'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
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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
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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.
