Marked graves. Like the ones just outside the village. Something nagged at him, teased at the edge of his mind. Something about the graves of those killed by the plague fifty years ago. What was wrong with them? Long rows, even and neat. All of them—
All of them.
“Who buried them?” he blurted.
“Buried who?” Chuma asked.
“The people who died in the plague,” Merrin clarified. “You said it killed every single person in the village fifty years ago. If that’s true, who buried the bodies?”
Chuma was clearly caught off guard. “I…I don’t know. I have never thought about it.”
“Maybe it’s high time we did think about it.”
The planes landed on the salt flats near Lake Rudolf. An hour later, two military lorries rumbled into Derati. The women who were selling their wares in the center of town bundled up their blankets and rushed away, looks of fear and mistrust on their faces. No hitchhikers jumped down from these lorries. The children tried to rush around the convoy but were restrained by their parents. Merrin watched from the hotel porch.
A sergeant major with a blond crewcut jumped down from one of the lorries and ran around to undo the canvas flaps on the backs of the vehicles. Merrin grimaced and headed for the convoy. Emekwi emerged from the hotel and joined him. A group of men in red waist wraps gathered at one end of the central square.
“Where are they going to stay?” Emekwi asked. He was wary but trying to hide it. The military had a reputation for bivouacking in local hostelries without paying the bill.
“All right, come on, come on!” bellowed the sergeant major. “Out, out, out! You worthless lot of ugly bastards! First platoon on the left, second platoon on the right!”
Francis emerged from the hotel as soldiers, armed and helmeted, leaped down from the first lorry. From the second emerged Major Granville, looking travel-tired and somewhat bemused. He put on a pair of sunglasses and smiled at the group of Turkana men. They stared stony-faced in return.
“Beloved wherever we go,” Granville sighed. “Sergeant Major Harris!”
“Sir!” Harris shouted instantly.
“Have the men stand at attention. I’ve a feeling that those gentlemen over there report to the local aristocracy, and I don’t want to display even a hint of disrespect—now or at any other time. Am I clear?”
“Sir! Respect for the godforsaken fuzzies at all times, sir!”
Granville’s face reddened. “Sergeant Major, that is precisely the sort of comment—”
“Major Granville?” interrupted Francis, trotting up to the convoy. Merrin wasn’t far behind him, but was in no rush.
“Father Francis!” Granville shook Will’s proffered hand. “Any answers on Jefferies?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Well, you did the right thing in calling me, Father. I’ve been in these situations before, and you have to stay on top of—” He suddenly paused and cocked his head, as if listening for something. Then he continued, “—on top of these people. Trouble can spring up at a moment’s—” Again he stopped, prompting Francis to look in Merrin’s direction.
“I’m not sure the Turkana are responsible for what’s happening here, Major,” Merrin said.
Granville, however, didn’t respond. He was staring at something. Merrin followed his gaze to the door of the hotel. It yawned open like a black mouth. Emekwi emerged from it, looking uncertain.
“Major Granville?” Francis said.
Granville remembered himself, though his initial good nature seemed to be gone. “Right, right,” he growled. “Responsible.”
“Major, this is Emekwi,” Francis said, gesturing at the man in question. “He owns the hotel.”
Emekwi came forward and shook Granville’s hand heartily. “My establishment shall be open to your men at all times, Major, though unfortunately I do not have enough rooms to house you all, so perhaps—”
“Nor should we accept them if you did, sir,” Granville cut in. “We’ll be camping near the dig.” He gave the gathered elders a sidelong glance and raised his voice. “This site is too important to jeopardize. And until I’m satisfied that the excavation is secure, the British Army will assume complete control.”
A hard knot contracted in Merrin’s stomach. “Sir, the Turkana won’t like the show of force—”
“I’m not concerned with what the Turkana like, Mr. Merrin,” Granville snapped. “And if they start any more trouble, they’ll have to answer to the might of His Majesty, King George.”
Merrin shot Francis a Happy now? glance. Francis looked away.
“And what exactly is your mission, Major?” Merrin demanded. An hour had passed. The two military lorries were parked pointedly near the brown, blocky walls of the uncovered church, where the soldiers were already setting up camp. Shouted orders and the clank of hammers on metal stakes filled the air, overpowering the noises of the dig. A large group of red-clad Turkana warriors watched from a distant hilltop. All of them carried spears.
“Guard duty, Mr. Merrin,” Granville said. “Don’t worry—we won’t get in the way. We only want to ensure your safety.”
Merrin stared at the major, who returned his look with infuriating calm. Merrin didn’t want this man here, didn’t want his soldiers and their heavy boots tromping around his dig. Especially with all the strange goings-on. Granville would ask questions, questions Merrin wasn’t ready to answer. The soldiers also posed a special problem. Guard duty, especially this kind of guard duty, would inevitably grow boring, and bored soldiers were dangerous. They drank and gambled and chased village women, causing no end of trouble.
The problem was, there was nothing Merrin could do about it. Granville was in charge of the Turkana district, a baron in his own little fiefdom. And Merrin wasn’t even technically in charge of the dig. Will Francis was. If Granville decided to blast the church out of the ground with dynamite, it would be done. Merrin would have to walk carefully.
He shot a glance at the hilltop and noticed that the warriors were gone. In the distance, a plume of smoke curled up to the sky. Merrin excused himself to the major and hurried toward the smoke. He arrived at a point halfway between the village and the dig site. At the base of a rocky hillside gathered a crowd of villagers, all clad in their finest, brightest clothes. It looked as if a rainbow had shattered on the stones. An impressive pile of wood lay in the center of the crowd, and it had just been set alight. A small, sad bundle wrapped in white lay in Lokiria’s arms. Sebituana stood next to her, his face devoid of emotion.
As Merrin approached, three of the village men struck a rhythm on their drums and two others wailed a sad melody on a pair of wooden flutes. Chuma, standing at the edge of the crowd, saw Merrin and hurried over.
“You shouldn’t be here,” Chuma said.
Merrin didn’t stop, or even slow down. His presence spread through the Turkana like an angry wave. Several warriors came forward to block his path, with Jomo in the forefront. The men glared at Merrin with loathing as palpable as the flames that licked the pyre. Merrin nodded to them as if they had met while passing on the street. The drumming stopped in mid-beat.
“Please tell Sebituana that I’m sorry for his loss,” Merrin said.
“You are not welcome here,” Jomo said in words brittle and sharp as broken glass.
“I need to know about the plague that destroyed this village.”
“It wasn’t a plague,” Jomo replied.
The reply surprised Merrin. “Then what was it?”
“The evil inside your church.” Jomo’s tone made it clear he thought Merrin the worst kind of fool. “It’s taken Emekwi’s elder son. And it’s only getting stronger. You must abandon your work, or we will be forced to stop you.”
The crowd rippled at this. Every eye was on Merrin, who suddenly felt vulnerable and alone. Never had he felt such anger and hatred directed at him. The warriors tensed like lions ready to spring. Their spears looked sharp enough to pierce flesh and bone with
agonizing ease. The fire crackled and snapped. Chuma tugged on Merrin’s sleeve, urging him to leave. Quickly.
Merrin stood his ground. “So you won’t tell me what happened here fifty years ago?”
Jomo’s response came in Turkana, and the words made Chuma blanch. Jomo, Sebituana, and the other warriors turned their backs and gathered around the fire once more. The drums began again, but none of the tension left the air.
“What did he say?” Merrin demanded.
Chuma hesitated, and Merrin wanted to shake the answer from him. At last, Chuma said, “He doesn’t need to tell you because it’s happening again. Right now.”
Sebituana stepped toward the fire, took the little bundle from his wife, and carefully laid it among the flames. The wrappings caught fire and the body began to burn. A lump came to Merrin’s throat. It was so sad and unfair for parents to build a funeral pyre for a…for a…
He whirled on Chuma. “You don’t bury your dead here in Derati. You cremate them.”
“Yes,” Chuma said, not sure what Merrin was on about now.
“Then who the hell is buried in that graveyard?”
Ten
Catholic cemetery, British East Africa
We must add wisdom to knowledge.
—Kenyan proverb
THE SUN TOUCHED THE HORIZON, but Merrin kept digging. His shovel bit into the sandy earth in front of the white stone cross. Sweat prickled on his back, arms, and neck. His muscles burned. The jeep was parked behind him at the edge of the graveyard like a patient dog waiting by itself. Merrin had tried to get help in the endeavor, but none of the villagers would go near the cemetery, no matter how much he offered in payment. And in the end he had realized that digging a grave was a one-man job.
Pausing to dash sweat from his forehead, he caught sight of something moving, a silhouette against the red setting sun. It carried a spear. Jomo? Merrin shaded his eyes for a better look, but the figure was gone. He looked back down at the hole he had begun over the grave. Maybe he was being foolish. Maybe he’d been reading too much into the story about the plague. Plagues never killed everyone. There were always a few survivors. Though would an especially virulent plague leave enough people behind to bury all the dead? The Black Death in Europe certainly hadn’t. Was he desecrating this place? He hadn’t asked for permission to exhume anything. That said, who was he supposed to ask?
Merrin took a slug of water from his canteen, rolled up his sleeves, and went back to work. There was a rhythm to it. Shove the shovel into the ground, press it down with his foot, heave the dirt up and out. Shove, press, heave. Shove, press, heave. He was going to have blisters for this, even with the gloves, but still he kept on. Shove, press, heave. Shove, press, heave.
The sun slipped away, leaving dark pools of shadow behind. Merrin paused long enough to light a kerosene lamp and went back to work. Shove, press, heave. He tried not to think about how eerie it was to be digging in a graveyard by lamplight after dark. Childhood stories of vampires and zombies slithered through his mind, giving the night glittering teeth and clicking claws as it gathered in around him. Shove, press, heave. Shove, press, heave. He was two feet down, then three.
A cold, inhuman laugh in his ear made his scalp prickle. He spun around, waist deep in the earth. Three hyenas were standing at the edge of the grave, so close he could feel their breath as they panted on his bare arms. Their eyes, glowing red in the lamplight, looked straight into Merrin’s own. A drop of saliva slid down one hyena’s fang and landed on the sandy soil. Merrin heard it hit, a tiny thip sound. He didn’t move. Couldn’t move.
The lead hyena exhaled hard. Its breath was cold and stank of gangrene. Merrin braced himself for pain—
—and then the hyenas were gone, vanished into the darkness. Merrin became aware that both his hands were in pain. He looked down and saw his gloved fingers clenched so tightly around the handle of the shovel they were probably leaving grooves. Forcing himself to relax his grip, he sagged against the side of the grave, panting with the aftermath. Hyena tracks pitted the dust all around. He should go back to the village. The danger after dark was all too clear. But it felt like the hyenas didn’t want Merrin to finish digging up the grave, as if they wanted to stop him, to control him. Just like the Church wanted to do.
Merrin frowned with resolve and went back to digging. Shove, press, heave. Shove, press, heave. The sound was as rhythmic as a drum, or marching footsteps. Shove, press, heave. Shove, press, tromp. Tromp, press, tromp. The sounds of digging became like jackboots stomping across cobblestones, the same cobblestones Merrin had walked back in Hellendoorn. He tried to push the image away, but it only came back stronger.
You. Priest. What is your name?
“Shut up,” Merrin snarled.
They confess to you, then. So—point out the one who is responsible.
“I said, shut up!” The shovel kept moving, but the memory wouldn’t go away.
I need someone. Do you understand? Surely there is one who beats his wife or his children. A thief, perhaps. Or a street beggar. Every town has someone it can do without, even a town as small as Hellendoorn. Point him out. I will take him and the matter will be resolved.
“There is no killer in that line,” Merrin said through clenched teeth and closed eyes. “I know them.”
“The murderer is no doubt lurking in the countryside, growing brazen,” Kessel said. “Perhaps brazen enough to strike at another German soldier.” He paused to survey the inhabitants of Hellendoorn and their priest. “I am going to shoot ten of you, in the hope that we can demonstrate to this wretch the terrible responsibility he has incurred.”
A jolt thundered through the villagers. They stared at each other, then at Merrin, in terror and disbelief. Merrin’s heart jerked sideways. The thin, cold rain continued to fall, soaking the villagers and the cold corpse of the Nazi soldier. The corpse had a long, bloody knife wound in the back, and its eyes were open. Kessel scanned the crowd and settled on a man in his thirties. Nico Tuur. Kessel drew his pistol, yanked Nico from the crowd, and forced him to his knees on the street. The other soldiers aimed their weapons at the remaining villagers.
God, please tell me what to do, Merrin thought desperately, hands folded inside his black robe. Help this loyal servant.
“You have big hands,” Kessel said, putting the barrel of his pistol to Nico’s temple. Nico swallowed visibly. “I think you are a farmer. Do you have children?”
“Yes,” Nico whispered. “Two girls.”
Please, Lord…
“Excellent. We’ll start with you.” Kessel released the safety.
“Stop!” Merrin shouted.
The lieutenant turned without moving his gun. “You have some objection, priest?”
“In God’s name, you cannot do this!”
“I do nothing in God’s name, priest. But of course, you are right.” Kessel holstered his pistol and kicked Nico back into the group of villagers. “I think it would be best for you to choose the ten.”
Merrin stared. “What?”
“They’re your flock. You live among them. I’m only passing through. So you choose ten to die.” Kessel stretched his lips over yellowed teeth. “In God’s name.”
“I—” Merrin swallowed. “I will not.”
“Give me ten of them or I will kill them all. Men, women, and children.”
There was only one way out that Merrin could see. Terror clawed at his chest. Praying with every fiber of his being, he forced himself to move between Kessel and the villagers in the cold, drizzly rain. Our Father who art in Heaven…
“I killed your man,” he said. “One of the girls he raped told me what happened. I…I lost my temper and grabbed a knife. When I found him in the village, I stabbed him in the back and left him. The blame is mine. Shoot me.”
There was a long pause. Kessel looked at Merrin, at the villagers, and at the corpse. Merrin stood his ground, though his bladder felt heavy and his hands shook. Will someone be able to administer last r
ites? he wondered as he met Kessel’s harsh gaze.
At last Kessel said, “Liar. But I understand. The good shepherd offers to die so that his sheep may live. I think not. I will shoot ten, priest. And you will choose them. You have five seconds.”
“I…can’t,” Merrin whispered.
Kessel reached out and grabbed the nearest person to him, a teenaged girl named Aartje Kroon. He brought the pistol up. Before Merrin could react, Kessel pressed the barrel to her temple and fired.
The sound of the shot was horrible. Blood spattered the horrified villagers, and Aartje’s body slumped bone-lessly to the ground. Her ruined head hit the cobblestones with a sickening crack. Merrin stared down at her, stunned and speechless.
“Now choose!” Kessel shouted. “Choose ten more, or I will shoot them all.”
Merrin was still unable to speak. Blood snaked red over the stones. Aartje’s parents screamed uncontrollably, trying to get to her body, but the others held them back. Merrin saw the pleading in the eyes of the villagers, the hope that he would find some way out of this. His mind raced in a dozen different directions, but nothing came to him. No thoughts, no ideas. Nothing. In the end, he did the only thing he could do: he bowed his head and clasped his hands.
Hear me, O Lord, he thought. Tell me what to do. Help me save these good people. Don’t let Your servants be murdered like this.
“What?” Kessel demanded. “Are you praying? To God?” He leaned closer, and Merrin could smell the fish on his breath again. “Then pray, Father. Because I know something, you see.”
Kessel grabbed young Martin Greter, who had celebrated his ninth birthday only yesterday. He shoved the barrel of his pistol into the boy’s face. Martin’s eyes went wide.
“Please!” his mother cried. “Oh God!”
“I know that God is not here today, priest,” Kessel finished.
Hear me, O Lord…
Kessel’s finger tightened on the trigger. Still Merrin could not speak. Abruptly the lieutenant frowned and shoved Martin back into the crowd. His mother snatched him weeping into her arms. Kessel faced Merrin.
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