to him. They would understand his joy and share his message. He just had to get past one man. He hopped to his feet and prepared to charge.
The click of a lighter intruded softly in the angel’s song, its tiny spark lost against the powerful flashlights. The burning glory of Heaven swept over Michael. This time the pain didn't fade. And all the while the song rang loud and clear.
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