The next thing Father Bradbury knew, he was being awakened by a firm tap on the shoulder and a gruff, unfamiliar voice.
'Get up!'
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It was now very dark in the room and he had no idea how long he'd been asleep. The voice seemed to be coming from far away. The priest felt incredibly groggy. He was not even certain he was awake. He did not want to move, let alone stand.
Someone tapped him again. 'Come on!' the voice said.
Father Bradbury tried to face the speaker. His arms were asleep, and it was a moment before he could move. He finally looked over at a shadowy figure. It was someone he did not know.
The man reached down and grabbed Father Bradbury's upper arm. He gave it a sharp tug. Obviously, the priest was not moving swiftly enough. Father Bradbury pushed himself off the cot and stood unsteadily, and his vision swirled from having gotten up too quickly. Still holding him, the man led the clergyman through the open door. The skies were blue black as they walked across the warm soil toward a hut. The structure was about thirty yards away. Father Bradbury had not seen Dhamballa's hut from the outside. The last time he was pulled in this direction, he had been wearing a hood. But he saw half-dragged footprints in the soil. They were probably his. And they led to this structure.
The island seemed deserted. There was only the one soldier to escort the priest. That did not surprise Father Bradbury. Even if he had the strength, where would an unarmed man go? Especially with predators hiding in the murky waters and along the moss-shrouded shoreline.
But flight was not what Father Bradbury had in mind. Sometimes the best escape was to change the prison itself.
'Whom do I thank for giving me food and allowing me to rest?' the priest pressed.
The man responded with silence. The priest was undeterred.
'May I know your name?' Father Bradbury asked.
The man still did not answer him.
'I am Powys Sebastian Bradbury-'
'Quiet!'
'I'm sorry,' Father Bradbury replied. ^
The priest had not really expected the man to say anything.
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Nonetheless, now that he had the strength, the clergyman wanted to try to engage these people in conversation. When talking to parishioners or taking confession, Father Bradbury found that trust often grew from the most banal or innocent exchanges. It was easy to evolve a conversation. To progress from learning a person's name to discussing the weather to asking how they're feeling. Now that the priest was rested and thinking more clearly, establishing a personal connection with his captors was a priority. It might not guarantee his safety or gain his release, but it might give Father Bradbury a clue as to what the Botswanans were planning. It might also tell him whether he should continue to participate.
But conversation was like a spear with two heads. If a man pushed too hard, he could impale himself on the backside.
The priest was taken inside the hut. Dhamballa was there. He was sitting on a wicker mat by the far wall. His back was to the door. There was a candle in front of him. It gave off a tart smell, like burning rubber. It was the only light in the room. There was a wooden bucket behind the man. Father Bradbury could not see what was inside.
The soldier sat the priest in a folding chair in the center of the room. Then the young man closed the door and stood beside it. There was a tray on the dirt floor to Father Bradbury's right. On it were a cell phone, a plate of fruit, a pitcher of water, and a glass.
'You may drink or eat, if you wish,' Dhamballa said. He spoke without turning around.
'Thank you,' Father Bradbury said. He filled the water glass and took a banana.
'You did both,' Dhamballa remarked.
'Yes.'
'But I gave you a choice,' Dhamballa pointed out.
The priest apologized. He put the banana back.
'You kept the water,' Dhamballa said.
'Yes.'
'People will always choose drink over food,' Dhamballa said. 'Do you know why?'
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'Thirst is a more commanding need, I would say,' the priest replied.
'No,' Dhamballa told him. 'Water is the companion to air, earth, and fire. Men always return to the four
