Brother Clary felt the wind rise up, a cool wind, like the breath of heaven.  It had been a good meeting tonight, and the tent was now empty of all but the rickety folding chairs he was picking up and carrying out to his beat-up old Ford truck.  A sound made him harken, and he saw an old man in a shabby jacket and patched trousers, the wind ruffling the thin white strands of hair left to the oldster.  The old man held something small in a rough canvas wrap, an old feed sack from the look of it.  "Preacher,"  he said, "I found this in a stricken tree, after a storm.  It was grown into the tree, an old cottonwood.  Seems to be the sort of thing you might know about better."

He handed over the package, which weighed about half a pound and was about the size of a man's hand.  In the lamplight, weak though it was, Brother Clary could see the gleam of gold, and the shape of a cross.  It was set with an emerald the size of his littlest fingernail, and it had a gold chain - broken, about five inches long, attached to it.  There was engraving on it, ornate curls in cursive writing deeply bitten into the gold, and it wasn't English.  It was Spanish, and Latin too, from the look of it.

Forcing his eyes from the priceless gift, he looked up at his surprise benefactor.  "Much obliged," he managed to say, barely finding even those words.

After a moment of studying the man, the Texas preacher found that curiosity got the better of him.  "Where did you find this again?"
This message was last edited by the player at 02:18, Sun 05 Dec 2004.

Brother Clary looked up, and was addressing thin air.

There was no sign that the old man had ever been there, only the snow-scented wind that made the lanterns swing gently.  But the weight of the cross was solid in his palm, the links jingling, the emerald gleaming a soft, warm green.

Not knowing quite what else to do, but understanding that this item, if genuine, was certainly a priceless relic from an earlier time, Brother Clary finds a scrap piece of paper and begins to carefully copy the inscription on the cross as best he can.  Then, wrapping the cross back in the rough coverings he received it in, he looked about for a suitable place to secure it.  His eyes fell on his truck.  "Hmm.  The wheel well would be good, but there's too much of a chance it'll fall out on some of these rough roads...what about the seat?"  Lifting the back of the forward, he wedges the package in the coils, then sets the seat back in place.

Then he climbs in, starts the engine, and makes his way to the nearest Catholic church.

Brother Clary had to drive 237 miles to get to a Catholic Church, and it took until the next day to make it happen.  The place was a small whitewashed church, with an amiable-looking 40-ish man in overalls tending a vegetable garden around the back of the church, not far from a tidy little cottage.  At the appearance of the preacher, the fellow straightened up from hoeing the beans and smiled.

"Good day to you," the man said, his accent Damyankee but his manners nice enough. "Can I help you at all ?  My name is Father Dean."

"Pleased to meet ya, Padre.  I'm Brother Clary.  I figger you'n me is sort of in the same business together, and I thought you might help me out with something."

Carefully, the tent preacher shows Father Dean the scrap of paper where he copied the inscription.  "Some feller showed this to me after a service I had.  Now, bein' from Texas, I think I kin pick out a few words that're Spanish, but the other, looks to be Latin to me.  The only folks I know of that habla's the Latin are you fellers.  I'm mighty curious as to what it says."

Brother Clary received a nod and a smile. "Come inside for a glass of cold tea and I'll get my reading glasses," the priest said.  The cottage was tiny, neat, and had a little icebox, a definite luxury.  Father Dean poured out a glass of tea each into pair of mismatched glasses and invited Brother Clary to sit down.  "I'm afraid there's only the bed, I'll need my desk lamp to read by." He settled down and studied the paper for a moment or two, adjusting his bifocals.

"Well, my Spanish isn't as good as my Latin, and my Latin isn't wonderful."  he said at last.  "As near as I can figure, it reads in Spanish, 'from the grateful people of Lipani, in praise of the bravery of Father Domingo' and in Latin it reads, 'That the Evil Deaths be turned back yet again by the glory of God, Praise Him and his loyal servants'...does that help you, Brother Clary ?  I can write to another priest in Boston, his Latin is much better than mine."

The Texas tent preacher furrowed his brow as the words tumbled over each other in his head.  "You ever hear tell of these 'Lipani'?  As far as your Boston friend goes, I think that'd be a mighty fine idea.  I'd be much obliged if'n you could do that fer me."

Brother Clary starts to stand, but then realizes that he has no idea what town he's in, or where he needs to go next.  Perhaps he should wait nearby to find the response from the Yankee priest in Boston, but considering the sparse accomodations of the parsonage, where?  "Beggin' your pardon, Padre, but kin you direct me to the nearest boarding house?  I drove a fur piece to git here, and now I need a place to rest my weary head."
This message was last edited by the player at 02:13, Thu 09 Dec 2004.

"I'm afraid not,"  Father Dean said, sounding truly regretful that the Lipani was something he didn't know.  "But I'll write to Father Harry in Boston for you. If you need a place to rest for the night, there's Mrs. Armitage the widow, two miles north, she has a couple of shacks she keeps for the hired hands and she serves a wonderful chili and sausage stew.  Or you could take my bed, and I'll sleep in the church.  The pews are quite roomy."

He pulled out a sheaf of plain white paper and inked up his fountain pen, in preparation to write the letter.

"Well, Padre, I don't think I could take your bed from you, but I thank you for the kind offer.  That Armitage place sounds like it might be just what the doctor ordered. I'll try there.  If you hear from your friend, I'd appreciate a holler.  Oh, and I'm much obliged for the tea. It was mighty refreshin'."

With that, Brother Clary turns to leave and puts on his parson-style hat.  Two miles north.  Considering the distance he drove to get here, two more miles wouldn't be much of a problem.  So he turns his truck north and sets off down the road, mulling over the words of the translation...Lipani, Father Domingo...Evil...gold cross with an emerald....  It was all taking his curiosity for a wild ride, and threatening not to let up anytime soon.

The Widow Armitage was another Damyankee, but she was nice enough.  For a very small fee she agreed to rent Brother Clary a cot in one of the cabins out back, and meals were included.  He went to bed with a belly full of stew, and all was right with the world.  His dreams, however, were another matter.   Stone knives cutting at a green tree, that bled red blood.  Something that roared like a demon, whose steps rocked the ground.  And a river, dark and winding, in an emerald forest.

He awoke to a new day, to men's voices outside, and the sounds of horses.  The hired hands were back from whatever chores took them out onto the range.

The good brother rises, rubs his eyes, then stumbles to the wash basin and washes his face combs his hair, and dresses for the day.  His mind still tumbling with the message on the cross, adding to it the strange visions that kept him from a completely restful sleep.

His morning prayers and Bible reading were performed perfunctorily, almost dutifully, but his mind still wandered back to the treasure in his truck.  Where did it come from?  What did the message mean?  Who were these Lipani and Father Domingo?

At last, he put his Bible back in his rucksack, and headed to his truck, with every intention of exploring the town.  Perhaps he might get lucky, and find a library...

The hired hands noted that this was a preacher and so left him be.  The town was a small one; a few ranches on the outskirts, scrubby desert for the rest, a general store, a doctor's place, and some kind of pottery shop.  The name of the town was Perfection.  The fellow running the general store looked old enough to be knowledgeable about local history, though, even if he was an Oriental.

Perfection, eh?  Brother Clary thought to himself with a wry smile.  There was only one perfect man who ever lived, and they crucified him...

Considering his options, the Texas preacher decided to visit the general store, and was surprised to see the shop being minded by a yellowman.

Catching himself quickly, he walked in, browsed around for a moment, then selected a couple of boxes of shells for his 12-gague.  Then taking his choice up to the counter, he tried to make a little conversation.

"Mighty fine weather we been havin'.  You got a cold Dr. Pepper on hand?"

The wrinkled face smiled, and the short Oriental man nodded, going to fetch a large glass mug and filling it expertly with Dr. Pepper's syrup and seltzer.  "Sure is, and we sure do.  Here you go, Preacher,"  he said, in English as good as anyone else's in Texas. The store was well-kept and stocked.  The man rang up the sale for the shells and the soda, and asked for exactly the amount of money Brother Clary would expect from a general store, for the items purchased.

A slight pressure nudged at Brother Clary's boot.  An aged bluetick hound was applying a nose to the leather, in a vague interest, before it again slumped back down into a snooze.  "Don't mind old Red there,"  the Chinaman said.  "He's getting on in years."

Brother Clary tried and failed to mask his surprise at the man's lack of accent.  Instead, he took a long sip of his Dr. Pepper and smiled broadly at the salesman.  "Been keepin' shop here long?"

At the nuzzle from the hound, he looked down to see the dog in question.  "Kinda reminds me of old Beau when I was a kid in Wills Point," he said, reaching down to give the dog a little scratch behind the ear.

The Chinaman nodded, smiling again.  "Been behind the counter since I was a boy, and my parents owned this place."  he said.  The hound grunted contentedly and set its heavy head onto Brother Clary's boot, the tail wagging with slow thumps on the floor.  The Preacher had made a Friend.

"He's a good dog, old Red,"  the shopkeeper agreed.  "My son has two of his line in with his good huntin' dogs, back East."  He refilled the Dr. Pepper at no charge, and amiably began to polish the soda counter, which was already spotless.

"By the way, name's Brother Clary."   The preacher's curiosity was certainly piqued.

"If'n you don't mind me askin', how did yer family git to this part of the country?  Hope I'm not outta line here, but I don't know as I've ever met anyone quite like you."

"Billy Chang,"  the shopkeeper replied politely.  "I was born and raised Texan.  My parents are from China, though.  They travelled a lot before settling here.  We came up from the Gulf by wagon.  It's still in the old barn, needs some work done to make it good again."  He polished some glasses that truly didn't need polishing, but it was that sort of day, full of sunshine.

"Ya know," Brother Clary began with a grin, "my daddy used to say, 'Son, you never ask a man where he's from.  If he's from Texas, he'll tell you.  If he's not, don't embrarass him.'  I think he was right.  As I said, I don't think I've ever met someone from China, so it seems this is the week for new discoveries fer me.  Just the other day someone gave me what looks like a valuable old antique with some Spanish and Latin inscriptions.  Said he found it in a tree after it had been hit by lighting.  I figgered I'd let Father Dean have a crack at the Latin. I know ol' King Solomon said 'there's nothin' new under the sun...' but I'm-a startin' to wonder."  He finished thoughtfully, surprised at how much he had said.  He had wanted to be very careful with the cross, so that he didn't "misplace" it in someone elses's hands, at least not until he got to the bottom of where it came from and how it ended up in that tree.

Billy Chang's expression went from affable to curious.  "You don't say,"  he
said.  "Momma Chang got a strange letter last week, asking about some of the
things my parents brought back from their travels.  Was it a real old
cottonwood ?"

He put down the glass and went to pick up a big tin box from under the
counter.  The box had been repainted several times, and showed the signs of
age and loving care.  Inside were little bundles of cloth and photographs,
glass tintypes, sepia prints, and even painted miniatures on ivory.

 "Was it something like this ?"  he asked, and showed Brother Clary a faded tintype of four people - an Oriental couple, the woman smiling happily and wearing a cross that was the same as, or the duplicate of, Brother Clary's cross.  The Oriental man looked very much like Billy Chang.  A thin white man with a hooked nose and clothes that looked like they had been a CSA uniform was
standing next to them, holding a massive rifle, and the other man was dark-
skinned and slightly built.  The tintype had been damaged and the dark-skinned
man was very hard to make out.

Brother Clary's eyes narrowed suspciciously.  "I don't believe I said what kind of tree 'twas..."



The itinerant preacher's eyes went from narrow to wide.  "Purt' near." he murmured softly, staring at the image.  "Hold on right there fer a spell."  He set his Dr. Pepper down, and strode purposefully  to the truck.  Looking both ways to make sure there were no unwanted watchers, he pulled the seat of his truck forward, and removed the package, revealing the cross.

Returning to the store, he set the bundle on the counter in front of the shopkeeper.  "Let's jest see fer ourselves," he said, unwrapping the coarse material.



"Any idee who this feller might be?" Brother Clary pointed to the dark-skinned man.

The only witness to Brother Clary's quest to his truck was a black rooster, who was idly scratching in the dirt by his truck.  He carried the cross inside, and showed it to Billy Chang.  Chang nodded slowly, his expression one of recognition.  "Forty years ago, she put it in a cottonwood tree,"  he said. "Forty years does go so fast, don't it though..."

He nodded.  "That is her cross.  Such a talisman goes where it wills.  It can only go to the next one...the next one who stands against the demons."

Billy Chang looked at the tintype.  "That was Chief Lupe,"  he said.  "He was of the Lupino tribe.  He was a demon hunter too.  Do you believe in demons, preacher ?"  The alert eyes looked into Brother Clary's.

"Billy," Brother Clary drawled slowly, a half-smile creeping across his face, "I've seen enough in this world to convince me that there are demons at work.  But I also know what the Good Book says: that even demons believe in Jesus and are afraid.  So mebbe you'd best tell me the whole story.  I do know that the Lupinos are mentioned in the inscription, and there is somethin' 'bout a Catholic Padre on there.  But beyond that, I'd like to know more."

"It's a long story,"  And Billy Chang drew a glass of seltzer, into which he poured some green syrup, and drew up a barstool to sit on.  "It is known among the Chinese that there are many hells, and that some of them are part of this world.  Some allow demons to cross, when the cycle of time spins a certain way.  It is known that every four hundred years there is a disruption that can allow powerful creatures, unnatural spirits and monsters, access to our world.  When these demons come into our world, they must be fought.  Mama Chang was a demon hunter, and such people travel to find and defeat demons.  The cycle of four hundred years has come around again, and the shorter cycle of forty has coincided with it.  This will allow especially evil demons to come forth.  So that is what I know of it."

"As for what happened with the Chief, a man named Jim Hornsby - the other man in this tintype, and a great traveller and guide himself -"  Billy Change pointed to the white man, "He knew the Chief, and he heard of my mother, Li Wu Chang, the demon hunter.  He found her in China and told her of the demon that was haunting the Lupino tribe, a demon no Lupino could defeat, for he was one of their ancestors.  My parents went to help the Chief get rid of the demon.  In her cross - that one you have now, are the six demon herbs, mixed into the gold. It is old, very old, and belonged to this priest first, the one mentioned in the inscription, then to her.  My mother told me someone would come, some day, and that I must tell him these things.  The part of the world where this happened, the last time a demon was killed, it is a very old place.  The bones of earth and the blood of earth are close to the surface, and many things are possible.  You will have to travel."  Billy Change drained his glass, and went to the cash register, and pulled out ever single bill and offered it to Brother Clary, with a smile.  "Take this.  Even Demon Hunters need to eat."

Having thought he'd everything, Brother Clary was still struck wide-eyed by the story Billy told him.  Mutely he accepted the bills, looked down at them, then back up at the serious young shopkeeper, then cleared his throat.

"So where am I goin'?"

Billy Chang smiled again.  "You are going to the Amazon, Preacher.  You will
find your way from there.  Ask for Jim Hornsby when you see that river.
Someone will guide you to him.  There is a fisherman down on the coast at
Matagorda Bay, named Flynn, who runs rum every week. He can give you a ride
south."

"A rum-runner,eh?  I never did cotton to them kinda folks much.  Degradin' folks with the smell of the liquor -- it just ain't right." Then with a sigh, the Texas Preacher leans back a mite.  "But I s'ppose I kin hold my tongue for a while, Lord helpin' me."

With that, he shakes Billy's hand firmly, accepts the money, takes his shells, and drives back to settle up with the kind widow who put him up for the night.  After closing his account with her, he drives back over to Father Dean's.

When he catches up with the priest, Brother Clary asks about the letter to his friend.  "Padre, I'm goin' out of town for a while.  I kinda have an appointment down south.  If yer friend gets back with you, kin you send the message over to Billy at the store?  He'll know where to find me."

Billy Chang nodded.  "I reckon you can shame him into taking you along mighty quick,"  he said, with a smile, returning a firm handshake.

Father Dean was again out in his garden, seeing to his vegetables.  "Of course, Brother Clary.  God keep you safe."

With his gear loaded up, and the the tank full, Brother Clary begins the trip to the coastal town of Matagorda.  His mind swam with the information he received from Billy regarding the lore of the cross.  And now he was headed not just out of state, but out of the country!  He'd been across the border once or twice, when he visited Laredo, but this was no ordinary jaunt over the Rio Grande and back.  He'd only briefly heard of the Amazon, and now he was going to se it first hand.

Then there was all that business of Billy calling him a "demon hunter."  Well, he'd seen a few things in his years as a travelling preacher that might make some society ladies shiver, and their gentlemen clear their throat nervously, but nobody had ever referred to him as a "demon hunter" before.  What was he supposed to do?  How was he supposed to track down this demon?  Would he even recognize it when he saw it? The questions piled one on top of the other as he made the trip.

"One thing at a time, Brother" he said to himself with a low chickle.  "Got to find this varmint Flynn."

The rickety truck rumbled southward, all the way to Matagorda Bay.  It was night by the time he got there, just about 10 pm, but the town was hopping.  A couple, the woman clad indecently and the man looking like a sailor, reeled drunkenly across the road, prompting him to test the old truck's brakes.  Soon he was near the docks, and in the moonlight could see ships bobbing on the water, along wooden piers.  People were about, and some of the buildings near the bay were brightly lit.  One was a diner, The Southern Star, and he could smell the coffee from here.  Another was a hotel, fairly cheap from the look of it, and two ladies, very scantily clad, were leaning against the wall and surveying him dubiously.

Looking around, Brother Clary noticed the "ladies" at the hotel.
"For the lips of a strange woman drop as an honeycomb, and her mouth is smoother than oil:
But her end is bitter as wormwood, sharp as a two-edged sword.
Her feet go down to death; her steps take hold on hell.
Lest thou shouldest ponder the path of life, her ways are moveable, that thou canst not know them.
Hear me now therefore, O ye children, and depart not from the words of my mouth.
Remove thy way far from her, and come not nigh the door of her house..."(Proverbs 5:3-8, KJV) He muttered to himself.

Then looking over at the diner, and inhaling the dark, rich aroma of the fresh-brewed coffee, he thought he'd take a shot there.

Walking into the establishment, he scanned the interior taking in first the patrons, then looking for a place to sit and relax.

The two soiled doves responded to his expression more than his words, for they
were some distance away.  One scowled at him, the other set her hands on her
ample hips and stuck out her tongue.

He went into the diner, and noted it full of the sort of riffraff to be found
around docks. Fishermen, sailors, porters, and other rough labor.  There were
four seats open at the counter and two booths, and a clot of men at the far end
of the diner were standing by one booth and laughing at some joke or story being told.

A no-nonsense 40-ish waitress, her bleached-blonde hair a riot of frizz, her
uniform a crisp black and white, immediately brought him a cup of coffee as soon as he sat down. "Cuppa joe,"  she said brightly. "Got the blue-plate, it's ham and beans, got tuna fish griller and you get a lot, got tomato veg and chicken rice soup.  The sinkers are fresh an hour ago."

She took Clary's order without bothering to write anything down, and hurried
off.  He took stock of the rest of the diner's visitors, saw an elderly man
sipping coffee at the counter near him, saw two sailors chattering in Spanish -
something about a really big fish - and saw a quiet blonde man enjoying the blue plate at the nearest booth.  He didn't seem to fit in, perhaps because the
weather was still hot and he had a heavy leather and sheepskin jacket next to
him.

When the waitress brought his blue plate, Brother Clary offered her his warmest smile.  "Thanks, Darlin'," he drawled pleasantly.  "I was a wonderin' if you could tell me how I might find a gent named 'Flynn.'  I'd like to hire his boat fer a little trip."

"That's him down there, tellin' lies,"  the waitress said with
a flounce of her frizzy locks, in a low tone, toward the end of
the diner where the clot of men were. She topped off Brother
Clary's coffee, too.

 "But if you want to go south for some
rum, you'd be better to go with the Kraut there,"  she nodded
at the quiet man with the sheepskin-lined jacket.  "G-men been
lookin' round for Flynn, but none of them has figured out about him
yet.  He tips good, so I ain't tellin' them neither."
She went off to pour coffee for the quiet blonde man and then
returned to the kitchen.

"Darlin'" Brother Clary drawled quietly, "I ain't intersted in no rum.  But I do need to head south.  Seems my callin' lies down thataway."

His eyes follow the waitress as she refills the blond man's coffee.  When she returns to the kitchen, Brother Clary never notices -- he's too busy assessing the stranger in the booth.

"Well," he thinks to himself, "I could take my chances with Flynn, but if the Revenuers are after him, and they catch me, my ministry will be as good as dead.  On the other hand, what do I know about this feller, 'ceptin' that he's a German rumrunner who looks to be cold-natured.  As the Good Book says, if anybody lacks wisdom, let him pray for it..."

Uttering a quick prayer for wisdom, Brother Clary eases up out of his booth and approaches the chilly German.

Brother Clary settled himself in the Hun's booth, prompting a cautious look of the light blue eyes, but this did not stop the German from devouring his blue-plate special.  Apart from that, the man seemed affable and approachable.  In the heavy accented English, Brother Clary found out the man's name - Hans Gruber - and his planned departure - after pie.  He would take Brother Clary to Brazil, so long as he did not mind paying 25$ for the ride.  That would leave Brother Clary with 17$ remaining from Chang's donation for Demon Slaying.

Flynn, from the look of it, was not going to depart the diner anytime soon...though no doubt he could shame the rogue into taking him south for nothing more than a sermon.

"Tell you what, brother," The Texas preacher says, offering his broadest and friendliest smile.  "I got a truck outside that's probably worth at least thirty.  I'll give you the keys to hold. On my word of honor as a man of God, I'll see to it that you get what I owe, and maybe more.  Ifn' I don't get you your fee, you kin have the truck and sell it, use it, whatever."

While he's speaking, Brother Clary looks over Gruber.  The jacket he's wearing, could it be the kind that pilots wear?  "If I'm right," he thinks, "and he's got a plane, then I can get to my destination that much quicker, and probably won't have to associate with a known devil. Sometimes its jest best to not ask too many questions...."

The Hun shook his head, with a shrug of his own.  "I don't need a truck,"  he said. "I need petrol for my aeroplane."  It seemed the leather-and-sheepskin jacket was indeed a pilot's jacket, and Brother Clary could just make out some faded insignia - Jasta 5, and a German eagle.

Still smiling as if the two of them were sharing a private joke, the Texas preacher leaned back a little.  "Well, partner, it looks as if we're in a bit of a dillema.  I need to go way south o' the border, and you need fuel fer yer puddle jumper.  But we both need some cold cash to make it happen.

I may be an ol' country preacher, but I do know a little bit about recent history.  You Germans put up a good fight a few years back, and I know that y'all 're a pretty honorable bunch, 'specially you flyboys."  He nodded over to where Flynn was holding court.  "I was told to look up that feller there, but I'm a bit concerned about him.  I was asked to look into something down south that requires some discretion, and I don't know that he's got any o' that.  So tell me, Captain Gruber, what does my $25 get me besides a planeload of fuel?"

"I only need the fuel if I take you that far south,"  Gruber said, the soul of amiable reason.  "And trouble, I stay out of trouble."  The blue eyes cast very briefly toward Flynn and his cronies, and then the waitress plunked a pair of apple pie slices, with a big slab of vanilla ice cream on the side of each, in front of the two men.  "Unt it vas Leutnant Gruber,"  he added, rather more softly.

He ate his pie, paid - tipping the waitress two dollars and change, and was ready to leave the diner.

As the German begins to leave, Brother Clary rises also.  "Give me a moment to take care of my truck, and I'll take you up on your offer."

He heads over to Flynn's court and looks the rum-runner square in the eye.  "Son," he begins, "My name is Brother Clary and I'm on a mission from God.  I know who you are and what you do, but more importantly than that, God knows as well.  I also know that your time is runnin' short.  The law is hot after you, and it is only a matter of time before they catch up to you.  I would ask you to repent of your evil ways, but for now, I 'll let you go on the condition that you help me out.  See that truck over yonder?  That's mine.  I'll sell it you or anyone else in this diner for $100 cash on the barrel head.  Any takers, or is anyone here fool enough to stand between me and the mission the Almighty has planned for me?"

Gruber shrugged lightly.  He would wait, but Brother Clary could tell it would not be for long.

Flynn was a red-haired Irishman, with a lined face, freckled mightily from exposure to sun. Like the others, he wore rough clothes, work clothes.  He didn't look well pleased to be interrupted in the middle of a story, but it turned out Chang was right - the man was respectful to clergy.

"A hunnert, good father, well that's a lot of money for an old truck,"  Flynn said.  "And I would not be a-worried that the G-Men are a-coming for old Flynn just yet.  Would you take 40 $ ?"   The cronies waited, silently, apparently to watch the bargaining in action.

"Brother Flynn, I don't have much time, so let's say this; how about fifty and I'll tell the world how you slickered a simple country preacher?"  While still not approving of the man's choice of earning a living, Brother Clary felt a little more at ease, even as Flynn's lackeys looked on.

He still thought that Gruber's plane might be the best means of getting on with this business.  The preacher never liked waiting around when there was something that clearly needed to be done.

"If you agree, I'll just need to get my personal belongings out..."

Flynn hurriedly dug into a pocket and pulled out 50$.  "You're a good man, preacher," he said, with the sweet Irish lilt.

Brother Clary headed outside to see Gruber leaning against the wall of the diner, nonchalantly slouched. After grabbing his gear from the truck, the two set off a little ways along the docks, the wood pathways bobbing gently on the tide that was rocking the boats in the harbour.  At the end of one was a seaplane; it was painted a plain sensible grey, and looked sturdy.

"Get in," Hans Gruber directed, opening the hatch.  Inside were ropes, netting, and a soft hissing sound.  He reached out to pat a huge snake coiled around a support beam, and then showed Brother Clary the cockpit. "You can be co-pilot,"  the Hun smiled, apparently a rare event, "God iss my co-pilot mostly, He will not mind."

The leather-covered seats were padded and comfortable, if worn-looking, and the instrumentation was all in place.  The German pushed some things, pulled some things, went out to take off the mooring ropes, and spun the propeller, then dashed into the plane as the engine started and got to his seat.  The seaplane taxied out onto the water, and the engine roared, pulling it out onto the ocean and then up into the night sky.  Gruber was whistling cheerfully, and flying with insolent ease.

Hoping that for Gruber "God" was not the snake that the pilot had showed affection for earlier, Brother Clary sat down.  This was to be his first flight, but he did not want to let his apprehension show.  He was very uncomfortable with the pesence of the snake, and he had hoped to find somewhere in the Bible a verse that said something to the effect of "thou shalt not suffer a snake to live."  Unfortunately there was none.



As the plane rose into the air, the preacher man prayed very sincerely that when Jesus said "Lo, I am with you always..." He didn't mean *Low*.  He tried to mask his discomfort with a little bit of conversation.

"I know you told me that your rank was Lieutenant, but this is your ship, and you're the captain of it, so if'n you don't mind, I'd like to call you Captain.  How long you been flyin'?"

"That's quite an interestin' pet you got there," he said, referring to the snake.

"What brought you to this corner of the world?"

These were all questions the good brother hoped would not be offensive, nor too prying, espcially with him being so far up into the air.

Gruber seemed happy to be flying; from the look of him, he didn't ask much out of life, and this was sufficient to his needs.  "Since I was 17 years,"  the German replied.  No mystery who taught him, looking at the jacket.

He nodded at the comment about the snake.  "She keeps people from robbing me,"  he added. "I come here, there is money to be made, that silly law.  Now everyone wants drink.  So I load up on rum, tequila, whatever.  I was in Egypt last year, but too much shooting there, not enough work too.  It is safer here."  Trouble was something Clary could tell that Hans Gruber avoided.  He also hadn't asked why Clary wanted to go South; perhaps he just didn't care.

Brother Clary bristled a little at his cavalier attitude toward Prohibition.  As far as Clary was concerned, it was a good law.  Too many fine folks ruined by their taste for fire liquor, demon rum, whatever you wanted to call it.  He'd seen any number of "town drunks" make their way down the sawdust trail at one of his tent meetings.  When they met Jesus, they didn't have a taste for the stuff anymore.  These men (and not a few women, he thought) would go home to their long-suffering spouses and children, and all would be well.

Of course, he noted grimly, there were also several for whom religion didn't seem to take.  As soon as the tent meeting was over, they went right back to the bottle.

He perked up out of his reverie at the mention of Egypt.  It was a place that he'd read about, of course -- you can't preach on Moses without reading about it!  "So you got to see them fabled pyramids and temples that the children of Israel slaved to build before Moses led them out?  What were they like?"  He was eager, almost like a child on Christmas Eve.

Later, as he looked outside the window, he asked "How long does a flight like this take, usually?"

Gruber guided the plane through a series of bumps and drafts, steering it with aplomb as if a rough ride was nothing to be concerned about.  "Oh, jah, those pyramids, they are very big.  There are a lot of them, some are small and made of bricks.  Some have white marble sheets, they shine in the sun, what is left.  And there are temples.  Egyptians, they build very pretty.  I take sight-seeing touristen, go along Nile, about two years.  But, there is trouble."  He shrugged again.

"Five, maybe six hours,"  Gruber replied to the query on how long it might be, "I refuel once."  He was flying the plane at night, not looking at the charts at all, but he seemed to know where he was going.  "I go a little farther, to take you to where you want.  No real difficulty; rum is rum."

"If'n you don't mind me askin', what kind o' trouble?



"Well, I'm much obliged for the trip, and sorry fer takin' you outta your way.  I'm sure you know that as man o' the cloth I can't cotton liquor of any sort.  But you seem to be a good man, even if'n you're involved in something I'm opposed to.  Hope this won't affect my passage much."  Brother Clary added the last with the friendliest smile he could muster.

Gruber shrugged, as much as possible, as he guided the plane along a sea lit by moonlight.  "Trouble, you know, people shooting at each other, telling me to go away, so I go."  he said.  Trouble seemed to be one thing he avoided at all costs.

"Is not that difficult - you pay for the petrol to go, I take,"  Gruber shrugged again. "The US of A, silly law, no alcohol.  Can't make beer worth drinking, anyway, and that's all I will drink, except for peppermint schnapps, and nobody can get that now.  You not like it, that's fine, but that's my money, so I do it."  Breaking laws didn't seem to trouble Gruber either, especially since he considered Prohibition silly...and it provided him with a job.

Gruber didn't seem like many of the other rumrunners and bootleggers Brother Clary had to deal with in the past.  There was no swagger, no arrogance, just a quiet, self-assured manner that he knew exactly what he was doing. He didn't appear to be thumbing his nose at the law like Flynn, only making it work for his survival.  Brother Clary was fascinated by this attitude.  most of the miscreants he had encountered were sinners by choice because they saw themselves as being above the law and thought that they could get away with it.

Brother Clary reflected on this thought.  "If anyone could get away with rumrunning, it will be Gruber,"  he thought to himself.

"Well," he drawled aloud "I still cain't agree with you on your line o' work, and I'm mighty obliged to you for not chunking me out the door here.  I'm not sure there's enough to cushion my fall down there."

"How long you been working this part of the world?"

Gruber was certainly laid-back, and he flew as if it was a casual thing to be hauling a lot of metal through the night sky, though the plane was responsive and the engine was humming along evenly.  "Vos is chunking ?"  he asked, with mild interest, since slang was difficult for him.  "Oh, you pay for petrol, so I fly, no problem.  I have been in US of A for 10, almost 11 months.  Flew over here from the North; Greenland, Iceland, Canada.  I hear the story of this Pro-Hibition, it is good money, I get to fly a lot, I speak a little Spanish, it works.  Maybe they take silly law back, I go somewhere else.  Always someplace to be, big world, many places."

"Chunking...you know, tossin' out."



Brother Clary stared straight ahead for a moment, his eyes belieing the fact that he was thinking through his situation, weighing something.

At last he turned back to the pilot. "Tell me, Captain Gruber, do you believe in evil?"

Gruber, affable and relaxed, shrugged after he considered the question.  He had nodded at the explanation of the slang, accepting it too.  "Evil...I see many bad things, in war, at home, all over world." he said. "I see men do these things, but I don't think about why they do it.  I know when I see such badness, it is time to go again, there will be Trouble.  You ask if I believe in God, and the Devil ?  I don't know. Never thought about it."  Apparently content to drift wherever he might find a place to be, Hans Gruber had no home, no anchor, and seemed content.

"I'm sure you have," the Texas preacher said softly.



"That is certainly the way of the world.  People have a talent for trouble.  almost an attraction, like a moth to flame...."

  Brother Clary nodded. 

"Although I am a preacher, I'm not gonna preach to you now.  But let me encourage you to think about it.  I'm on my way to confront something evil.  I'm not even sure what.  All I know is that its something that apprently God has chosen for me to do.  I don't mind tellin' you that it's weighin' heavy on my mind.  It's something that I must do, or else I will never be able to look into a mirror again and call myself of a servant of God.  If you are a prayin' man, please pray for me..."
This message was last edited by the player at 19:11, Fri 25 Mar 2005.

Hans Gruber considered this, giving it appropriate consideration as he banked the plane over the ocean, and Brother Clary saw a coastline lit by moonlight, the sand gleaming.
When the German finally spoke, it was with a quiet, serious tone.

"I stop thinking about God, in 1917," he said. "I believe in evil, I believe in good, I believe in luck.  I will wish you good luck, that your trouble will not be too great."

The seaplane dropped lower in the sky, heading toward a landing, on some flight path that the German had apparently memorised.  Now Brother Clary could make out ships, a harbour, and buildings.

Brother Clary nodded.  "I wish I had more time to talk to you.  I'd like to try to convince you to think about God more.



The preacher looked out the window at the scene below him.  "Is that our destination?  What is the name of this place?"

The German had only shrugged mildly.  He did not seem to miss religion in his life.

"It is called Belem,"  Gruber replied.  "It is short for 'Bethlehem'."  There was a scent to the air now, of burnt ham....or more accurately, rubber processing.  The seaplane touched down smoothly, sending up sprays of water, and taxied along to a wooden dock, on a long row of wooden docks, most of them with boats tethered to them.  A three-masted ship stood at one dock, and a small shack, the windows glowing a soft yellow, stood at the top of the rows, that led toward the town.  It was more of a small city, to be sure, one of industry and shipping.

With aplomb, Gruber hopped out of the plane and tied it up to the docks.  "Whatever you want here, you can pay money and get it, mostly,"  he said.  "You might want to be careful though."

Brother Clary shook his head sadly, but decided that now was not the time to press the matter.



The preacher smiled thinly at that.  What better omen for his mission than to begin the journey in a place named for the birthplace of his savior?



Brother Clary nodded, then hitched up his rucksack over one shoulder, his shotgun over the other shoulder, and began making his way along the docks.

Feeling a little hungry, he decided to look for a place to grab a bite of whatever the local specialty was.

Brother Clary went along the moonlit docks, to where the lanterns were hanging and tables were visible, some with people sitting at them, with plates and cups.  It seemed to be some kind of dockside cafe, catering to the fishermen and navvies.  While the men there seemed to be of a rough sort, they only watched Brother Clary warily as he came up in search of service.

A small boy in a tattered pair of shorts hurried up to him, addressing him in cheerful Spanish.  "Signor !  Please, sit down.  Will you have a plate of stew and some good coffee ?"

Brother Clary smiles at the little boy.  "Muchas gracias! That sounds mighty fine."  He takes the seat offered to him.

While he's waiting on the food he looks out over his sourroundings making a carful appraisal of all he sees here.  He wonders, how close is he to the waterfront?  Where will I find the man that I'm searching for?

When the food comes, the preacher smiles again at the boy.  "Ninito [little one]," he says.  "Can you tell me how to find Jim Hornsby?  A gringo - like me?"

The boy bobbed his head, with a smile, "Si, Senore, I know Mr. Hornsby, but he has gone up-river."  The boy pointed, presumably toward the mouth of the Amazon, though in the dark it was hard to tell.  "He has gone to Manaus."  Then the lad scampered off to bring food and drink.  The stew was heavy, full of fish, but tasty, and the coffee was excellent.

Brothter Clary sat back limply, as if the wind had been sucked completely from his sails.  To come this far and miss his contact!



After saying a quick prayer of thanks for his meal, the preacher dug in, turning over in his mind what he could do next.

Option One:  He could sit and wait for Hornsby to return.
Option Two:  He could set out for Manaus, and hope to catch up to him there.
Option Three:  He could just quit this whole wild-goose chase and go home.

He rejected option three since he was a man of honor and once he set his mind to accomplish a task, he would finish it, no matter what.

He dismissed option one for the sole reason that he had no idea when Hornsby would return.  Something about what the Oriental Shopkeeper said made him believe that time was critical.  Hornsby had to be found, and quickly.

Reenergized by the simple meal, the good brother paid what was owed, then asking for a few quick directions, set out for the river, hoping to find transport to Manaus.

The meal was quite cheap, and he was able to pay in American money, a quarter only.

Brother Clary went back down to the docks, to see the German loading up his plane from a donkey-cart, the owner of same cart a short dark man jabbering in excited Spanish, something about a wedding.  Gruber was amiably nodding at the barrage of words and carrying crates into the seaplane.

There were a number of small boats, ranging in size from rowboats to larger ones with engines and sails.  Some had men sleeping in the boats, for the night was clear and pleasantly cool.  It was easy enough to get a ride to Manaus for two dollars, American; they would arrive shortly before dawn.  So it was that as the first hint of rose was in the eastern sky, Brother Clary could smell the stink of rubber factories, and see the town of Manaus begin to come to life.

The Texas preacherman stood up, rubbed the back of his neck, brushed himself down, adjusted his hat, shouldered his pack and shotgun, and began ambling down the dock, eyes roving.  There was so much to see, and this was as far from home as he'd ever been.

He decided to once again try locating Hornsby, but only after he'd had a spot of breakfast.  So, he made his way along the docks looking for a cafe or tavern or someplace that could get him started this morning.

Brother Clary found the local cafe on the smell of frying and coffee.  It was full of small dark men in scruffy clothes, eating and drinking; a white man was something to be watched, he found, and the conversation died as he approached.  A girl in a red dress was carrying a tray of tortillas and smiled as she saw him, and spoke in broken English.  "Sit, Mister, we have food good eating."

He was looking for a table when a chair nudged him gently in the hip.  A man in worn khakis and a wide-brimmed hat was seated at the table, the brim of the hat shading his face but not the mocking smile.  "Monsieur, he is looking for a guide ?"  the man said, with a sour French accent.

The Tall Texan looked down at the smiling figure.  "Are you invitin' me to sit down?  'Cause if'n you are, I'm much obliged.  I'm powerful hungry and them tortillas look mighty tasty."  His tone was even, neither too friendly, nor too cool.  He wasn't sure what to make of this Frenchy, and he didn't want to be distracted from locating Hornsby.

The man nodded, and waved a hand at the straw basket of tortillas and the bowl of beans.  It was simple but filling fare.  "I am best guide in Manaus," and another crocodilian smile came along. "Where are you going ?"

The busy serving girl brought a big hand-thrown pottery mug full of steaming coffee for Brother Clary, and rushed away again.

Brother Clary sat down, grabbed a tortilla, and immediately looked for some butter and a little salt.  Then he filled a nearby bowl with some of the beans.

After offering a quiet prayer of thanks for the food, he began to eat.



"And modest, too," the Texas preacher said with a smile between mouthfuls.



"Well I'm on a mission from God, and I was coming here, so I'm not sure I really need a guide.  But I do have a message for a Jim Hornsby. You know him?"  Brother Clary casually looked at his table mate while nibbling on the tortillas and beans.  He tried to appear nonchalant, but was carefully studying this man with the French accent.

At the mention of Jim Hornsby, the 'guide' turned pale.  "Pardon me, Senior," he said, and beat a hasty retreat.  The wizened man at the table next to Brother Clary nodded and pointed, to a man off to the side who was doing something very strange.

He was wrapped in a serape and had a big sombrero on, and it looked like he was hiding from someone.  The someone he was hiding from was a dark-haired beauty of a woman clad in very sensible adventurer's khakis,  that did nothing to hide the sleek curves of her legs or the fullness of her figure.  She was in turn looking for someone; as her gaze swept the cafe's tables, the man in the sombrero hid even more.  Other patrons chuckled; she shot them an irritated glance, then moved onward, with a stalking stride.  The man in the serape and sombrero peeked out of the cover, then finally picked up his head once she was far away.

It was a white man, heavily tanned, with an eyepatch over one eye.  The remaining eye looked over at Brother Clary, and the man hooked a finger at him, beckoning him to approach.

Grabbing his bowl and a tortilla, The black-clad preacher stood up and strolled over to the table where the strange man was seated.  As his two eyes met the stranger's one, Brother Clary broke the silence.  "You lookin' fer a little company, brother?"

"Shh, shhh, keep it down with the English,"  the man said, his accent one of a strange twang and Deep South inflection, looking nervously in the direction the pretty Latino woman had gone. "My name's Hornsby - yer looking for me.  But, who the devil are you ?  I was expecting Yuen Li Chang."

"Habla Espanol?" The preacher asks.  (note:  if Hornsby replies in the affirmative, Brother Clary will continue in Spanish; if not, in a more hushed English).

"My name is Brother Clary, and I'm preacher from Texas.  After one o' my services, a feller brought me a package.  Said he thought I might be interested in something he found in an old tree after a lighting strike.

"After askin' around some, a fine young man named Billy sent me to find you.  So here I am."

Brother Clary did not want to reveal too much information at once, since it wa apparent that Hornsby was clearly nervous that someone might see and overhear this converation.  He told the one-eyed man what he thought should be enough to convince Hornsby that he was indeed supposed to be there.

After his exposition, the preacher sat back a little in his seat and resumed munching on the tortilla.

"Billy !"  the man calling himself Hornsby said, speaking easily in Spanish. "He's just a kid."  And 50 years old, if he was a day, Brother Clary thought to himself. Then he shook his head, as shadows of the past gleamed in his remaining eye.  "It was a while ago, weren't it ?"  he said, in a softer tone.  "Amazing how time passes...."  He shook his head again, as if to clear his thoughts.  "So you got the cross...well, you'll soon find out what it's for.  I have a boat; there's another one heading out to where we have to go, and I'll be following it.  I want to warn you though - there's going to be a passel of troublesome folk heading that way.  This is a grand conjunction.  There will be pilgrims...pilgrims that make Attila the Hun look like an easygoing guy."

Brother Clary relaxed a little at Hornsby's awareness of what he was carrying and at his apparent acceptance of the black clad preacher from Texas.

"Billy told me that there was a deed that needed to be done, something dark that needed to be put down.  I'm ready when you are."  He took another bite of tortilla and beans.

"By the way, who was that person you were trying to avoid earlier, and is she somehow connected with the cross?"

The strange white man nodded.  "Something like that," he said. "Not my business; I have other things to tend to, but you need to go along the same way."  His eye drifted over the apparel.  "Reckon you'll figure it out soon enough....never had the way of religion, myself, apart from what was useful, and it's a bit late now to change my ways."

Hornsby grinned a rogueish grin at the other question.  "Oh, HER," he said. "Let's just say she'd like to skin me, tan my hide and leave me for the ants."  He resumed eating his breakfast, without any sign of worry.  "Pretty, though, ain't she ?"

"Well, I'd be a poor excuse fer a preacher if I didn't point out that the only time its too late to change is when you draw yer last breath.  Don't forget the Apostle James tells us that the demons of hell believe in God, and shake with fear.  I figure, if they're already afraid, then I got a slight advantage."  Brother Clary added the last with a wry grin.



The preacher man pushed the brin of his hat back and wiped his brow.  "She is that, brother.  She also looks mighty dangerous."  He took another thoughtful bite from the food in front of him.

"So, do I get the details of my part in this now, or later?"

"For some of us, Padre, it is indeed too late,"  Hornsby said, with a wry smile.  "You'll find your devils though, devils that would make an angel cry for mercy."

He nodded, though, at the assessment of the lovely Hispanic woman. "She's a firecracker, a friend of mine said.  Could go off at any minute." He was lost in a reverie, a mischievous smile on his face, until Brother Clary asked the next question.

"The place you're going to...well, it's a very old place, I think that's true, and it's a place where...well, I'm not a good man to explain it all.  Time and what's real, what's not, what shouldn't be, they mix up there.  I'll get you there - I have business to attend to - and then it's all on you, just like it was the last time a demon-hunter came that way.  And she only had some small ones to fight, but she whupped them good.  This time, well, it's been a ten of forty, that's a powerful number."  Hornsby pursed his lips, a pensive look on his face.  "Don't know what we'll find, but I'm still going."

"Am I understanding you right," the preacher's voice going quiet, but cooling considerably, "That you are going to take me to the middle of the danger, and then leave me alone?  And what's this business about a 'ten of forty?'  You're gonna hafta remember that I'm just a simple country preacher now, one who didn't go lookin' fer this - it found me."

"Demon hunters are the most alone folk in the world,"  Hornsby said, with a puzzled look.  "Didn't Lady Chang tell you that ?  And...40 years, that's a magic number around here, and ten of them, well, that's powerful, it's a quarter way to the end of the world."

He finished his coffee, and then thoughtfully began picking his teeth with a toothpick.  "I guess you could say," he said, after mulling it over, "that the religion around here is mickle different than the one you know.  Not that what you got ain't valid, just that things are..."  He shrugged, "...different here."

Brother Clary shook his head.  "Never met the Lady.  I dealt only with Billy."



"The Deluge lasted 40 days and nights, the Children of Israel wandered 40 years in the wilderness, Jesus fasted for 40 days in the desert...." The preacher's voice trailed off as he thought about that "magic" number.  "End o' the world, huh?  Guess that's maybe why I'm here," he added thoughtfully



Brother Clary wiped his mouth and gathered up his rucksack and shotgun.  "Well, I reckon we oughtta git started then.  Different or no, I still beleive that My God is big enough to deal with this situation.  And ifn' he doesn't, well, that jest means He's got other plans..."

Hornsby smiled, a smile that had undertones of bitterness.  "It's gotta end sometime," he said, of the end of the world.  "Most things do.  All right, then, Padre, let's get going."  Finishing his coffee and flipping the girl a couple of coins, he got up and sauntered off in a leisurely fashion.

The town had a thriving rubber industry, and already the smell of rendering the sap was tainting the air.  Hornsby led Brother Clary down to the docks, pausing to purchase a burlap bag of tuberous roots, another one of flour (which Hornsby stacked on his shoulder like a navvy), and a big wooden canteen.  Eventually they arrived at the docks, where a number of long, low-built river boats were waiting.  One was cruising past, with the stunning Hispanic woman standing at the prow.  Hornsby had hidden, quick as a wink, and did not show up again until the boat was long gone.

He offered up a guilty grin, then went to a small, blue and white painted boat, where a native man in a simple loincloth was waiting patiently, a bow and quiver of arrows by his bare feet.  "This here's Billie," Hornsby said. "Billie, this is..." he looked back at Brother Clary, "you know, I'm bad with names, takes me forever to remember 'em.  Did you tell me who you were ?"

"Brother Clary," he said, sticking out his hand to shake the hand of what he presumed would be his "native guide."

The smiling little native man touched Brother Clary's hand, apparently unfamiliar with handshakes, and uttered a lot of high-speed babble. "Says he's pleased to meet you,"  Hornsby said, and set his purchases down, covering them with a tarpaulin.  There was enough room in the boat for the three men, enough to even stretch out and sleep, and from the look of the rolled-up blankets, that was going to be the way of it.  Then Hornsby spoke in the strange fast language, adding the word Senorita in there, and the little man laughed.  "I asked him to steer clear of her boat,"  Hornsby added, sheepishly.

They got in, and the little native started up a tiny engine, which did indeed push the boat along at a steady pace.  They had begun to move along the mighty Amazon.  Traffic was heavy; barges bringing in barrels, taking raw materials, and plenty of smaller boats.

"What did you do to that woman to make her so angry with you and you so scared of her?" Brother Clary wondered aloud.  "She looks as if she would bite your head off and use the hole in your neck for a spitoon."



As they slowly made their way up river, the preacher looked over at Hornsby.  "Tell me about the Lipani."

Hornsby gave a raffish smile that implied that the Devil walked beside him all too often. "Got a little too close, I reckon," he said. "Some women, you can't depend on them being soft and gentle when they're crossed.  But I reckon it's cos I told her daddy where to find a cure for illnesses, and he went off and left her."

The emerald green foliage and black water was definitely different, and the heat of the day was wearing in, sending Hornsby into a doze while the little Indian silently, cheerfully, guided the boat on its course.  The white man startled at Brother Clary's query.  "Huh ?"  he asked. "The Lipani ? You mean, the Lupino."
"G'chai-de-ollo Lupino," Billy said, with a nod, patting the side of the boat. "Che-lugannz, ch'gkh a ha diloka."
"They live where we're going," Hornsby said. "They're an old people...oldest in the land.  They know the old ways.  About the Earth, how it formed, the old animals...life, death, plenty of questions that they have all figured out, but sometimes the answers, they're not what you were looking for."  He shook his head slightly, lost in a reverie. "They know all about good, and evil though.  All about it."

"Sorry 'bout that.  Reckon my accent got in the way," he added with a sheepish grin.  "Lupino," he repeated slowly, allowing his lips to form the word correctly.



From his rucksack Brother Clary pulled out the carefully wrapped cross.  And how does this figure into the story?"

Hornsby looked at the cross with some puzzlement, then a flash of recognition lit his eyes.  "I ain't seen that in a passle of years !"  he said.  "That's the Demon Cross sure enough; but only someone with faith, with the gifts to fight Demons, can have the use of it. Seen Padre Domingo de Santos whip down a demon bigger than that tree."  he pointed to a particularly large tree overhanging the river. "Seen little Missy Chang use it, too.  But it's not my business; you want to talk to the Wise Old Man. He's the leader of the Lupino.  Has been for time out of mind."

At the name of Father Domingo, Brother Clary's ears perked up.  "So what can you tell me about 'Padre Domingo?'  that's the name on the back of the cross, and If'n I can learn a little bit from history, it might help a little later on..."

Hornsby's face took on a wistful look.  "It's been a long time," he said. "A very long time.  He was a Missionary, Padre Domingo.  Travelled with some pirates, for a time, went to live among the Lupino.  Used to argue with the Wise Old Man something fierce, too.  It was like watching two sides of the same coin argue."  He grinned then, lost in another memory. "But...when the earth opened, and the demons came out, Padre Domingo never faltered.  He was a tough old bird.  Dead a long time now, a very long time indeed; he was a holy man, so I 'spect he's gone to Heaven.  There was only God, for him, and the other ways were the Devil's ways.  He might've been right."

"I reckon I might have gotten along with him quite nicely," Brother Clary drawled.  "How did he die?  Did the demons get him?"

Hornsby shrugged.  "He got old," the man said, "And passed away into I don't know what." He fell silent again, and Brother Clary was left with an impression of more memories intruding on Hornby's thoughts.  Billie was just guiding the boat along, smiling cheerily.

Nodding absent-mindedly, as of he was agreeing with Hornsby's unspoken thoughts, Brother Clary turned and opened his rucksack, pulling out his well-worn black leather bound Bible.  He opened it up to roughly the mid-point of the book and bowed his head.  He began to read aloud, but softly, as if he was praying:

"He that dwelleth in the secret place of the most High shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty.

I will say of the LORD, He is my refuge and my fortress: my God; in him will I trust.

Surely he shall deliver thee from the snare of the fowler, and from the noisome pestilence.

He shall cover thee with his feathers, and under his wings shalt thou trust: his truth shall be thy shield and buckler.

Thou shalt not be afraid for the terror by night; nor for the arrow that flieth by day;

Nor for the pestilence that walketh in darkness; nor for the destruction that wasteth at noonday.

A thousand shall fall at thy side, and ten thousand at thy right hand; but it shall not come nigh thee.

Only with thine eyes shalt thou behold and see the reward of the wicked.

Because thou hast made the LORD, which is my refuge, even the most High, thy habitation;

There shall no evil befall thee, neither shall any plague come nigh thy dwelling.

For he shall give his angels charge over thee, to keep thee in all thy ways.

They shall bear thee up in their hands, lest thou dash thy foot against a stone.

Thou shalt tread upon the lion and adder: the young lion and the dragon shalt thou trample under feet.

Because he hath set his love upon me, therefore will I deliver him: I will set him on high, because he hath known my name.

He shall call upon me, and I will answer him: I will be with him in trouble; I will deliver him, and honour him.

With long life will I satisfy him, and shew him my salvation."
(Psalm 91:1-16)

Hornsby, off in his own little world, drifted back for the last of the words. "You ain't seen nothing, yet, preacher,"  with an enigmatic, slightly sad smile.  "There are plenty of gods.  All of them answer, if you know how to ask.  I've seen the reward of the wicked...you will too.  In time.  All in time."  He chuckled then, and settled down to sleep, pulling the hat over his face.

Brother Clary looked over at his guide, shook his head, then decided that perhaps sleep wasn't a bad idea.  Holding his shotgun close, he too settled in for a nap.

Brother Clary slept, but could not escape the thought that there was a conversation going on, just outside of the wakefulness.  The voices were soft and melodic, far away, and twining themselves in his dreaming mind.

"Captain...captain, look up there...look at it !"
"Trust to my map, Jonathan, twill guide you the fastest way. I had it from a shaman himself..."
"...Drink of the blood...take the secrets to your soul...or face the monsters that the ages of the earth have spawned...."
"Beware, preacher, the worst demons are the ones that look like men.  Trust in the God you know, but be wary of the gods you do not know."
"Each has its power; earth, air, water, fire.  To the end of time, all of the strength of the ages of the earth are gathered at the end of your journey."

Forcing himself out of this strange nightmare, The black-clad preacher woke, sweating heavily.  Those words, heard, but not heard, would be seared into memory for years to come.

He immediately reached for his Bible, and sought comfort and courage once again from the book of Psalms, as he so often did:

(1)  The LORD is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear? the LORD is the strength of my life; of whom shall I be afraid?
(2)  When the wicked, even mine enemies and my foes, came upon me to eat up my flesh, they stumbled and fell.
(3)  Though an host should encamp against me, my heart shall not fear: though war should rise against me, in this will I be confident.
(4)  One thing have I desired of the LORD, that will I seek after; that I may dwell in the house of the LORD all the days of my life, to behold the beauty of the LORD, and to enquire in his temple.
(5)  For in the time of trouble he shall hide me in his pavilion: in the secret of his tabernacle shall he hide me; he shall set me up upon a rock.
(6)  And now shall mine head be lifted up above mine enemies round about me: therefore will I offer in his tabernacle sacrifices of joy; I will sing, yea, I will sing praises unto the LORD.
(7)  Hear, O LORD, when I cry with my voice: have mercy also upon me, and answer me.
(8)  When thou saidst, Seek ye my face; my heart said unto thee, Thy face, LORD, will I seek.
(9)  Hide not thy face far from me; put not thy servant away in anger: thou hast been my help; leave me not, neither forsake me, O God of my salvation.
(10)  When my father and my mother forsake me, then the LORD will take me up.
(11)  Teach me thy way, O LORD, and lead me in a plain path, because of mine enemies.
(12)  Deliver me not over unto the will of mine enemies: for false witnesses are risen up against me, and such as breathe out cruelty.
(13)  I had fainted, unless I had believed to see the goodness of the LORD in the land of the living.
(14)  Wait on the LORD: be of good courage, and he shall strengthen thine heart: wait, I say, on the LORD.
(Psalms 27:1-14)

The little native fellow, Billie, nodded and smiled as Brother Clary read his Bible.  Hornsby was sleeping peacefully.  Then Brother Clary noticed something in the water; something a pinkish colour, like an arm, and looked at it, startled.

It was the nose of a dolphin, a pink one, swimming alongside the boat; there were three more, around the boat like a vanguard.

Brother Clary stared at the dolphin for a long while, bemused.  Must be some sort of sign, he thought.

Catching Billie's attention, he indicated the trio with a nod of his head, and a question in his eyes

"They peoples." Billie said, his English not quite clear enough, but he grinned and nodded. "Peoples of the river."  The dolphins seemed cheerful too, and contentedly swam alongside the boat, and all of a sudden, dove below and were gone from sight.

Then a sound came to Billie's ears - he looked back over his shoulder, and then Brother Clary heard it.  There was another engine, on another boat, coming closer, but it was impossible to see it in the twisting turns the river looped along.  Finally there was a flash of white in the shadows, the prow of another riverboat, and then the crack of a rifle.

Billie's forehead exploded into a red splatter and he slumped over, the boat skewing to the right, headed straight for a heap of tree roots !

"Hornsby!" The Texas preacher shouted at the napping guide.  "We got trouble!" At the same time, he jumped up, grabbed his shotgun and levered cartridges into the chambers.  He moved toward the tiller of the boat, keeping his head as far down as possible while trying to get in a better position. to either get a shot off at their attacker, or to get the boat back under control.

Hornsby was suddenly awake, and stayed low in the boat, while most other folks would sit up and look around to see what all the fuss was about.  Brother Clary moved over to where the body of the native Billie was slumped, ducking as another rifle bullet whizzed past his ear and splintered a tree branch they were coasting past, and then the boat stuck fast in the tree roots.  The other boat drew closer.

"No !"  Hornsby said, scurrying up to pull at Brother Clary's leg. "It's the Mapmaker; come with me. Over the side.  Trust me and you'll come to no harm !"

The good brother looked at Hornsby wonderingly.  There were only two things in the boat that he was hesitant to leave behind.  His well-worn Bible, one that had all of his notes for his tent sermons, and his 12-gauge, a gift from his father.

With a grimace, he left his pack and Bible in the boat, but considering the present threat, prepared to follow Hornsby over the side, still clutching his shotgun.  "Thy Word have I hid in mine heart..." he muttered to himself.

Hornsby went over into the black water, his hand tight on Brother Clary's forearm.  The water looked terribly dark and turbid, but oddly enough, Brother Clary could see through it very clearly; he could see the worried look on Hornsby's face as the man pulled them into a tangle of roots at the side of the river, he could see the boat, and the trees, even a scrap of sky, and all the weeds and similar around them.  The water was about six feet deep.

It then occurred to him that they would quickly run out of air, and as he started to scramble for the surface, Hornsby held him down and pulled a reed from a patch of water-weeds, and gave it to him to breathe through.

Hornsby, however, did not bother with one.  He merely sat there, jammed against the roots, and watched.  A small silvery fish swam lazily along his cheek, then hid in his floating hair.

Presently, the other boat came closer; they could see the man with the rifle, a bitter-faced man with an eyepatch much like Hornsby's.  This man hopped into their boat and rifled around, taking the pack and the bible and tossing them to the man on the other boat, an older fellow in adventurer's khaki's.  The body of Billie was dumped from the boat, and drifted away on the current.  Then the rifleman was given an order by the older man, who had a British accent, and left their boat quickly. "Come on - no time to waste.  Our intention is to cause delay.  Spray the river and the boat just in case."

Then the man with the eyepatch picked up a Thompson submachine gun, loaded a clip into it, and fired into the river and the bottom of their boat with great deliberation.  Soon the boat was sinking, and then the other boat went onward.  Brother Clary looked back at Hornsby, who was clutching his right shoulder with his free hand, but when the man pulled his hand away from his shoulder, there was only a hole in the fabric, no sign of blood.  The fish blew an idle bubble and lazily swam away.

Hornsby made a sour face as the boat joined them on the bottom, then indicated that Brother Clary should stay where he was for a moment.  The man cautiously rose up, and seemed to be listening; then he went back down, miming to Brother Clary to wait.  Another boat was coming, this one silent; it was blue and white, and there was a man poling it along, a thin youth of about 17 years.  Two women, one in a blue dress, were seated in it, and another man, one with a hardbitten look and a handgun, was watching for trouble at the prow.  Hornsby grinned suddenly and went back up, and Brother Clary could hear him speak, to someone on the boat, and the replies.

(Scene Change to The Dark Amazon)