IT WAS EARLY DECEMBER and the dry season had begun. The monsoonal winds, blowing in reverse now from the northeast, billowed the mosquito net over his camp bed. Lechaim lay back for a few seconds contemplating the bloated material above his head and then eased himself off the wooden frame that had served him at night for the past two months or so.
Walking over to a small basin of water Lyn had laid out for him, he doused his face and gave it a vigorous rub with the freshly washed towel that had been laid neatly to one side. Hanging the damp piece of cloth on the frame of the window he then returned to the bed where he sat down and studied the girl that was laying out some food for him on the table. She was young, no more than eighteen, and very pretty, but then most Filipino women were at her age. Her looks, however, were already marred by the absence of several teeth resulting, no doubt, from her inadequate diet of fish and rice. A dental plate, her constant companion, now overlaid the gaps. The teeth of Filipinos of Malayan descent such as Lynn, Father Cameron had remarked to Lechaim once, suffered more in this respect than their counterparts of Chinese extraction.
As he looked at Lynn going about her tasks, he was aware of her slender flanks apparent under the thin cotton dress she wore. He knew that if he wanted her, she would not resist because her eyes had already betrayed her feelings toward him. Any payment would therefore be secondary.
He was no saint where women were concerned and had bedded a number of them before he met Sinead. It was only then that he recognized the difference between love and desire. Certainly, the two were intertwined but the difference was never discovered until one fell in love. His feelings for Sinead were directed towards making her happy whereas desire for its own sake is based upon what makes you happy. If Sinead were happy so was he and if she were sad, he was likewise. The sexual side of their relationship was focused on pleasing her and not himself, whereas human desire alone without the thread of love is all about pleasing oneself. He knew this now like never before.
He would, of course, have a relationship again with a woman because he was too young to join a monastery. However, he was far from contemplating such now because his mind was still full of Sinead. Certainly, he wouldn't be paying any woman to sleep with him. He had too much pride for that and too much respect for women.
This will never do, he thought and rose from the bed and walked over to the open window where he stood looking out. How uncertain life is, he thought. A year had passed since he had first laid eyes on Sinead. Now, here he was living in a jungle with nowhere to go. Not that he was unhappy - far from it. In this small village surrounded by people who, for the most part, didn't know who he was and didn't care, he had found a measure of happiness. He had Father Cameron for company, and they had spent many a happy hour together lost in chess, cards, and good companionship, that is when Lechaim and the good Father weren't touring the district administering help and succour to those in need. These trips had given Lechaim a wonderful insight into the Filipino people and their plight. They also gave him peace of mind and the feeling that his life had some purpose. The people in the surrounding district had heard about the girl with the burnt face that had been healed by this stranger and they treated him with respect bordering on veneration. He often thought about the girl and the miracle that had taken place for it seemed to be just that. He also thought about God and contemplated the implications of the miracle in relation to his own views on the Almighty and religion in general. By inclination, he was not prone to think too much about the hereafter and never gave much credence to a divine being. Of late, however, with all that had happened, he had changed his mind. Within himself, he had also changed. Sinead’s death and the events that followed had seen to that. Bitterness had never been part of his makeup and it had therefore never occurred to him to rail against life's injustices. After all, what was the point? One had no control over these things - fate was too fickle!
As he stood alone at the window lost in his thoughts, the morning stillness was broken by the sound of approaching vehicles. When the convoy came into view, Lechaim saw that it comprised five trucks and a jeep. The leading vehicle, the jeep, ground to a halt before the church and one of the two men in it jumped out and walked towards him. The man was huge, about Lechaim's height, and bodybuilding had further enhanced his frame considerably.
“Vare ist da priest, muverfucker?” the man demanded as he stopped before the open window where Lechaim stood. Lechaim judged him to be European, possibly German judging by his accent. His bearing and appearance - closely cropped dark hair and make-shift camouflage fatigues - indicated that he was ex-army - probably a mercenary.
In the exaggerated British accent of a supercilious officer he had once met in the army, Lechaim replied.
“Wouldn't know old boy! He probably popped out for a game of polo!”
The man stared at Lechaim and then he did something that most men would not dare do. He walked into the hut and grabbed Lechaim by the throat. It was a mistake. Lechaim grasped the man's right wrist and pushed it down and out forcing pressure against the man's elbow. The man’s knees buckled as the pain shot through his arm and he dropped to his knees as more pressure was exerted. The man's feet then beat in tune on the floor as he waited for his arm to be broken. Lechaim, however, just looked him straight in the eyes. Continuing with the affected accent he had used before, he said softly but menacingly, “ Please don't do that old boy. You'll mess up my suit!” In fact, Lechaim only wore a pair of shorts so his retort was pure sarcasm.
The other man in the jeep, who had been watching Lechaim demonstrate a simple wristlock that a schoolboy could learn, was suitably impressed. When he alighted from the vehicle, Lechaim noted that he was tall for a Filipino, six feet or so, and handsome with a small moustache clipped in an “Errol Flynn” style giving authority to his youthful face. Lechaim judged him to be in his early twenties.
“My apologies for Lothar's bad manners!” he said flashing a perfect set of white teeth, which accentuated his good looks even more. “Lothar! I could've told you that it would be unwise to tangle with this man!”
Lechaim released the wristlock and the kneeling man rubbed his wrist ruefully. Lothar had never been beaten down by anyone before and his pride was hurt. Yet he had a grudging respect all the same. He would gladly have tackled the man again but there was something in Lechaim's eyes that warned him that this might be unwise. His leader's orders decided the matter.
“Lothar! Settle down! We didn't come here to make trouble.” Then he turned back to Lechaim. “I'm Lito Moreno and these,” he said waving a hand to the men in the trucks, “are my men”. He hesitated for a moment. “We're looking for Father Cameron. Do you happen to know where he is?' He said it politely sensing that this was the only way Lechaim would respond. He had been impressed with Lechaim's statue the moment he had set eyes on him. The tall imposing man Lito saw before him had flaxen hair that was long and curly which had probably misled Lothar into thinking that the man was an easy target - a “queer” as the homophobic Lothar would say. Yet, there was nothing feminine about the man for he exuded strength. Lothar had been a fool to take on the man, particularly bearing in mind who he was.
“He should be back shortly!” Lechaim declared dropping the affected accent he had adopted for Lothar's benefit. “He’s tending a sick woman in a village nearby and left early this morning.”
“Fuck it!” the man exclaimed with feeling. “I have a sick man with me. Malaria, I think! Can I bring him in?”
“Sure! Bring him through!” Lechaim replied.
Lito had recognized Lechaim at once. But he could hardly believe that the famous Captain Lewis was now hiding away here in the jungle. He and Lothar retrieved the man from the back of one of the vehicles and carried him through.
“Lay him here!” Lechaim indicated and they duly placed him on the bed that Lechaim had recently vacated.
“He’s been off his head for a while!” Lito said. “Keeps yelling out, ‘He’s out there!”
Lothar decided to join in the conversation at that point. “Yah! I ask ‘Who dah fuck out dah - he don’t say?”
Bending down, Lechaim lifted the sheet that had been placed over the lower half of the man’s face and drew back in amazement as he recognized him. It was the Monsignor, Michael Cronin, or at least the spitting image of him!
At that moment John Devlin opened his eyes, and when he saw Lechaim delirium took hold of him once again. Screaming unnervingly, he sought to escape from his demons. The men in the room thought that the sick man was still caught up in his madness. How could they know that one kind of madness was now over for John Devlin but another kind of madness was about to begin? John Devlin's eyes stood out of their sockets as he screamed unceasingly because he recognized Lechaim for what he was, the dreaded demon in his nightmares.