items in the room were an aluminum-frame cot, a hanging lantern, and a straw mat. The priest's left ankle was cuffed to the frame of the cot. He had been fed stew three times during that period. They left him with a canteen of warm water to keep him from dehydrating. The priest had been taken to the outhouse twice. The shutters were still closed, and the room was ferociously hot, though it was not as stifling as his first prison had been. He had been left with one thing to occupy himself. It was a slender pamphlet containing the reflections of Dhamballa.
Bradbury lay on his side on the canvas cot. He had sweated so much that the fabric was clammy. His outer clothes were so rank with swamp water and sweat that he had removed them. They were lying on the dirt floor, where he hoped they would dry. The ground was slightly cooler than the air.
Occasionally, people would pass the hut. It was difficult to hear anything that was said outside. Bradbury wondered if he were the only one being held on this small island. He wondered what was happening in the outside world. How the Church and his deacons had reacted to his abduction. He hoped his friend Tswana Ndebele was all right. Now that Father Bradbury had time to reflect on what had happened, he realized how many people would be worried about him.
He also had time to reflect on the suffering of Jesus and other Christian saints and martyrs: Saint John the Evangelist beaten, poisoned, and placed in a cauldron of boiling oil; the young convert Felicitas, taken to an arena and trampled by a
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wild cow; Saint Blaise, raked with iron combs and beheaded; so many others. In John 16:33, Jesus warned that there would be tribulation in this world. Father Bradbury would not cornplain about his.
The priest also took time to read the Vodun booklet several times. He was happy to have it. Perhaps it would give him a means of communicating with the Vodun leader. When they met, nothing he said had any impact. If the Bible taught him anything about zealots, it was that reason seldom worked on them. Perhaps there was some other way they could communicate. Perhaps if he knew more about the man's faith, he could find something they had in common.
They came for him again. There were two men, dressed in camouflage fatigues and carrying rifles. Only this time, there was an urgency Father Bradbury had not seen before. While one man unlocked his leg, the other held his arm tightly. Father Bradbury did not resist.
'Please let me get my clothes,' the priest said. He pointed to them as the second man took his other arm.
The men allowed Father Bradbury to dress. Then they pulled him toward the door.
'The booklet-' he said. He gestured to the pamphlet, which had fallen on the ground. The men ignored him.
The priest did not bother to ask where they were going. It was still light enough in the leaf-filtered twilight for him to see their faces. They seemed anxious. As they headed toward the center of the island, the priest became aware of other activity. Men were gathering things up inside huts. On the far side of the island, moss, leaves, branches, and canvas were being removed from motorboats. The vessels had been kept there under heavy camouflage. A small airplane was being stocked beyond them.
Obviously, the camp was being abandoned. Quickly. The priest had seen films of occupied towns and concentration camps being evacuated. Papers, extra supplies, and evidence of crimes were destroyed. Witnesses and prisoners were executed. Father Bradbury had a sudden, strong sense that the men were taking him out to shoot him. He began '?o murmur
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through the Eucharistic prayer. He never imagined this was how it would be, administering the last sacraments to himself. So much of his life had been stable and predictable.
The men led Father Bradbury to Dhamballa's hut. It was dark, lit with just a few candles. It seemed funereal. They brought him in and released his arms. The Vodun priest was standing in the center of the room. His posture was as ramrod straight as before. Another man was with him. A bald man, short and hefty, stood beside him. He was slouching slightly. Both men wore unhappy expressions. The smaller man, a white man, was sweating heavily. The priest could not tell if that was a result of the heat or anxiety. Probably both.
The soldiers released Father Bradbury's arms. They left the hut and shut the door. Physically and psychologically, Father Bradbury felt stronger than he had the last two times he was here.
All right, the priest thought with some relief. The soldiers are not going to kill me.
At least, not yet. Father Bradbury wondered what Dhamballa would want him to do this time. The priest had already recalled his missionaries. He lacked the authority to do anything else.
Dhamballa stepped closer to the priest. Their faces were only inches apart. There was fierce intensity in the Vodunist's eyes. He pointed toward the telephone on his table.
'I want you to call your diocese,' Dhamballa told him.
'The archdiocese in Cape Town,' Father Bradbury said.
'Yes,' Dhamballa replied.
Something must have happened. The Vodun leader's voice was tense, angry. He pointed a long finger toward the phone on his table. Then he pointed toward Father Bradbury.
'What do you want me to say to them?' Bradbury asked.
'That you are alive,' Dhamballa said.
'Why would they think I am not?' the priest asked.
The other man jostled the priest. 'This is not a negotiation,' he complained. 'Make the damned call!'
The man had what sounded like a French accent.
Father Bradbury looked at him. They had starved and struck
