A Sacred Storm

by Dominic C. James

  Jennings followed his friend’s lead and took a long quaff. After almost three drinkless weeks and a hard day’s march the beer tasted nothing short of heavenly.

  For a while they chatted with Sunil about his village. There were twelve families in all, and they farmed the surrounding land as a collective. Sunil dealt with the monetary side of the business, and since he had taken over six years previously it had thrived. Under his guidance they had made enough to buy new equipment and more than treble their output. It was also his financial acumen that had enabled them to obtain their generator.

  “We have made centuries of progress in very little time,” said Sunil.

  “It’s very impressive,” said Stratton. “And your English is excellent.”

  “Thank you. I decided to learn it so that we could start exporting our crops. There is a huge international market for our produce.”

  “Really,” said Stratton. “What sort of stuff do you grow?”

  “It varies,” Sunil said noncommittally. “Exotic fruits, things like that.” He waved his arm casually.

  Sensing that their host no longer wished to discuss business, Stratton dropped the subject and sipped at his beer. A few moments later Sunil’s daughter returned once more bearing trays of food. They ate from bowls with their fingers, mopping up the fragrant dishes with freshly made chapattis. Jennings consumed far more than he needed, and by the time he was finished he had to slacken his belt a notch for comfort.

  “That was quite possibly the best meal I’ve ever had,” he said to Sunil. “Thank you very much. Your daughter is a wonderful cook.”

  “Yes, she is,” said Sunil. “She takes after her mother – God rest her soul. I will be lost when she finally marries, which will probably be not far away. She is not short of suitors, as you can imagine.”

  “She’s very beautiful,” said Jennings. “I don’t doubt that every young man in the province has got his eye on her.”

  “This is very true, but she is a very headstrong girl and very intelligent. It will take an exceptional man to win her affections. Much as I would miss her, I do hope that someone worthy comes along soon. I would not like her to miss out on the joys of love.”

  After a brief discussion it was decided that the group would spend the night as Sunil’s guests. He explained that he had two spare rooms for business associates and that they were very much welcome to use them. In the morning he would take them to the nearest major town in his Jeep.

  “You are very kind,” said Stratton. “I just wish we could offer you something in return.”

  “There is no need,” said Sunil. “You are a friend of Majami’s and that is enough for me. It is a man’s duty to help those in need if he possibly can.”

  Taking Sunil to his word Grady made his own request. “I hope I’m not overstepping the mark,” he said apologetically, “but I don’t suppose you have a phone I could use for a couple of minutes. I really want to let my wife know that I’m okay.”

  “Of course,” said Sunil. “It is not a problem. I have a satellite phone in the other room.”

  After thanking Sunil many times Grady stepped outside the front door and dialled his home number. He had no idea what the exact time was in LA but he imagined it would be morning. He hoped Brooke would be in. The phone rang and rang, and he was just about to give up when a sleepy voice answered on the sixth tone. It turned out that it was in fact four o’ clock in the morning in LA and a distraught Brooke had only just dropped off to sleep.

  “Where have you been?!” she cried down the phone. “I’ve been worried sick for days.”

  “I told you that I’d be out of contact for a few weeks, honey.”

  “I know you did, but it’s been nearly three now. When are you coming home?”

  Grady went silent.

  “Well?” she pressed.

  “I don’t know for sure, honey. I’m stuck in India at the moment. It’s a long story and I can’t go through all of it right now. Just know that I love you and I’ll be home as soon as I can. If you need anything just ask Grant, he’ll take care of you.”

  The conversation continued with much weeping from Brooke and much pacifying from Grady. He eventually managed to calm her down and promised that he would call again as soon as he could. But her voice had made him even more homesick, and he hung up with a heavy heart.

  For a while he sat on the wooden steps at the front of the house, staring into the gloom. The sound of children’s laughter cut through the night, filling him with both joy and longing. He imagined himself sitting in his garden back in LA, a cold beer in one hand, his other entwined with Brooke’s, and a boy and a girl running round the lawn playing in the bright California sun. It was a picture he kept in his head for hope, but just now it seemed a million miles away. Before darkness overtook him he shook his head and got to his feet.

  He was about to go back inside when he caught a flash of movement in the corner of his eye. Turning quickly, he leapt over the porch barrier and landed solidly at the side of the house. Without pausing to think he sprinted after the dark shape running away into the trees behind. Within seconds he was bearing down on his target, and with a mighty effort he launched himself into the air, tackling the man’s waist and sending him crashing to the floor. There was a loud gasp as Grady landed on top of his prey.

  Without giving him a chance to get his breath back, Grady turned the man over and sat on top of him with his hands at his throat. “What do you want, you sneaky little mother?!” he barked.

  Beneath him the unfortunate man began to babble in his own language.

  “Right then,” said Grady. “Let’s get you inside and see what Sunil makes of you.” He forced the man to his feet, whipped his arm behind his back, and frogmarched him round and into the house.

  “Look what I found,” he said, walking triumphantly into the dining room. “He was sneaking about round the side of the house; listening in on my conversation, no doubt.”

  Sunil gave the unfortunate man an icy glare and grilled him in their own language.

  Jennings stared for a while until it dawned on him that he had seen the captive before. “He’s one of the men that tortured us, Grady!” he exclaimed. “He’s one of Massa’s thugs!”

  Sunil took the information in and continued to question him roughly. Eventually he spoke to the group in English. “I am ashamed to say that this is one of my men. Massa came here about a month ago attempting to hire some of my workforce. He offered me a lot of money, but we were too busy with the harvest to let anybody go. It appears that Rashid here could not resist the temptation and defied my orders. I knew from his manner that Massa was up to no good.”

  Jennings stared at the man called Rashid and felt the pain come flooding back. He grimaced as brutal memories flashed through his mind and body, pictures of Rashid’s cruel and gloating eyes blazing with hatred as he struck blow after blow with his heavy branch.

  “So why was he snooping around outside the house?” asked Grady.

  “When he saw you walking into the village he became scared,” said Sunil. “He could not believe that you were alive. He feared that you were coming to find him.”

  “Well, we weren’t,” said Grady. “But now that we have I’ve a mind to give him a little bit of payback.”

  “That won’t do any good,” said Stratton.

  “Maybe not,” said Grady. “But it’ll make me feel a whole lot better. You wouldn’t understand, Stratton, you’re not the one who was strung up.”

  Stratton opened his mouth to apologize, but before he could Jennings suddenly snapped. He leapt out of his chair and flew across the room at Rashid, his hands outstretched in a beeline for the sorry villager’s throat. Caught unawares, Grady was knocked aside like a ninepin as the full weight of Jennings’ body hurtled past and crunched down onto Rashid. In an instant he had pinned him to the floor, and without thought began wailing his fists vigorously, pummelling away like a jackhammer.

  “Where is she, you motherfucker?
!” he screamed. “Where is she?!”

  Chapter 19

  Sequestered in a small white room in the heart of the Vatican, Christiano sat at his desk and continued to pore over the symbols and the key. Unaware of time – he might have been in there two hours, perhaps twelve – he plugged on assiduously trying to make everything stick in his brain. In the corner a tiny stereo played Mozart and Beethoven on a loop, the music being permitted only because Vittori considered it to be a study aid. Every other possible distraction, including Christiano’s watch, had been removed from the vicinity. He felt like an inmate at a mental asylum.

  With icons and pictures chewing his mind and blending into one, he stood up and stretched his arms wide. Hundreds of symbols flashed in front of him, lit up in bright yellow. He rubbed his eyes and blinked a few times to restore his vision, but the illusion continued to swirl about the room following every twist of his head. Suddenly feeling very nauseous he lay down on the hard floor, closed his eyes, and began to regulate his breathing. The images slowly drifted away, but an uncomfortable queasiness remained.

  Everything had happened so quickly that he had not had time to absorb his position. One minute he had been strolling in for a good day’s work on the roof, the next he had been landed in the most surreal situation imaginable. Such was his respect for Cardinal Vittori he had not even thought to question what was going on, but now, as tiredness started to play with his mind, he could feel doubt and fear slithering up his spine with insidious stealth.

  It wasn’t that he didn’t believe the cardinal’s story about Jesus leaving a legacy for mankind, this seemed perfectly feasible to Christiano, it was the way in which they were approaching it that was giving him problems. He loved the Catholic Church with all his heart and would do anything to save it, but taking sacred knowledge and using it on a false premise – was that really what Jesus would have wanted? Was it really what God wanted? The Muslims may well be unleashing a fake Messiah onto the world, but did that give Vittori the right to do exactly the same? Surely it was just as bad for the Church to do it as anyone else?

  As he lay there staring into a void his uneasiness grew. Vittori had been most persuasive in his argument, and had made his plan appear perfectly ethical and logical, but Christiano’s inner voice was telling him something quite different. It was almost begging him to break out of his cage and run until he could run no longer. Forget Vittori! Forget the Church! It screamed. This is all wrong! So terribly wrong!

  Christiano sprang up straight and scrambled to his feet. Leaping to the door he tried the handle in vain before beginning to hammer away on it, screaming to be let out. He carried on beating and hollering until his hands and lungs ached, but nobody came to his rescue. Eventually he gave up, hanging his head in despair and flopping back to his chair.

  Almost instantly the door opened and Cardinal Vittori walked in. Without a word he strode over and put an avuncular hand on Christiano’s shoulder, comforting him with the softest of touches. Christiano started to weep.

  “I am very sorry, Christiano,” said Vittori. “This is my fault entirely. I have put too much pressure on you. You are tired and emotional, and badly in need of some sleep.”

  “I can’t do this,” Christiano stammered through his tears. “It is too much for me. It is all wrong.”

  “Come, come, Christiano, it is surely not as bad as all that. You have been in here a long time – almost twelve hours in fact – and you just need some rest. I expect you are hungry as well, it must be at least six hours since you were last brought food.”

  Vittori walked round to the front of the desk and stared down at his bewildered charge. Christiano looked up and wiped away the frustration from his eyes. The cardinal gave him a benign smile and put a hand to his moistened cheek. “Come with me, Christiano, we shall go and eat together.”

  Vittori led the way through a maze of corridors until they arrived at his private chambers. Christiano sat down at the round dining table and accepted a goblet of red wine. The cardinal sat opposite and poured one for himself from the decanter. “This is from my own vineyard in Tuscany,” he said. “It is almost twenty years old. I do hope you enjoy it.”

  Christiano took a small mouthful and then a larger one. He wasn’t a connoisseur but he knew a good wine from a bad one, and this was one of the best he’d tasted. He immediately felt his burden ease as the liquid warmed his body. “It is a beautiful wine, Your Eminence,” he said.

  “I am glad you like it,” said Vittori. “It is my favourite vintage. I only open it in very special company.”

  Christiano felt a swell of pride. “I am honoured, Your Eminence,” he said. “But I fear I am not worthy.”

  “Of course you are,” said Vittori. “You have worked hard today, and will do so again tomorrow. Unless, that is, you are still having doubts?”

  Christiano looked across into the cardinal’s kindly gaze and suddenly felt rather foolish. How could he question this noble and peaceful man? What madness had caused him to think that the cardinal’s intentions were anything other than humanitarian? He was tired, of course he was, and his fatigue was causing paranoia. “No, I do not doubt,” he said. “I am just tired as you suggested. My mind is playing tricks on me. I will be fine after some sleep.”

  “You are a good man, Christiano, and a wise one. It takes a wise man to understand his body and to know his limitations. My faith in you grows stronger by the minute.”

  Christiano had not known his father, nor the joy of paternal approval, but as he wallowed in Vittori’s kindnesses he felt the esteem of a favourite son. “I will do my best to repay that faith,” he said.

  “I know you will,” said Vittori, ringing the service bell. “Now let us eat.”

  Chapter 20

  Jennings woke in a cloud of shame. It didn’t matter what the wretched man had done, he knew he had gone too far. Dark memories of Rashid’s bloodied face zipped through his mind in a never-ending slideshow. The fear in the man’s eyes would haunt him for a long time to come. And all for what? What good had it done them? The poor guy was just a foot-soldier, a lowly farmer who had been given an opportunity to make a bit of extra money. He knew nothing of magical symbols and religious power struggles, and as it turned out, very little about Stella’s fate. He had inflicted a savage beating for all the wrong reasons. Not that there was ever a right one.

  “Don’t beat yourself up about it,” said Grady, sensing his friend’s guilt from across the room. “The guy fucking deserved all he got. I didn’t see him having any compassion when we were strung up like carcasses on that tree.”

  Jennings continued to stare at the ceiling. “That’s not the point. He’s a simple man and probably doesn’t know any better. He got swept up in the mob mentality and just did what everyone else was doing. I expect they were all fed a pack of lies by Massa, making us out to be some kind of ‘white devils’ who had come to hurt their families.”

  “Who are you calling a ‘white devil’?” said Grady.

  “You know what I mean,” said Jennings. “Anyway, the point I’m making is that the guy probably isn’t evil at heart. You saw how terrified he was last night.”

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” said Grady rolling his eyes. “Not you as well? Am I the only person left who can see things as they are?”

  Jennings turned to face his friend. “What do you mean?” he asked.

  “I mean that Stratton’s obviously infected you with his bleeding-heart liberality. All this ‘turning the other cheek’ crap. Don’t get me wrong, I do understand it, but sometimes a well-aimed punch is more effective than a kind word.”

  “I don’t know,” said Jennings. “A week ago I would have agreed with you, but now I’m not so sure. Beating the guy just felt plain wrong.”

  “Have it your way,” said Grady. “But we did get some information out of him, and I doubt he’d have said anything without your persuasion.”

  Grady went to search out some breakfast, leaving Jennings alone with his thoug
hts. The all-encompassing happiness of his attunement had been sorely tainted by his violent actions. Instead of an overwhelming joy, he was now saturated with guilt. It pervaded every last outpost of his body and soul, causing his insides to contract and ready themselves for a brutal purging. Stratton had warned him that the attunement would give him cause to question his innermost demons, but he hadn’t realized that the effect would be quite so profound. Unable to contain the pressure he shot out of bed and paced around the room in his boxer shorts hoping that the physical effort would somehow help to calm him.

  A minute later Stratton appeared in the doorway with a look of concern on his face. “Grady tells me your feeling bad about last night,” he said.

  “That’s an understatement,” Jennings replied. “I feel like a walking mountain of guilt. It’s not like a thought I can shake off, it’s taken over my whole being.”

  Stratton nodded sagely. “I thought it might.”

  Jennings sat down on the edge of his bunk and put his head in his hands. “Is there anything I can do to get rid of it?”

  “It’ll go in time,” said Stratton. “But you could always apologize to Rashid, that might go a long way.”

  “Of course,” said Jennings raising his face. “I’ll go and find him once I’m dressed. I just wish I hadn’t done it in the first place.”

  “We all wish that at some time or another,” said Stratton. “But the good thing is that you can see your actions were wrong and you know why they were wrong. Most people in your situation would convince themselves that Rashid deserved what was coming to him, at least you have the intelligence to see beyond that.”

  “Yeah, I can see it, but I couldn’t stop it.”

  “That’s because you care.”

  “So the only way to stop reacting is to stop caring. Is that what you’re saying?”

  “No,” said Stratton. “The only way to stop reacting is to stop being afraid. You did what you did out of fear – fear of what might happen to Stella if we don’t find her.”