Pretty Priestly

My eyes flicked around the clearing. A saw, hammer, a pair of trousers and a shirt were hanging from a line - whoever was living here, he was clearly not a native. But what would a European, or even a Brazilian, be doing living out here?

Karim seemed to have similar thoughts. ‘What is this place?' he rumble-whispered. ‘What kind of man would come to live out here, all alone?'

‘A madman,' Mr Ambrose told us succinctly.

‘Mad?' I stared at him. ‘And you didn't think to mention this before we came here?'

‘No. Let's see if he is at home.'

Mr Ambrose marched forward, seeming not the least bit disturbed by the continued metallic noises from inside the cabin.

‘Father?' he called.

My eyes almost bugged out of my sockets.

‘His father lives here?' I hissed to Karim, who seemed to be having equal difficulties with coming to grips with the situation. ‘And he's off his rocker?'

But my theory was crushed a moment later when the curtain in the cabin's doorway was swept aside and out stepped a man in a black robe, holding a rusty goblet in his hand. The man's wide, blinking eyes fell on Mr Ambrose.

‘Oh meu deus! Visitors? And English ones to boot! Now, this is a surprise. You must excuse me, Senhores, I was scraping the rust off the chalice.' He raised the goblet. ‘I am afraid I did not hear you approach.'

I stared at the man. It took a few moments to sink in, but then I finally realised: that black robe he was wearing wasn't a robe. It was a cassock. The man was a priest. A young, wide-eyed, beardless little scrap of a priest with half a nervous smile on his face and a receding hairline, although he couldn't have been older than twenty-five. If anyone had wanted to capture the perfect platonic idea of the word ‘harmless', the incarnation of harmlessness so to speak, this was what it would look like.

‘That is the mysterious "he"?' I whispered, gesturing at the little bald man. ‘He is supposed to be dangerous? He doesn't look as if he could squash a mosquito!'

Karim shrugged. ‘I do not know the Sahib's business. I do not question the Sahib.'

‘No, of course you don't.'

But I was going to do a hell of a lot of questioning!

The priest was smiling at Mr Ambrose now. Somehow, despite being faced by my employer's cold eyes, he seemed to be labouring under the misapprehension that having visitors was a good thing. But that misapprehension wouldn't last long. It was time to step in, both to save the poor priest from getting squashed, and to find out what the hell was going on here.

‘Excuse me,' I began, stepping out of the shadow of the trees and curtsying to the priest. ‘I know it is very impolite of us to come unannounced to your, um…home like this, but-'

I didn't get any further.

‘Santa Maria!' The priest stumbled back, staring at me, eyes wide. He raised a shaking finger to point. ‘La puta de Babilonia!'

I leaned over to Mr Ambrose. ‘What did he say?'

‘You don't want to know.'

Slowly, his eyes fixing on me one moment, then flickering away the next, the priest sank to his knees.

‘Pai nosso, que estais no céu

Santificado seja o Vosso nome…'

I leaned closer to Mr Ambrose. ‘Is that how priests normally greet visitors in Brazil?'

‘I don't think so.'

The priest let his eyes flicker to me again - then abruptly pressed them shut, and folded his hands in front of his chest.

‘…Venha a nós o Vosso reino,

Seja feita a Vossa vontade,

Assim na terra como no céu…'

‘Is he…praying?'

‘I believe so, Mr Linton.'

One of the priest's eyes opened a fraction of an inch, caught sight of me, still standing there in my shift - and abruptly snapped shut again!

‘…O p?o nosso de cada dia nos dai hoje.

Perdoai as nossas ofensas,

Assim como nós perdoamos a quem nos tem ofendido…'

‘What is he praying about?'

Was I mistaken, or was there a slight glint in Mr Ambrose's eyes as he turned to me and let his gaze rake over me?

‘Right now, Mr Linton, I believe he is praying not to be led into temptation.'

His gaze swept over me again, meaningfully.

‘What? Oh. Oh! You don't mean he-'

‘In my experience, Mr Linton, devout priests seldom get visits from scantily dressed young ladies.'

‘…E n?o nos deixeis cair…'

I glared at Mr Ambrose, then at the priest, who was still kneeling, his hands clutched tightly together, his eyes shut even more tightly.

‘Hey, you!'

He ignored me.

‘…em tenta??o,

Mas livrai-nos do mal,

Amém.

Pai nosso, que estais no céu

Santificado seja o Vosso nome…'

‘Is he starting all over again?'

‘Priests have been known to recite the Lord's Prayer up to thirty times in a row, especially in situations of carnal temptation.'

‘Carnal temp- I'll give him carnal temptation!'

Fuming, I marched over to the young man kneeling on the ground.

‘…Venha a nós o Vosso reino,

Seja feita a Vossa vontade…'

‘Hey, you!'

‘…Assim na terra como no céu.

O p?o nosso de cada dia nos dai hoje…'

‘I'm talking to you! Open your peepers!'

‘…Perdoai as nossas ofensas,

‘Assim como nós perdoamos a quem nos tem ofendido.

E n?o nos deixeis cair em tenta??o…'

‘I'm not going to bloody tempt you! I don't even want to tempt you! And trust me, you most certainly don't want to be tempted by me!'

‘Mas livrai-nos do mal,

Amém.

Pai nosso, que estais no céu…'

‘Are your ears corked or something?'

‘…Santificado seja o Vosso nome,

Venha a nós o Vosso reino…'

I decided that extreme measures were necessary. Taking a few determined steps, I positioned myself behind the priest.

‘Mr Linton?' Mr Ambrose stepped forward. ‘What are you doing?'

‘Getting this gentleman's attention,' I told him, and booted the priest firmly in the backside. He ended his prayer in a yelp and flew forward, landing face first in the mud. Spitting out dirt and a few surprised bugs, he rolled around to stare up at me with a mixture of horror and incredulity.

‘You…you are real?'

‘As real as it bloody gets!'

The priest's eyes wandered up and down my figure, cautiously.

‘You are not a figment of my sinful, lust-filled imagination?'

‘Would a figment of your sinful imagination have kicked you in the behind?'

‘Um…probably not.'

‘There you are.'

‘But…but…' The priest's eyes didn't seem to be able to make up their minds whether they wanted to fasten on me or jump out of his head and run away as fast as possible. They flickered back and forth with amazing speed. It wasn't really as if he wanted to stare. It was more as if he really, really didn't, but had to, just in order to make sure that what he was seeing was really there. ‘But you're a senhora, a lady in a…a nightshirt!'

He looked as if he felt sinful even saying the word. I hurried to reassure him.

‘Oh, that's not a nightshirt. It's a chemise. You know, it's what women usually have under all their other clothing during the day. You just don't usually see it, unless they take everything else off.'

This didn't seem to reassure him a lot.

‘Pai nosso, que estais no céu

Santificado seja o Vosso nome,

Venha a nós o Vosso reino…'

‘Are you starting with that again? I thought we had established that I am not a satanic vision sent to tempt you.'

‘I would not be so sure about that, if I were you,' Karim advised the priest.

‘Oh, shut up, you!'

For the first time, the priest noticed the third member of our little band. His jaw dropped in horror. ‘A heathen!'

Karim gave him a hard stare. ‘That's a matter of opinion, Kafir.'[17]

‘Deus, me ajude!' The priest's eyes flickered fearfully from me to Mr Ambrose to Karim, and back to me again. ‘What kind of embassy from the pit has come to tempt me off the path of righteousness?'

‘A very busy one.' Mr Ambrose stepped forward. ‘So, if you'll just give us what I told you we want, father, we'll be out of your hair.' He eyed the priest's receding hairline. ‘Inasmuch as you still have any.'

Grabbing the doorframe of his little hut, the priest pulled himself up on his feet again. His gaze went from me to Mr Ambrose once more, and he seemed to realise that we were not about to try and tempt him into satanic rituals.

‘Ehem.' He did his best to rally. ‘You should not seek what you want, my son. For, as the Evangelist Timothy says, the desire of money is the root of all evils; which some coveting have erred from the faith, and have entangled themselves in…'

‘Why don't you just get on with your praying and we'll get on with our coveting?' Mr Ambrose cut him off. ‘We won't take up much of your time. We only need directions.'

‘Directions? Um…I see. Well.' The priest seemed to be floundering, abruptly cut off in his delivery. But he caught himself tolerably well. ‘Err…certainly. As you wish. Who am I to deny you help in finding your way? For, as the good book says Show, O Lord, thy ways to me, and teach me thy paths. Direct me in thy truth, and teach me; for thou art God my Saviour; and on thee have I…'

‘Yes, quite, quite. Can we get on with it, father?'

‘Err…yes. Certainly, yes. Please, come into my humble abode, and we will discuss everything like civilised men.'

‘And women!' I added sharply.

The priest's eyes slid over me in my ragged, stained chemise, rather doubtfully. ‘Um…yes. Civilised women. Of course. Please, follow me.'

*~*~**~*~*

We followed Father Marcos, for that was his name, into the little two-room cabin, where he served us a meal of corn bread, water and biblical quotations. Except for the fact that he repeatedly tried to foist clothes on me which, really, in this hot weather, were completely unnecessary, he was a model host. I had figured out by now that Father Marcos was not our final destination. It hadn't really been hard. I remembered Mr Ambrose's words exactly.

We'll be going deep into potential enemy territory, giving ourselves into the power of people we don't know and cannot trust.

Father Marcos looked as hostile as Baby Jesus and as untrustworthy as St Peter waiting for you with a smile at the gates of Heaven. Whoever we must be headed towards, it was not Father Marcos. Oh no, he was just supposed to point us in the right direction - a fact that puzzled me exceedingly. How could anyone as harmless and as peaceful as this little priest know anyone dangerous and wily enough to make Mr Rikkard Ambrose hesitate?

I wasn't going to find out any time soon. After the meal, when I was ready to start pelting Mr Ambrose and the priest with questions, Mr Ambrose rose abruptly and tugged him off into the next room. Father Marcos looked only too happy to be dragged out of sight of female temptation. The moment the door shut behind them, I sprang up and ran over to it, pressing my ear against the rough wooden planks.

‘Have you no shame?' demanded Karim's outraged voice from behind me.

‘Psht!' I waved him away. ‘I'm trying to listen!'

Karim grumbled a bit more, but finally shut up when I sent him a glare. However, even when he was silent, I couldn't hear what was said on the other side. The wood was surprisingly thick, and both men kept their voices down. When the priest's cassock rustled, announcing their return, I moved with heavenly swiftness, and by the time they re-entered the room, I was sitting at the table, smiling like an angel. Or maybe like an Ifrit with experience as a con artist, depending on your view of things. Who cared?

‘We're leaving,' Mr Ambrose announced. ‘Now. Father Marcos will show us the way.'

I noticed that, even under his tan, Father Marcos paled at the words. But he didn't object either. It seemed that whatever he was afraid of at the end of our journey, Mr Ambrose was more than a match in the fear department.

‘Y-yes,' he agreed. ‘I'll be showing you the way.' He brightened a little. ‘And maybe I can convince you to search your souls, and help you find not only the path to what you are seeking, but also the path to righteousn-'

Mr Ambrose's hard stare made him cut off in mid-sentence.

‘You will show us the way,' my dear employer repeated. ‘In a literal, non-biblical sense.'

‘Of course, Sir. Certainly, Sir.'