"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."