elemental forces to nurture life, to find the truth, to understand themselves.'
'Is that what you are doing out here?' Father Bradbury asked. 'Searching for truth?'
'I am not,' Dhamballa said. He looked back. His face was dark, but his head was haloed by the candle's orange glow. He looked very young, very innocent. 'I have found the truth. I am preparing to bring it to others.'
'Does that include me?' Father Bradbury asked.
Dhamballa now turned around fully. He stood. Dhamballa was a tall man, well over six feet. He was barefoot and dressed in a brown, sleeveless robe that reached to his ankles. 'What do you know of Vodunism?'
The word itself made Father Bradbury feel unclean. He looked down at the cup of water. It reminded him of the Baptist. What is elemental to one is holy to another. That made him feel a little better. Besides, the Vatican had established guidelines that enabled missions to exist harmoniously with indigenous faiths. The most important was to open a dialogue with the leaders of those faiths. Not to remain a mysterious, threatening secret.
'I know nothing about Vodunism,' Father Bradbury replied. He did not want to tell what little he knew about voodoo or the black arts. He could not risk misspeaking and insulting his host. As long as they kept talking, as long as they opened up to one another, the priest had hope.
'But you are acquainted with the term,' Dhamballa continued.
'Yes,' the priest admitted.
'What is your perception of Vodunism?' Dhamballa asked.
The priest considered his words carefully. 'It is an ancient set of practices. I have read that your beliefs are rooted in nature. In the elementals, if you will. Your rites are said to employ herbal mixtures that can control the will, raise the dead, and perform other acts of the supernatural.'
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'That is part of it. Some of our 'practices,' as you describe them, are at least eight thousand years old,' Dhamballa said.
'Your history is great,' Father Bradbury agreed.
'Our history?' Dhamballa said. 'We are more than an accumulation of years and events.'
'Forgive me,' Father Bradbury said immediately. 'I did not mean any disrespect.'
'In truth, priest, you know nothing about the heart of my faith,' Dhamballa went on.
'No,' Father Bradbury admitted.
'How can you know anything?' Dhamballa asked. 'In the fifteenth century, your priests came to Africa, and later to the West Indies. They baptized my people to save us from a 'profound evil.' Growing up in Machaneng, I knew priests. I watched them. I saw how they promised the poor riches in the next life.'
'They are there,' Father Bradbury assured him.
'No,' Dhamballa replied. 'The riches are here. I saw them when I worked in the diamond mines. I watched as good Christians took our wealth from us, and the priests did nothing to stop them.'
'It is not our job to restrict the actions of others,' Father Bradbury said.
'You did not speak against it.'
'Why would we? They broke no laws,' the priest observed.
'They did not break your laws,' Dhamballa said. 'The laws that the British brought here and that subsequent governments retained. I do not recognize those laws.'
Father Bradbury wanted to say, Clearly you do not. But that would not have helped him.
'I judge all men by one measure, and that is truth,' Dhamballa said. 'When I worked in the mines, I also saw the living faith of Vodunism. I saw men who could cure the hurt, the weary, the despairing with a touch, a prayer, a potion.' He pointed a finger at Father Bradbury. 'They explained to me that they practiced in secret because those whom you have converted also regard them as evil. And yet these are arts my ancestors took with them when they migrated to the Middle
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East. They are skills that could very well have been used by your own Savior, Jesus Christ. White arts to heal, not black arts that hurt.'
'The powers of our Savior belonged to Him because He is the Son of God,' Father Bradbury said.
'We are all sons of God,' Dhamballa replied. 'The question is, which god? Jehovah or Olorun?'
The cult leader moved forward slowly. Father Bradbury noticed there were snakes tattooed on the backs of his wrists.
'My faith is as old as civilization itself,' Dhamballa said. 'It was ancient when your religion was not yet conceived. Our rites and our prayers have passed unchanged since the earliest days of man. Not just the black magic but the white magic, the arts your priests ignored as they had us flogged and hanged. We used mandrake to kill pain, rattles and drums to stimulate blood flow and cure illness, stimulated human glands by the consumption of animal meat and blood. Our priests do net just talk about miracles. They work miracles, every day, guided by Agwe, the essence of the sea; by Aida Wedo, the rainbow spirit; by Baron Samedi, the guardian of the grave; by Erinle, the heart of the forest; and by hundreds of others. The fortunate ones are taught in dreams and visions. These spirits give us the power and the wisdom to generate, to regenerate, or to destroy.'
'Are you one of the fortunate ones?' Father Bradbury asked.
