Chapter 3

The hills around the monastery blossomed golden under the first rays of the sun. The cold, wet night edged away, hiding under the jungle's treetops. The bell of the monastery started to ring, calling for the morning prayer. A few of the sisters started to gather in the small temple, rosemary in hand. Their lips moved at a shallow, serene pace, mouthing hymns and eulogies to their God, Lord and Savior.

Ethan had been awake before the break of dawn. He was watching the small procession from a small, paneless window. The night had been small but courteous; nothing but the distant sounds of wildlife had bothered him. Again, his sleep was dreamless.

There was a knock on the door; the stars above shone their last light for the night. Ludwig stepped hesitantly inside, holding two cups of tea; it his way of apologizing. Ethan offered him a cigarette in kind. They sat together in the small room. Ethan sat upright in his bed cot, Ludwig pulled the single chair. They left their cups of tea to slowly cool on the window sill. When the break of dawn came they were still silent, trying not to think. Ludwig cleared his throat, breaking the uneasy silence:

"We might head back."

Ethan simply nodded and sipped quietly from his cup. His nostrils flared from the aroma, but he said nothing. Ludwig went on:

"We'll talk it over once everyone's awake. I think we should press on, otherwise these people would have gone through all this for nothing. The rest though are probably scared out of their minds."

"Can you blame them?" said Ethan and stood up, stretching. Ludwig continued, tapping his foot nervously, his tone somewhat apologetic: "In any case, some should stay behind and help the monastery, at the least. It might be just as good as setting up camp elsewhere."

Ethan's response was terse: "Makes sense."

"Not a lot of it makes sense to me, Richard. I want to help, but this mess..."

"Having second thoughts?" Ethan said, staring blankly at the rose red morning sky, hands on his waist.

"Wouldn't you? I mean, after everything is said and done, is it worth it? I want to help, these people want to help but ... How can anyone weight that? One's own life against another?"

Ludwig gulped down a mouthful of tea greedily. He didn't seem to bother that it was still too hot for comfort.

"Did you get enough sleep?"

Ludwig shook his head wearily. Ethan perched himself on the window sill and told Ludwig in a very business-like fashion.

"If you want to move on, you need to get past what's happened. If you can't, you should head back while we're still not on the deep end here. Otherwise, chances are more people will get hurt for nothing."

The doctor nodded in agreement and lit his cigarette. He took a few puffs, drew the smoke in deep. He seemed to relax a bit, the care lines on his face evening out.

"What ... What about you?" Ludwig asked with just a hint of hesitation, as if the answer might not be forthcoming, as it was dangerous to know.

"What do you want to know?" replied Ethan while tapping a cigarette out of his pack.

"I just think it might be safer if you came along. That's all I need to know."

"I'm going in as far deep as you are willing to go. But at some point..." Ethan's voice trailed off as he drew on his smoke heavily. Ludwig closed his eyes and nodded before he replied:

"I think I understand."

Silence ensued between them. The sound of chanting rose suddenly out of the temple's open doors just as the first rays of the sun melted away the morning haze around the small patches of greenery. The heat was building up rapidly; soon they would be sweating again. Ethan suddenly turned and looked Ludwig straight in the eye. There was a frown on the doctor's face, a mixed expression of fear and hope. Ash from his cigarette fell on the dirt floor.

"My name's Ethan. I don't think knowing that puts you in any more danger than you already are. I mean, you've trod on a minefield already," Ethan said and smiled sheepishly.

Ludwig smiled thinly but genuinely and said to him: "No, I don't think it does. I knew when I saw you that you're a good man."

"You don't want to know the half of it, doctor," Ethan replied and offered his hand. Ludwig smiled, the lines on his face wrinkling in a fatherly fashion. As they shook hands, they heard a dull but disturbing, faint echoing sound that Ethan recognised all too well: a gunshot.

"That can't be good," said Ethan dryly.

"Gunfire?"

Ethan just nodded and rushed to the doorway to peek outside. He could see through the wide open monastery gate. In the distance, he could make out a couple of open-top Rovers slowly coming up the hill. A barrage of rattling sounds echoed around the hills; assault rifles on full auto. They were soon lost behind the first turn on the hillside. The gunfire went on, echoing faintly.

"Some kind of firefight," Ethan said to Ludwig as he reached for his backpack.

"Government or rebels?" asked Ludwig with startled apprehension, as he took a look for himself.

"Probably neither. Rebels wouldn't be so frivolous with their ammo. Government troops would have a column of vehicles, squads of men fanned out on the roadside, carriers. That sort of thing."

"Then who are they? Who's shooting at whom?" asked Ludwig, his voice anxious, unsteady.

"That's not really important. It's people we need to run away from, right now," Ethan said as he pulled out a Colt forty-five from his backpack and drived home a clip.

"You have a gun?" asked Ludwig, as if he had never imagined he'd see one up close. Ethan loaded a bullet in the chamber and clicked the safety on.

"It's American but it'll do nicely. Gather your people and just go. Pack nothing, just follow the ravine eastwards till nightfall. If all goes well, I'll try and meet up with you by morning. If not, wait it out another day before coming back," said Ethan with a grave expression. The echoes of gunfire grew apart in time.

"What? That's preposterous, we can't leave everything behind! What are you saying?" said Ludwig, arms raised in dubious protest. Another rattling sound echoed, this time stronger; closer than before. The sound of motors revved up high could be heard, faintly but clearly.

"I'm saying these folks are trigger-happy bastards. Can't guarantee they'll just take your stuff and leave."

Ethan felt like he had to shout to make the doctor listen:" You're wasting time, go! Now!"

Ludwig hesitated for just a single moment, but then ran to the door. He barely paused in his stride to ask:

"What about the wounded, and the sisters? What about you?"

Ethan wiped the sweat of his forehead, gun in hand: "I'll sell them bastards a front-page story they can't refuse. I'll do my best, promise. If it comes to it..." he said and nodded at the gun. "Now go!" he shouted. Ludwig nodded and ran off. He could be heard rousing people, urging them to put on their boots and just follow him. Dumbfounded, groggy voices mixed with the shuffling of feet, thuds and protests. From the sound of it though, they were on the move.

The gunshots could be heard, growing weaker and further apart. The fight was dying out. Ethan packed a couple of clips in an ankle pocket. He grabbed his Leica, and tucked the gun away in his trousers, behind his back. He went looking for Nicole; he knew that his real priority would be to keep the two of them alive, if it all came down to that.

The chanting from the church had stopped. A few of the sisters were crowded together outside the church doors. They stared through the wide open gate at the hazy hillside, as if waiting for some sign. Some were praying softly.

The sound of roaring motors had by now become clearly closer. Mingled with the sounds of churned dirt and gravel from the rovers' tires, it was an uneasy, threatening sound by its own. The absence of gunshots meant they were moving up towards the monastery again, unhintered.

Nicole rushed outside the small hall where the wounded and the sick lay. She was wearing a plain work apron, her hair tied in a bun. Ethan saw her then and rushed towards her, his camera swinging wildly from the strap around his neck. She barely seemed to take notice of him; she was staring at the shabby road and the approaching rovers with a cold, crisp fixation. Anger seethed clearly through her. Ethan told her with urgency in his voice:

"You need to keep calm. I think I can handle this. Follow my lead when you can, and don't just hand over everything. If they sense we're scared shitless, they'll stop at nothing. I'll try and sell them a news story, front page on the Times. You just stay firm. They might want to check up on the infirmary. Let them."

"Keep calm? That's your advice? Stay firm? What makes you think you can talk things over with them? We can't. We can't just talk."

Ethan was taken aback. It was an unwelcome surprise; he hadn't expected her to be so rigid. Feisty was one thing, but not playing ball when guns were involved was childish, even stupid and possibly lethal.

"Listen, the head doctor is already trying to make a run for it in the ravine. They've left everything behind. Maybe all that stuff from the caravan will be more than enough to keep them satisfied. There's morphine in there and lots of canned -"

"You think they're looking for a fix? And some corn beef? You just take care now, Ethan."

She gave Ethan a cold dismissive look and shook her head slightly, disapprovingly. Ethan frowned and was about to say something when a rover zipped past the gates haphazardly. A dozen men armed with AK-47s rode on the back, most of them wearing combat fatigues. Few piece of clothing matched their size, and most were certainly at least a size or two larger.

Only a couple of them wore shoddy boots; the rest rode barefoot. They had grim, lean faces. They were mostly skin and bones like on the edge of starvation, but their red-shot eyes shone with a cruel, alarming intensity. In the back of the faded green and grey rover lay two dead bodies, the white of their feet marred by the red of their blood.

The sisters stood motionless, following the example of the sister superior, who was looking at the band of marauding bandits with contempt that bordered on hate.

Another rover passed through the gate. It braked badly and skid for a few feet on the courtyard dirt. Another ten men, slightly yet markedly better fed, better equipped. Some wore sunglasses, some berets and caps. Ethan noticed a big brute of a man sitting in the co-driver's seat. Once everyone else had jumped off the rover, he stepped out. He was wearing spotless combat fatigues as if they had just been pressed. He wore the insignia of a Major. It was a good thing he didn't seem familiar at all.

"That's their leader; if we get to him, the rest will follow," he said to Nicole who was eyeing the bandits with seeping, fervent anger. She did not answer; she gave Ethan a sharp accusing look and simply turned away. The next moment she lost herself inside the impromptu hospital room.

Ethan called after her, but she ignored him. It was at that point when he attracted the attention of one of the armed men, who pointed his rifle at him and shouted something that Ethan couldn't clearly understand; it sounded like Igbo but not a dialect he could understand clearly.

Ethan put his hands up and grinned like an idiot, trying to look the part of a mildly insignificant, completely harmless fool of a journalist. The armed bandit was still aiming the rifle at him, shouting incoherently, looking back and forth nervously. Ethan thought it could be he was asking 'should I shoot him?'; it could be he was asking 'can I shoot him?'. It would've made little difference had that been the case though.

The burly man was overlooking the sisters with one hand cradling a short-barreled version of an AK-47; the paratrooper version. In his hands, it looked little more than a large handgun. He motioned with his free hand and half a dozen men fanned out by two's, going inside the rooms and halls on the west side of the monastery.

The rising heat added to the tension; Ethan was sweating. He was hoping Ludwig had gotten everybody out in time; more people would mean more problems to solve. He was also hoping Nicole wasn't thinking of doing anything stupid. Stupid tended to pile on stupid, and that tended to make people end up dead or worse.

He was searching for a sight of her, but to no avail; for the first time the thought entered his mind that perhaps she was already running away. It wouldn't help him much, but it wouldn't make things harder either.

Ethan's self-appointed guard had stopped shouting; now he was grinning, showing a cave of a mouth. He was still aiming his gun though, and Ethan thought it was time to make his move. He shouted, "Look, press!" and pointing at his Leica he reached with the other hand at his vest's chest pocket, fumbling for the press pass.

The guard instantly drew back the AKs loading arm carefully, waiting for Ethan to make the mistake of flinching. For a bunch of ragtag bandits, they exhibited quite the streak of a rather unexpected professionalism; stupid nervous people with guns would've shot him dead. Ethan glanced at the leader who was quietly coming his way, while the rest of his men loitered near the sisters pointing guns and casting leery glances. That man, Ethan thought, was probably the sole reason why these wretches behaved themselves almost like soldiers.

The leader approached Ethan pacefully, making sure his insignia was prominently visible. He silently reached at Ethan's vest pocket and pulled out his press pass, signed and stamped by the IPA and the UN in one of the British embassy's cultural attache's offices. The leader took a look at it and read aloud with a thick, grossly cacophonous accent:

"Richard Owls. London Times. Lost?" he asked with a grin that showed perfect white teeth and more than a couple of gold casings.

"Just doing a story," replied Ethan and added "Major, sir," with an afterthought, hoping to feed the man's ego. Indeed he smiled when he heard the rank, and offered Ethan his press pass back. He took a quick look around him, the sun glinting off his black raybans. Whoever the man was, he was turning in a profit, Ethan thought. When he spoke again, he wasn't smiling anymore:

"I'm a moody person. Lost two men on the way. Why are you here? What's so important about nuns?"

Ethan didn't have a very hard time faking intimidation. The man was imposing enough. Reminded him a bit of his friend James, only without the redeeming qualities. He replied with some difficulty, trying to find the words:

"The missionary work ... Taking care of people in the middle of a war. Their stoic manner; really good press back home. Good press anywhere, really. Takes the focus away from the british involvement, too. Wins points with my editor."

The brute looked at him as if examining a weird kind of exotic fly; it was a distant, focused stare. "Politics, journalists. Same shit, eh?" he said suddenly and laughed out loud all alone, his laughter echoing faintly in the relative silence of the monastery's courtyard.

"Just doing my job, major, sir," replied Ethan with a faint smile, his eyes still trying to steal a glimpse of Nicole; she must've really gone, he thought to himself.

The sisters were huddled close together, as if waiting for a verdict on them. The sister superior was eyeing him and the leader of the bandits intensely. Maybe she was thinking of doing something stupid herself. That would complicate things right when he was trying to achieve a sense of rapprochement, if anything like that could be achieved with the likes of these people.

"I'm no major, Dick. I'll call you Dick. No Major Yuembe anymore. I'm King, King Yuembe!" shouted the so-called Major, triumphantly raising both arms in the air. He fired off a couple of shots, eliciting a response of wild shots in the air from his men who cheered and eyed the sisters with venomous stares. They looked barely able to hold themselves; another example in forced discipline. He laughed heartily once more, before settling down his gaze towards Ethan once more. Ethan pitched the idea of the story he had been working on in his mind:

"I think you'd make the perfect story, really. I could show the world your living conditions, the way you're defending your freedom. Add a bit about your backstory, where you came from, what made you quit the army. It'd be a fantastic piece, a world first," Ethan said and aimed the camera at Yuembe. He took on a haughty pose like a model, indeed the kind of self-gratifying stance photographers tend to think is fit for nobility portraits. The camera clicked, and Ethan rolled the film a couple more times, taking a few more shots. Then Yuembe yanked the camera off its straps suddenly, and Ethan felt his plan wasn't working the way it should.

"I'll keep that film. I like pictures; but I don't like the publicity. Understand?"

Ethan nodded, frowning warily. He replied carefully:

"No problem. I can see it could hamper your activities; I can do a text piece only, full page with stock photos or something," he said, insisting on trying to stroke the man's ego. He knew it wouldn't work when the man took the film out of the camera and tucked it inside a pocket. He then just threw the camera away, breaking the lens. He then asked Ethan, edging his face closer to his the way a boxer might before a fight:

"You think we are freedom fighters?" he said through teeth almost clenched shut. Ethan's frown became a deep, long furrow. Looking distraught and casting glances around him, he looked completely at a loss. To complete the show, he said weakly:

"Well, of course."

Yuembe broke down in laughter and said something in that dialect Ethan couldn't quite get. All the men laughed along in earnest, pointing at Ethan like a freak exhibit. Maybe writing up a story wouldn't hold, but the stupid journalist ploy still had something in it, just maybe, Ethan thought to himself.

Some of the men that had been searching around the monastery called out, grabbing Yuembe's attention. They had found the caravan's Rovers and supplies. Yuembe and his men exchanged a few words from a distance, more like shouts. Then he picked a few of them by eyeing them alone, motioned with a hand and another half a dozen men left their guns behind. Soon they started loading the crates with the red cross first onto their own trucks.

The sister superior was talking with some sisters in a low-keyed voice; they seemed somewhat relieved. It was beginning to look like the bandits would simply loot what they could and leave. Organised and disciplined as they seemed to be, they were nothing more than dangerous, cruel thieves.

Yuembe then took out a camo pattern handkerchief and wiped the sweat from his brow. He took off his glasses and wiped the lenses as well; his round black eyes were big and calm, the eyelashes almost delicate. They belonged to a man who should've become an artist or a doctor, maybe even a priest. In any case, they didn't look like the kind of eyes that belonged to a professional lethal parasite.