That evening, back in his motor home, having enjoyed a thoroughly satisfying meal with Father Rafferty, Ignatious settled down to ponder the words of wisdom and advice he was to give to the wretched sinner whom he had arranged to meet. He lay, fully clothed on the comfortable bed and closed his eyes.
He would listen again to the woman’s feelings and obtain the real truth from her. Her experience would be lodged in his brain, filed in its own compartment, contributing to the unending dossier of life that he had assembled through the years. His advice would be absolutely correct; he never made mistakes in that department. His holy presence would render the sinner incapable of any resistance to him or his words. She would be comforted, forgiven, absolved. He would suggest that, as she had encountered lesbian feelings, she should make contact with the holy Virgin Mary; confide in Her, accept Her embrace. Then he would send the woman to Her.
After an hour of pondering and considering options, Ignatious undressed and lay, naked, beneath the single cotton sheet. The night was sultry and sweat broke out over his body. Again, he closed his eyes, tenderly squeezing his manhood, enjoying the pleasantness. He did not see this as sinful, it was a natural action and not to be degraded into such a category, as The Church so easily did.
He did not sleep immediately as his mind wandered. Back, back in time to the Mission he had been selected for, under the guidance of the experienced priest, Father Jonathan Peter Christian, a tough, 43 year-old veteran.
Arriving in Brazil by air, the small group, consisting of four men and two women, were welcomed by a priest, Father Vincento Aloise, who drove them in a rickety, ancient truck, to his church nearby. They sat on roughly made wooden benches that had been fitted down each side of the vehicle, and the canvas covering flapped about wildly as they travelled, due to it being rotted with age and years of heavy rain. The amount of canvas remaining would offer no protection against the elements and would have been better removed.
After being introduced to the two other priests of the parish, whom they met lounging against the church entrance, both smoking long, dark coloured cigarettes of an unknown brand, they were ushered into Father Aloise’s private quarters. The group was a little surprised at the good size and cleanliness of the place, somehow expecting wooden seats on a straw and dirt floor. Why, no one could have explained. The exception to this view was Father Christian, who had visited this church on four previous occasions.
After a very good, wholesome meal, the accommodation was sorted. The men shared an adequate apartment, situated in the rear yard of the church, whilst the two nuns were placed in a smaller apartment in the same courtyard.
The two who formed the group apart from Christian and Saviour, were Father Thomas Lassiter, a young man of twenty-three years, who hailed from Australia, and Father Gerard Ottomier, an American from Detroit, thirty years of age.
Sister Evangelica, a young Englishwoman of twenty-five, had been a nun for five years and this was her first sortie abroad. She had learned comprehensive medical skills and was considered to be a useful asset in the remote areas into which she was to travel. She was looking forward to the venture with eager anticipation.
Evangelica’s companion, sister Dolorita Vasquez was a nun with two years full experience. Under the severe habit, she was a pretty, dark-skinned Brazilian, 24 years old, who had gone to England for training in nursing and languages. She had passed the courses with flying colours. Like Evangelica, she was excitedly anticipating the task ahead.
At five-thirty, the following morning, a raggedly dressed young boy of about eleven years of age, ran around waking up the group so that they would not be too late in setting off on their mission up the River Amazon. The boy entered the female accommodation quite unabashed and shook the ladies vigorously until their eyes shot open. Yelling something unrecognisable to them, he shot out like a rabbit and disappeared through the now open courtyard gates.
Ignatious’s eyes opened wide but saw nothing. His body functioned but his brain was locked in a time past, in a world far away. The eyes closed again, aiding the restful period.
After a much-obstructed journey lasting half an hour, the group was aboard the ancient passenger boat; steam driven and cruising gently down the calm waters of the awesome Amazon River. It had been commissioned for the group of holy people alone that day. So near to the port, the river traffic was bustling in a seemingly disorderly fashion. The fact that there were no collisions made it clear that some semblance of order existed.
Some twenty minutes later, the party was making headway, the traffic now much lighter and the current flowing more strongly. The pilot of the craft steered into the middle of the river as it widened, giving a mini-commentary on the various sights on shore and the abundant and varied wildlife that paraded on land and in the water.
The pilot was the owner of the boat and very proud of its smooth-running engine and its well-painted exterior. A native Brazilian, Palermo De Gatzca, he was a married man who boasted twelve children and eight grandchildren. At the age of sixty-two, he was an active man in every way. His skin was a deeply burnt brown, with a majestically lined face, giving character and reflecting the experiences of his lifetime. The nut-brown eyes shone alertly from folds of flesh that, with age, were threatening to completely obscure them.
Ignatious remembered the face well; he had studied it on many occasions during the journey, trying to fathom what kind of man lay behind. The face was like an impenetrable wall. He inadvertently groaned, rolling onto his side and instantly back again, as his mind shot past the early part of the adventure, moving to the second day along the river.
They had moored against a bank protected by thick, overhanging trees overnight, sleeping under fly nets to keep away the many buzzing insects and the quieter moths.
The clouds had been building up since the early hours, it was now eleven-thirty in the morning, and had accumulated as if gathering for war. The hitherto absent wind began to blow a little stronger, then gust, then settle into a strong breeze. The clouds covered the sun and the day became dark, with a kind of greenish hue.
The small boat meandered along, still taking a middle position, as the group looked nervously at the ever-threatening sky. Thunder began to rumble, sounding many miles away and the wind picked up. The gentle rippling of the river was now choppy with larger waves rolling along intermittently. The boat began to roll with the comparatively small swell.
To the questions put to him by the more forthright of the crew, Father Lassiter, the Australian, De Gatzca would only insist that there would be no problem — the clouds would break and disperse soon and the best position for the boat was out in the middle rather than hugging the bank, where danger lurked in the form of tree roots and obstacles thrown into the water by irresponsible people.
Again Ignatious stirred, asleep but restless as the memories traipsed across his mind.
Plop! Plop! Thud! Plop! Spots of rain descended onto the dry wooden flooring of the boat as it bucked more violently now, the river becoming alarmingly hostile Plop, plop, plop, plop, thud, thud, faster now, heavier.
At last, De Natzca realised the vulnerability of the craft; it was like a twig thrown by a child into a fast moving stream. He decided that now was the time to steer nearer to the bank, taking note of the frightened and anxious expressions on his passenger’s faces as he turned the wheel.
At that moment, an almighty clap of thunder rent the air, quickly followed by a flash of sheet lightning that lit up the boat and the cringing people hanging desperately onto the brass side rails. The screams of the females were immediately drowned by a roll of thunder, even louder than the last as the Gods screeched their venom at the audacity of the feeble humans who were daring to challenge their great power.
The bolt of lightning that spat at the boat crackled down in a vicious hiss. The head of Palermo De Natzca literally turned to stone as the charge speared through his body, striking at the tiny bald patch at the rear of his head; a patch that he took great lengths to hide with a skilful combing of the tightly-curled hair. The hair disappeared in a puff of smoke.
The shocked missionaries looked on, mouths agape, taking in the electric smell that pervaded the air around them. Palermo’s lifeless body was draped over the wheel, arms encircling it as if in protection, holding it in its turning position. The curve of the boat’s route took it broadside on to the freak weather, the wind gusting mightily in gale force with rain hurtling horizontally. In a visually stunning movement, the boat rocked violently, righted itself and then flew from the broiling water, flying six feet into the air before spinning like a barrel and crashing into a clump of trees on the river’s edge and smashing into many pieces, the stern, almost complete, skimming into the centre of the river to hurtle downstream.
In fleeting seconds, Ignatious saw the figure of Sister Evangelica, the English girl, hurtle back into the broiling river, hitting it with force and being carried quickly away. Almost at the same time, he saw Father Lassiter fly past his entangled position, trapped in sturdy branches, to become fatally impaled upon a broken limb just a few feet away, that jutted out like a spear. The point of the branch entered the open, screaming mouth of the priest exiting in the middle of his left foot, skewering him like a pig on a spit.
Shocked but aware, Ignatious saw the good Father Christian clinging to a gnarled tree root as the water beat about him, trying to drag him to his death. Then, in one quick movement, Christian rolled from the river and huddled into the widespread roots, curling into a ball.
Looking around, Ignatious made out the frail figure of Sister Vasquez trapped in branches some six yards from his own position; she appeared to be either unconscious, or dead. A further sweep of the area revealed Father Ottomier wriggling into the foliage, seeking refuge from the near-hurricane that was all about them. As he watched, the shattered body of a squirrel monkey, its white face covered in blood, crashed into the dense branches near to Ignatious’s head, where it stuck for a few moments before hurtling out into the raging river to be swept into oblivion.
With a start, Ignatious awoke, jerking upright in his terror. Bewildered for minutes, he gradually regained his senses, realising that he had awakened from the deep trauma that had bedevilled him since returning from that fateful expedition.
He rose from the bed and towelled away the sweat, a combination of the night’s heat and the terrible memories. Before returning to continue the sleep, hopefully without dreams, he removed the saturated sheets and replaced them with clean, dry ones. Fluffing up the pillow, he slipped beneath the fresh cotton sheet and went immediately to sleep. This time, it was untroubled.