The Quest

The land sloped gently down, and the trees became taller, and the canopy became thicker. After a while, Purcell noticed that the ground was becoming soft and spongy as though they were entering a marsh or a swamp.

The trail was no longer defined by walls of vegetation, but it was discernible if you looked ahead and saw the slight difference in the ground where it had been walked on.

Mercado said, “I don’t see a stream.”

Purcell did not reply, and neither did Vivian. They continued on.

The ground was definitely spongy now, and Purcell could see changes in the landscape. Huge banyan trees started to appear, as well as swamp cedar and cypress, which he remembered from the swamps of Southeast Asia.

The land was sloping more steeply now, and Purcell guessed they were entering the bottom drainage basin from the Simien Mountains, which he’d noticed in the air and on the map but which they had not thought to consider as a place where the black monastery could be.

In retrospect, he realized that they had been… maybe mesmerized by Father Armano and his story, and the priest had given them information, but not knowledge. He had told them enough to put them on the trail, but not enough to bring them to the end of it. They had to do that on their own. And if indeed they were chosen, then they would be guided on the right path.

Purcell looked around him. The terrain appeared deceptively pleasant and sylvan, but he could now see pools of water filled with marsh fern on both sides of their disappearing path. Marsh gasses rose in misty clouds, and the air was becoming hot and fetid. Wispy strands of gray moss hung from the tree limbs, and he noticed that there were a lot of dead trees, and creeping marshwort ran over the deadwood on the wet ground. Huge, silent black birds sat on bare tree limbs and seemed to be watching them as they passed. He realized that the marsh was much quieter than the jungle, and there were almost no sounds from insects or birds. A sense of foreboding came over him, but he said nothing and they pressed on.

The land seemed to be bottoming out and becoming a true swamp, and Purcell wondered if this was passable. He also wondered if they were going in the right direction. The path had disappeared, but there was a meandering ribbon of spongy higher ground that passed through the swampy expanse of terrain. The mud was sucking at their boots, and Vivian took off her boots and socks and walked barefoot through the muck. Purcell and Mercado did the same.

Vivian noticed now that Purcell had blood on his pant leg, and she asked him, “Did you get hit there?”

“I’m fine.”

“Let me see that.”

“I’ve already seen it.”

She insisted they stop, and Purcell sat on the trunk of a fallen tree while Vivian knelt in the mud, extended Purcell’s leg, and examined his wound.

He said, “It’s really okay.”

She had an iodine bottle in her pocket and she dabbed some of it on his wound, then sat beside him on the tree trunk.

They looked around at the swamp. Without saying it, they all knew that Father Armano had never mentioned a swamp.

Vivian said to Mercado, “Sit down, Henry.”

He sat slowly on the tree trunk and grimaced in pain.

Purcell said, “I think I left a piece of metal in you.”

“Indeed you did.”

They all smiled, but it was a tired and forced smile. The shock and horror of what had happened was still very much with them, and it was time to say something.

Purcell said to them, “Edmund Gann was a very brave man.”

Mercado said, “He was a soldier and a gentleman… a knight.”

Vivian said, “I know that he is with Miriam now.”

“Indeed he is,” Mercado said.

Vivian put her arm around Purcell and squeezed him closer to her. “You are a very brave man, Frank Purcell.” She told Henry, “He threw himself over me when the hand grenade exploded.”

Mercado nodded.

Vivian put her hand on Mercado’s shoulder. “What did you say to Getachu in Amharic?”

“The usual-that his mother was a diseased prostitute who should have smothered him at birth.”

Vivian said, “A bit rough, Henry.” She smiled.

Mercado said, “I hope he is now burning in hell.”

No one spoke for a minute, then Mercado asked Vivian, “Do you still have Father Armano’s skull?”

“I do.”

“Well, we are going to take him where he wanted to go.” He stood. “Ready?”

Vivian and Purcell stood, and Vivian assured them, “The stream is ahead of us.”

They continued on.

The ground was rising now, and the marshland was again turning to tropical jungle. What looked like a beaten path began to materialize in front of them.

Vivian suddenly stopped and said, “Listen.”

They stopped and listened, but neither Purcell nor Mercado could hear anything.

Mercado asked, “What do you hear?”

“Water.” She moved to her right and the men followed.

Running down the slope was a small stream, choked with water lilies and vines. It was, Purcell thought, a stream from the hills that emptied into the marsh basin.

Vivian knelt down and put her hand into the flowing water. She turned to Purcell and Mercado, silently inviting them to do the same.