Missionary
Created | Updated Jul 3, 2008
The missionary reluctantly waved goodbye to his guides. They had told him at the outset that they would go no further than this point. They had guided him through dark, impenetrable jungle as though it was a city high street. Without their help, he would have been hopelessly lost in this shadowy green hell, in no time at all. Four days trekking and hacking their way through areas of dense undergrowth had brought them to a wide, shallow river. Two more days, following this water course, should bring him to the village.
The tribe he had been sent to 'save' were head-hunters. So far, they had evaded all efforts by the church to make contact. They were ruthless warriors, feared and avoided by their neighbours. Three of his evangelising brothers had attempted to find them in the past couple of years. No word had ever come back from them. Perhaps they had set up the mission successfully but found communication with the outside world difficult. In that case, he could return to the coast, bringing news of their achievement.
At least he could see the sky now, trudging up the river. The sun was directly over head. It was hot and exhausting. His shirt and trousers were drenched with sweat. Sweat poured down his face and neck. He stooped frequently to drink the clear, cool water, occasionally scooping it up in his hat and pouring it over his head and shoulders.
It was easier walking along the river. There were far fewer obstructions. After a while his mind began to wander. He thought about his grandfather. He remembered hurrying along this very stretch of river, his little legs having to run in order to keep up with his grandfather's long strides. It was just like this: the water moving slowly, sparkling in the sunlight, here and there dead leaves floating by or spinning in eddies. Grandfather was the village shaman. They paused from time to time at some tree or landmark for grandfather to explain the magical significance of this totem, the medicinal virtue of that bark. He smiled as he remembered the old man's careful, conscientious teaching. It was a struggle for him, but he regarded it as a grave responsibility to pass on the knowledge to his only surviving grandchild. The ancestors would be angry if the family tradition was allowed to die. The tribe would be lost without a shaman.
The missionary stopped suddenly. He had never been to this place before in his life. He was an American. His grandfathers had died when he was an infant and he had no memory of them. The memories of being taught the shamanic knowledge by that dear old man - a man of a different culture, race and colour, were so vivid that he was shaken. It must have been a vision, he decided. The experience was not unpleasant. Its purpose must be to give him some insight into the way of life of these simple people and their childish belief system. He felt re-assured and offered up a prayer of thanks before resuming his journey.
As the sky began to darken, he started to look for a suitable camp site for the night. By the time he found a flat, dry area, a couple of feet above river level, stars had begun to twinkle in the clear, navy blue strip of sky that was visible above the winding water course. He gathered a pile of dry wood and lit a fire to keep away the wild cats, pigs and mosquitoes and to make some soup from his dried rations. Sitting on his ground-sheet, watching the dancing flames, his mind wandered through the jungle. He was hunting with his tribe, silently stalking the little monkeys, blow-pipe at the ready. His father had been killed on just such a hunt. A panther had suddenly sprung upon him. A tear tracked down his cheek at the memory.
This time he felt physically sick as he came out of the 'vision'. He was that hunter. He felt the dry leaves and soil beneath his feet, the barely stirring air about his naked loins, the sights and smells and emotions of the hunt - the excitement, the sorrow. It was all so real! But they were someone else's memories. It terrified him because, while he was experiencing those memories, they were his memories! Again he calmed himself by reasoning that it must be a gift from God. It would ease his first meeting with these fierce people if he understood something about them.
He ate his bread and soup, erected his mosquito net and tried to sleep. It took a long time for sleep to take him and then his dreams were invaded by the life experiences of that shaman. He was repeatedly half woken by jungle noises. Then, while it was still dark, he was woken fully, by a noise that was so sinister, it made him sit up with a start. Something was crouching in the undergrowth, not ten yards away. He heard the quiet rustle, saw the leaves quiver in the moonlight, reflected off the water. Peering intently into the black beneath the rustling canopy, he saw two luminous eyes stare back at him for a moment, then disappear.
After that he dared not sleep again. He built up the fire and sat with his back to a tree, straining to hear and interpret every small noise. At last, the sky began to lighten and he felt able to relax his vigil. Exhausted after his disturbed night, his eye lids drooped and sleep overcame him once more. It was a false dawn. Some terrible power drew him into regions of darkness where evil waited. He felt a hungry malice creeping towards his helpless body, intent on devouring his very soul.
Like a blind automaton, he rose to his feet and tottered up the slope, away from the river. Sleep had him in a death lock. His body thrashed its way through the pathless undergrowth while his mind sank deeper into the black nightmare that felt so real. Near the top of the slope was a great, gnarled old tree. Its roots, exposed for two metres above the forest floor, arched over a hole in the ground - the narrow opening of a vast cave complex. Arranged around it, like the display of a bower bird, were fetishes and sacrifices. A foetid stench hung over the place. The chill air rising out of the hole was rank. His body collapsed beside the opening, like another one of the sacrifices, while his paralysed mind sank into the freezing black depths of the hole.
When he woke, he found himself suspended almost upside-down, at an angle of perhaps 140 degrees. It was hard to tell with any measure of certainty in the pitch black. He tried to move but his arms, legs and torso were gripped tightly on all sides by rock. Only his head could move and that seemed to be hanging free in a vast open space. Panic made ordered thought impossible for some considerable time. Gradually the turmoil of his mind abated and he tried to assess his position.
But try as he might, he could not understand how he came to be in this dreadful place. He remembered his disturbed night and finally falling asleep against the tree. He remembered the visions and the terrifying dreams. But he could not remember leaving the riverside and coming here. 'Here' was obviously some sort of cave. He guessed he must have sleep-walked and been knocked unconscious falling into it. But he didn't feel concussed. He felt... different.
How long had he been trapped here? He felt parched, but noticed the place was damp and water was dripping past his head. By moving it slightly, he could catch the drips. And he was starving hungry. Literally starving hungry. Messages of pain poured in from every nerve. Joints, muscles and organs were all in revolt. He groaned and attempted to shift just a fraction. Wriggling his body, he felt his naked shoulders, ribs and pelvis, sharp and hard against the rough rock surface. All his clothes were gone. How could that have happened? With an effort, he pushed down his rising sense of dread, trying once more to focus his mind.
He was not a fat man, but neither was he an ascetic. It felt as though there was no flesh on his bones. With his arms pinned at his sides, it was difficult to explore this phenomenon much further. It was just possible to examine his outer thighs - and they felt thin and emaciated. He explored his mouth with his tongue and found that he was missing several teeth that had been present when he fell asleep. The gaps were not the raw, ragged wounds where teeth had recently been torn or knocked out. They had been gone for some time - years, he would have judged, if he hadn't known better. Also, it didn't feel or taste like his mouth. It tasted foul. The smell and taste of ketosis tainted his exhalations - a sign that the body was burning itself up for fuel. But the taste of decaying teeth in a mouth that had not been rinsed for days, was worse.
A cold current of air blew up through the fissure in which he was trapped. It occurred to him that, if he was very deep in the Earth, it should be far warmer than this, therefore he couldn't be very far below the surface. For a moment, the thought gave him some comfort - how ever irrational. But there was something about the quality of this air current, besides its physical chill, that stirred an untapped reservoir of fear within him. It carried a very distinctive scent and an atmosphere that penetrated deep into a primitive area of his brain, that recognised in it a danger unknown in the civilised realm from which this missionary hailed. He stifled a desire to scream, not wishing to excite the unseen fiend. Of one thing he felt certain: he already had its attention. It was waiting for him to give the signal.
There was only one thing he could do. He prayed. With all his small remaining might, he blasted forth his petition and begged for respite, rescue, mercy, forgiveness and spiritual strength.
And his prayer was heard. The response came quickly. The solid black darkness around his head rushed in: into his head, his eyes his nose and mouth - and sucked him out of the body that trapped him. It was the wrong god! -- Not his god, but the god of this place.
The old shaman found himself slumped before the cavernous maw of the dark god's lair. Free at last. He could not have kept the desolate one at bay another day. His strength was almost at its end. His magic had grown weak along with his body.
The ancestors could not enter into the place where his enemy had pushed him. Had the dark taken him, he would not have joined them. Not ever!
The only thing that could persuade the soul eater to control its terrible hunger and allow the wretched, starving shaman to keep his essence for one more day, was the promise of a substitute - a stranger who had never paid respect or homage to the dark power. The shaman had concentrated all his waning potency on drawing the missionary to him - and projecting his own life force into the mind of that alien intruder.
And the man had not arrived a moment too soon. Already he liked his new body. It was very much more comfortable than the one he had just left.
His next problem would be convincing his tribe of his true identity, before they could put a dart in his neck and shrink his head. After that, he would take great pleasure in hunting down his would-be assassin.
