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him so much that his body seemed to be in pieces. And when there was no body, only one thing remained: spirit. That could not be hurt from the outside.
'Why?' the priest asked.
'I will tell you,' Dhamballa said. 'Your replacement was executed when he landed at the Maun airport.'
'The bishop?' Father Bradbury asked.
'Yes,' Dhamballa replied.
'Because of my call to the deacon?' he asked.
'No,' Dhamballa said. 'We had nothing to do with this.'
The priest felt weak. Martyrs were a part of history. That was fact. But there was nothing inspiring about it. Not when you were living it.
He pushed Dhamballa away and stepped back. He did not want to hear any more.
'I want people to know that you are well,' Dhamballa said. 'And I want you to tell them that we did not do this.'
'Of course you did it,' Father Bradbury replied. His statement bordered on accusation.
'You idiot!' said the other man. He struck the priest.
'Stop that!' Dhamballa yelled.
'He makes accusations, but he knows nothing!' the man charged.
'I know that you started a process of discrimination,' the priest went on. 'You forced it upon people who love the Church. Perhaps you've given courage to others who do not share the views of the Church-'
'All I know, priest, is that we killed no one,' Dhamballa insisted. His tone was more moderate, yet there was menace in it. 'But if we are forced, we will do whatever is necessary to preserve our heritage.'
There was often a very thin line between someone being confident and someone on the verge of being overwhelmed. The priest heard it in the confessional booth time after time. He could tell when an individual was contrite and afraid of damnation. He could also tell when a person was simply feigning atonement. Dhamballa and the other man wer^ desperate. Father Bradbury did not know what their scheme was to ex-
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tend the influence of Vodunism. In his lucid moments, he hoped it would be done by peaceful means, by what Dhamballa described in his writings as 'white magic.' But that was no longer the only thing at risk. Their lives might be in jeopardy. Father Bradbury could not ignore that. Nor did he have any reason not to make the phone call and tell the truth. He was alive.
'If I make the call, they are going to ask me questions,' Father Bradbury said. 'They will want to know how I am and how I have been treated.'
'You may tell them anything except where we are,' Dhamballa replied. 'They must understand that while we have our differences, we are men of peace.'
'They will say that men of peace don't take other men by force,' the priest pointed out.
'Men of your sect inflicted the Inquisition on men of peace,' Dhamballa said. 'What is it that you say? Let he who is without sin judge me.'
The Vodun leader had anticipated the question. This was not the time to debate the point.
The priest looked over at the cordless phone. He looked at Dhamballa. 'I read your pamphlet. There is room for everyone.'
'That is true,' Dhamballa said. 'But not in Botswana.'
'We don't have time for this,' the other man snarled. 'Make the damned phone call.'
The priest went over to the small table. As he crossed the cool, damp soil, he looked at the telephone. It was covered with droplets that glistened in the dull daylight. Perspiration, no doubt. This was where the bad news had been received. As Father Bradbury walked toward the phone, he said a short, silent prayer for the murdered bishop.
'You will have no more than three minutes to deliver the message,' Dhamballa cautioned. 'I will not give the authorities time to triangulate the call. We will also be listening,' he added.
Dhamballa punched the speakerphone button. A loud, strong dial tone filled the room. Father Bradbury had not noticed
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before, but the dial tone sounded extremely clear. The camp must have had their own uplink.
Father Bradbury's ordeal had cost him his focus. It took the priest several moments to remember the phone number of the archdiocese. He began to punch it into the keypad. Perspiration blurred his vision. He entered the number slowly. It hurt to move his fingers. He just now noticed how severely swollen they were. No doubt that was a result of the heat and humidity. Perhaps the salt in the stew had caused it.
So many things have changed out here, the priest thought. Yet Father Bradbury did have one wondrous
