Soon they had reached the top, the very lip of the massive wall. Stepping up, they saw that it was much thicker than any wall they had ever known, nearly fifteen feet across.
Sister Okoye was nowhere to be seen.
“Sister! Sister!” shouted Abby into the unrelenting shower.
“Sister Okoye!” Dylan yelled now, with a man’s force and command.
Then the older woman appeared, her face peering out and smiling through the rain. A stray hand beckoned them to her side, behind an outcropping that curled deceptively around what proved to be a sheltered hole.
Bending down through a low entrance, Abby and Dylan stepped into the shocking sensation of dry air, accompanied by the stale smell of a cave and the sudden flare of a torch bursting to life.
“Welcome to our place of refuge.”
CHAPTER
_ 40
AMSTERDAM
“Is Shadow Leader in our custody?” the Elder asked, not bothering now to conceal his rage.
“The man knows his fate, my Brother,” replied the voice on the television screen. “He avoided it first by hopping that plane to Africa. Now he has undertaken to find them all by himself. Hearken back to his younger days, I suppose. He seems to think he can emerge a hero and avoid any consequences whatsoever. Wouldn’t we all—”
“I wouldn’t,” barked the Elder. “I would run a proper command post and coordinate the people working for him, like a proper leader of people. Instead of jumping in like some overage Rambo.”
“Well, we have a very capable younger brother running the logistics during his absence. And by the time this operation is completed, he will probably be our newest Shadow Leader. But please remember. Our brothers in the area, while they have made a great harvest over the years, are not as organized and disciplined as we are. They are of very little use in a pitched conflict such as this one.”
“Yes, well at least they have stayed loyal to their priorities. They’ve come far closer to sanitizing their surroundings than we have.”
“I don’t argue that. I merely mean that we can’t count on them now.”
“You fool, do you realize just how high the consequences have become? This blasted girl could reawaken the entire Sisterhood. Just when we stood on the brink of total victory.”
“I do realize that, my Elder. That’s why we’re dedicating so many resources to resolving the problem.”
“I’ll tell you what you’re going to do, my boy. You’re going to issue the final mop-up order.”
“Now?”
“Absolutely now. Every brother, American and African alike, is to kill as many Watchers as is humanly possible. Annihilation. I want it done.”
“Gladly, sir. I cannot wait. Annihilation it is.”
EREDO RAMPART, OGUN STATE, NIGERIA — SEVERAL HOURS LATER
The rain had finally paused, allowing a lull in the changing of the seasons. Abby, Dylan, and Sister Okoye stood on the wall’s summit like spectators in their own private skybox, looking out over an eternity of shining trees like sailors stranded in the Sargasso Sea.
“Look down,” said Sister Okoye. “See how the moats were designed to catch and hold all the rainwater right here? In an odd way, we might be standing in the most secluded place in all of Nigeria. At least for the next day or so.”
Dylan observed the pool below him. Indeed, the fortification had been cunningly built to allow rain in, while not allowing it to flow out.
“The moats have filled,” she continued, “and the rest of the system filled right afterward. So now we have ten square miles of water between us and any hostile pursuers.”
“Incredible,” said Dylan. “I can see why you called it a ‘stronghold.’ ” He paused, then said, “You know, the water could turn out to be a mixed blessing. It could also make it easier for an enemy to approach. It’s true the moats keep the water contained right here, in the open and under our noses, but with the whole area flooded like this, anyone coming this way from the jungle will only have to float from tree to tree and will have excellent cover to do so.”
“No, the water isn’t that high,” countered Okoye. “If you tried to swim it right now, you would be fighting your way through the tops of every kind of vegetation imaginable. Not to mention crocs.”
“That’s assuming they don’t have watercraft.”
“But isn’t this still a safe place to be?” asked Abby.
“It is,” Dylan conceded. “It’s a very safe place. Plus, it offers some strategic advantages. Such as the great visibility from this height, the moats’ exposed border, good shelter, for starters.”
“And the disadvantages?” said Abby.
“Well, our enemies have the cover of the jungle, and presumably all the weapons in the world at their disposal. Besides the element of surprise—”
“Now wait,” interrupted Okoye. “You forget that you’re standing here with two Iya Agba with their hearts set on hearing from God. If He is willing, there won’t be any sneak attacks.”
“Good point,” said Dylan. “I hadn’t thought of that.”
“I brought you here,” explained Sister Okoye, “for many reasons. One of them was the attributes of this site. The second reason is probably the most immediate. We had to move, of course, from where we were. The northern safe house was never meant to repel real pursuit.”
“That’s for sure,” said Dylan. “I don’t think we missed being caught by more than a few minutes.”
“The other reason I brought you here is that it could contain the answers you need to continue along your journey. You see, while a host of completely inaccurate stories have circulated about this place, the truth will help to tell us where you should go next.”
“This is where we’ll find more about the Iya Agba family line?” asked Abby.
“I hope so, my dear. Our own lore claims that this is the place our sisters came to when they first entered Nigeria, brought by the lady named Sungbo whom the locals believe is the woman who started this Ijebu kingdom. They think she was actually the queen of Sheba. They revere her so faithfully that her grave nearby is a guarded national monument.”
“Is the belief accurate?” asked Abby.
“No, the Sheba story is not only untrue, but historically impossible. These fortifications may be formidable, yet they have only been here a thousand years. The queen of Sheba lived nearly three thousand years ago, during the time of Solomon, if you recall. And yet we do know that a wealthy, powerful woman did come from Nubia, or Ethiopia, built this place, and established the vast and influential Ijebu nation. I think, Sister Abby, that if we can find out the truth about her and where she came from, we will find the next step in your quest.”
“I don’t follow you,” said Dylan.
“Well, while you waited outside the safe house,” Sister Okoye said, “Abby had a fascinating idea that hadn’t occurred to any of us before. A simple notion, really. She thought that perhaps the Iya Agba gifting travels through a spiritual family line, a genealogy of faith. Most of us have neglected the knowledge of our ancestry in Christ, but perhaps it is the very means by which our Sisterhood has grown and traveled. Through our spiritual mothers.”
“A matrilineal genealogy of the Spirit,” said Dylan, as though trying out the verbal mouthfuls for size. “And that’s how a white girl could be related to thousands of African-American women? How would that have happened?”
“That’s the problem. I have no idea how or if it ever did,” Abby said.
“Why is that?”
“My mother led me to faith when I was young, but I haven’t known her since then. She disappeared and I have no idea where she is.”
“Would your father know?”
“My father loves me, but he knows nothing of this. When it comes to anything religious, he doesn’t care. Sister Okoye, was the woman who led you into the faith an Iya Agba?”
“I believe so, although I think she resisted it. But now that I recall, she most definitely saw beyond the veil. People a
lways thought she was a little crazy, so she largely kept it to herself. But I remember her saying some things. . . .”
“And her spiritual mother?”
“I’m as ignorant as you. I know no further than one spiritual generation back.”
“It is an intriguing notion,” said Abby. “And it truly is puzzling why no one pays attention to such a thing. Even sad, if you think about it. Imagine all these great family lines, all these heritages and sagas that must have woven their way through history. So many stories gone to seed. Yet we have no clue they’re just sitting there, unknown, in all of our pasts. And maybe, like in this case, that genealogy could hide a major secret. Something really important.”
“Why would it be only mothers to daughters?” Dylan asked.
“That’s another mystery,” replied Okoye. “Remember, we’re just now pondering this whole idea. Maybe it’s because African culture is so very matriarchal; here it’s only the mothers who talk to the daughters about spiritual things.”
“If that’s the case, then I could be the first male in history. . . ?”
“Just remember that this is nowhere near as important as the parenthood of our true heavenly Father, and the kinship of our ultimate spiritual family, which is the whole body of Christ. This is just a fascinating side note in comparison to that.”
They laughed heartily at the notion, then turned back as another wave of rain began to approach. But as they reentered the cave, a certain gleam never left Dylan’s eye.
CHAPTER
_ 41
Stepping in, Abby noted that the cave was even more Spartan than the first safe house. It consisted of a long, clean, narrow space with little furnishings save for four thick hammocks, a folding metal table, and a small gas stove set on a stone. In a far corner sat stacks of dried food, bottled water, and assorted supplies.
And yet, for her, the hammocks made it luxurious and equipped beyond desire. After a day on the run, a rainy day seemed the perfect excuse to settle back and relax awhile, buoyed by the idea that a hundred miles of flooded swamps lay between them and any intruders. Within minutes she was snoring lightly, her face more serene than it had looked in days.
Sister Okoye took the occasion to have a talk with her young protégé.
“Did you know that you are the first man to enter this room in probably its whole six- or seven-hundred-year history?”
Dylan, who was relaxing in one of the hammocks, chuckled inwardly at the notion. “I am truly honored,” he said. “Although something tells me I’m not through paying for the privilege.”
“No sir, you are not. You have much learning to do. Or should I say, unlearning.”
“Oh, really? So my many years of studying warfare and tactics at various schools and war colleges, not to mention active duty carried out all over the world, now goes flying out the window?”
Sister Okoye struck an accommodating expression. “No, I would never tell you to forget it entirely. I don’t presume to know what God will call you to do. But if you are to be an Iya Agba—a male Iya Agba, imagine that—or even just the champion Abby needs for you to be, then you must add a whole new world to your . . . your repertoire.”
“Arsenal. I think the word is arsenal.”
“Perhaps. You see, young Dylan, I think I’ve discerned what really drives you. What gives you such pleasure from your work. What keeps you trapped in your world of secrecy and isolation.”
“Oh, and what is that?”
“You know what it is. Self-reliance.”
His face seemed frozen in mid-breath. He was clearly at a loss, unprepared for such a bull’s-eye.
“Tell me I am wrong,” she said. “You thrive on being a one-man show, to use American lingo. On being a self-sufficient killing machine one needs only to set in motion and then sit back to await the inevitable success. The confirmed kill. No support needed, no backup, no emergency personnel. You succeed, or you die. You take all the risks, and you reap all the praise.”
“Not really,” he interjected. “In secret ops work, there’s not much praise. It’s too covert.”
“Dylan, you know what I mean. Don’t change the focus.”
“So there’s something wrong with all that?”
“Not in your world. But in the world of the spirit, it is the way to be destroyed, because almost every spiritual being you’ll encounter is stronger than you. That’s no reflection on you; remember, you’re not on your native soil. You’re out of your element. But the One you serve is the strongest in the entire spirit world, by an incalculable margin. You remember that. Even His angels are formidable allies. But in the world of the Iya Agba and of the spirit, independence is the antithesis of strength. Self-reliance is weakness.”
“Really. So what is the preferred alternative?”
“Utter reliance on God, of course. The starting point is a complete assurance that the world of the spirit exists. You don’t know how many so-called believers go through their lives only half believing in the spirit realm. Yes, they believe in God, and in angels too, though more in a sentimental way. But when it gets deeper, down to the evil side, Satan and his minions, the principalities and powers—most turn off their ears. They selectively believe. They even laugh at those who take it seriously, as though they are too impressionable, easily swayed, even childish.”
“I understand what you’re saying. But Sister Okoye, believe me when I tell you that if these last two days in Nigeria have taught me anything, anything at all, it’s the reality of the spiritual dimension.”
She laughed heartily at that statement—a bold, rich outburst that nearly woke Abby from her profound slumber. Soon he was laughing along with her.
“Fine. You can skip the preliminaries, Dylan.”
“Thank you.”
“Unfortunately, admitting its existence is truly just the beginning. Next comes the realization that this realm has its own set of laws and principles. Just as basic and important as our law of gravity. Harder still, most of them are paradoxically and diametrically opposite from those of our world.”
“Sister Okoye,” he said, “you never cease to amaze me. From a pious older lady to a tireless jungle runner and now a spiritual instructor. You’ve confounded every expectation I could throw at you.”
“Well, thank you,” she said. “As long as you’re not implying that a woman, or worse yet an African, cannot throw around sophisticated ideas.”
“Absolutely not,” he replied. “And I will gladly listen to you. But I must warn you: If at any point my ears hear the words dark side or listen to the force, I will be obligated to either burst out laughing or start singing the movie theme song.”
She looked at him blankly.
“Oh, it’s a movie called Star Wars,” he said, embarrassed now. “It’s a huge classic; I was sure folks had seen it in Nigeria. . . .”
She glared at him. “I have seen it. But this is serious, Dylan. You don’t know the whole story of the Brotherhood of the Scythe. A group that, never forget, has its clutches already deep into you. Oh yes, even to this day, even though you have begun to follow Christ, you should see all the clinging little familiar spirits pining to hook themselves into you at the slightest provocation. When my Sight engages, I can hardly walk for trying to stay out of their way. You’re still paying a price for your associations, my Brother. And those old friends, my dear Dylan, happen to be the original prototype of the modern serial killer.”
“Serial killer?”
“Actually, I understated that. Not only are they the originals, but they are the most prolific masters in their twisted field. I mean, none of the poster-boy murderers you have probably heard of on television ever killed with the relish and efficiency of the least junior Brother of the Scythe. These men kill because they are taught to enjoy the act of taking life with an almost sexual pleasure. While that is not unique to them, add the fact that their killing volume also causes them to climb the ladder of a very elaborate and ancient chain of command. So even as they be
come desensitized, requiring more and more victims, they acquire ever greater ability to gain access to them, then to escape detection and perfect their so-called skills.”
“I had no idea . . .”
“Wait, Dylan—I’m not through. It is very important that I finish telling you this, and that you listen very closely. You see, the Scythians have one vastly preferred kind of victim. And that is a member of my Sisterhood. Iya Agbas. They track and slaughter us with a relish that rivals that of the SS and the Jews, if you forgive my imprudent analogy.”
“I don’t see the connection.”
“You can’t see it because the war between us is too ancient and distant for anyone to see. It is like the chicken or the egg.
“The Hatfields and McCoys,” added Dylan pensively.
“What is that?”
“Oh, it’s an ancient feud between two families that became quite famous from the American South. One of them, the Hatfields, were ancestors of mine. Their hatred became synonymous for the kind of feud that was so old and buried in myth that even its participants forgot how it started.”
“Except, unlike that example,” Okoye pointed out, “ours is not morally ambiguous. We know who started it. We know who the evil side is. But we do not know much more. All we know is that since the dawn of our known history, the Iya Agba have fought the evil of the Scythians, and the Scythians have murdered as many of our kind as they could catch. Now, there is one more dimension I have not touched on.”
“You mean it gets worse?” he said.
“It does. You see, it’s not only the volume of the Scythians’ bloodthirstiness which makes them so evil. It is the underlying reason they kill. Or should I say the underlying function of their murders.”
“Didn’t you already say that? The almost sexual bloodlust?”
“Actually, that turns out to be merely a means toward the end. A pretext for the less initiated. We learned the horrible truth long ago, from watching demons converge on their dying victims like sharks in a rampage. Dylan, you must realize that we do not like to even speak of such things. I will try to say this quickly and be done with it.”
The Watchers Page 23