"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."