The Abyssinian Boy
Prologue
Lagos
Saturday, April 15
11.30 pm
The wind surged in from the silver-framed windows of St. Peter's Church, and the trees shuddered outside, with their voices rising to sing some solemn songs. Then, Reverend Father Mallory Harcourt, gently crawled in, with his cassock dripping with blood. He had wide cuts in his head-Blood were streaming from each corner of his body. From the head to the toes. He struggled, crawling towards the altar.
The night was impenetrably dark, except for the light produced by the fluorescents in the church auditorium. He moved, little by little, still the blood dripped. He was feeling an insatiable pain, that he knew would never be healed. He had bruises all over his face, and his eyes scurried around, as he marched.
Behind him, were two men in dark suits. He knew his time had come, but he never believed that he would ever die at twenty-seven. If someone had told him, he would never believe it. He tried all he could to get hold of the altar rails, where he had normally given candidates Holy Communion. He'd already gone to take his, but there was no presiding priest at the altar to give it to him. He thought so much.
Why do they want to kill me this Easter eve? The French born Priest thought.
As he held the rails strongly, the two men stood watching him in stunned silence. He did not want to turn to them and apologise. All he wanted to do was to make sure that he had his communion, and then, face whatever was on his way. He was determined to die. But he was not dying as a martyr, he knew that.
One of the men spoke, probably, the darker one. 'You don't want to tell us why you have chosen to do this?'
But he remained silent.
Because he knew that someone else knew of what he was doing. So, there was nothing to fear. He kept silent, even when the other one, who looked hellish like Goliath spoke, he kept silent.
'Bastard!' He was hit at the back, and he drabbled and held the rails again. Maybe, he thought as Christ died and rose, so was he. Obviously, he'd made the greatest mistake of his life, and he was regretting it.
'I am sorry', he began to apologise. That was for the first time.
Peradventure, they had beaten the shit out of his mouth, so he had no other alternative, than to apologise, for them to let him go. Honestly, he was dying; dying like a horse. He fell around, staggered and got to his knees like a praying mantis would do. He was tired, and still, the men were determined to do that to him.
'Why, Mallory?' It sounded like they knew him. But why were they beating him like a beast? No one could say.
'I am apologetic', he repeated. No one listened to him. Definitely, all they wanted was to waste him, and they were so much determined to do it.
He fell to their feet. He wasn't dead. They knew that, because if he were dead, they'd know, and if he were not, they'd know. It was certain. He was also breathing, that was how he spoilt every arrangement he might have made to disguise like a dead person. He was not intelligent. He was a fool. No one would ever behave the way he did. He could have done something else, but his brain was plastered with imbecility.
The man, who had questioned him earlier, held out a pistol, tilted it and smiled at him, while his head was resting at his foot.
Mallory had seen the gun, and he was ready to go. 'I have no fear anymore'. He had said. Seriously, he was a fool. He never thought. He was asking death to come and pull him away. He never behaved like a Saint. At the least, he could have prayed for his soul to be accepted. He did not, rather, he was there priding like a bastard, because he thought God was going to embrace him into His Kingdom.
'I have pity on you, Mallory'. The other spoke for the first time. 'I don't want to waste you'.
Yes. It had been said. They wanted to waste him, by all means.
'I have lived a life full of misery', Mallory explained. 'I can't have more of this humiliation anymore. I am more of a dying man'.
'Think!' His humiliation sounded. Those men were. They were his humiliation. 'You should think and let your soul be saved'.
'What do you want me to say?' The young dying man said. 'I have nothing else to say, but that I never meant to do what I did'.
'Tell me', one of them began. 'Who else knows about this? Just tell us. You will be saved'.
But there was silence.
He did not want to say anything. He was trying to listen to the drums of death. He never wanted to say it. He was there to die, and not to say things. He was not going to let this secret that he began open. He was determined to go, without telling anything. But he was a fool. He never thought, that was his problem. Still, he never wanted to say.
'Young man', the man, who might be his junior continued. 'We just don't want to waste your life for anything. You are so important to Christ. Are you not?'
'I am', Mallory said, breathing less. 'Ne me tuez pas. Le Christ est dans moi. Et il demeure dans moi pour toujours et jamais. Amen !'
What is he saying? One of them thought.
Father Mallory had said it all. He had cadged for forgiveness; begging not to be killed. He rose gradually and fed his eyes on the sanctuary lamp, which lit on the Eucharist table in the altar. He still repeated everything he'd said. That Christ lived in him. And that he lived in him forever and ever, then, ending it with a loud, 'Amen!'
He never thought like a human being.
'Talk, beast!'
They dragged him towards the altar. Like a goat being tethered to the market. They never genuflect. He tried doing it, but he was like a goat. He knew it. They wanted to slash his throat; that was if they had knives and all whatnot. He never saw any altar rails to hold again. He was baseless and supports less. That was going to be his end, and his stories were going to be told to all nations.
He thought like that.
And that made him a fool.
He held out a huge rosary, and looked up to the Cross. The men knew what he wanted to do. So, they left him to do it, so that he could think that he died, a saint. He made the sign of the Cross, and read the Apostles' Creed. That was funny, the wicked men thought. But they did not show their jeers. They only looked at each other and smiled.
He held out a bead and said a prayer. That was Our Lord's Prayer. And he continued, with Hail Mary...and his voice tithed the cold night. He was alone; of course, no one was going to know how he died. That was certain. But they would know that he might have been killed by some stupid idiots.
They were becoming impatient when he said the mysteries and was mumbling some words, which to them were meaningless, and they were not going to entertain such mess anymore. They sighed. He knew the twelfth hour was approaching. He said Our Father...Who art in Heaven...Hallow...this and that...It was taking long, because he wanted to complete all. He was praying one one Hail Mary on each of the ten beads, and these men had being infuriated.
But still, they wanted the clock to ring twelve.
And then, he said the Glory Be...He then, announced the second mystery, reflected on it and said Our Father...And he knew they were angry, but he wanted to finish with his God first. These were what he did, until, one of them held him up and said, 'Fuckin' monkey. Get up and lets put your soul to rest since you don't wanna tell us why you tried doing this'.
But he did not respond.
He was a dumb fool. They did not know that. He only turned to them, when he had reached the end of the Rosary, where the medal connected with some of the beads, and he said the Hail Holy Queen...and then said, 'Mes tueurs!' He continued, 'I owe you no more. You can take whatever you want from me. I owe you no-'
They dragged him towards the Cross and held his head down. He was breathing less, like a dying dog, swirling his legs in the air, then, howling and barking out of exasperation. Obviously, he was a rabid dog now, because he couldn't find his voice, his footsteps and everything he had as a human. He was tired. So tired to do anything. He did not know what to do. He was so tired.
'Mallory', one of them called him, so friendly, as if they were going to spare him. And he looked up at them. 'We can only spare you, if you tell us, why you have done this'.
'I did it...' he stammered. Now he was saying something. No one knew if he was lying or saying the truth, but the real thing, was that he was even talking. '...because I feel that...'
And he fell to the ground.
The two men stood in stunned silence, looked at themselves and became angry. They frowned so badly. They wanted to shoot the dead man. He was dead, but they wanted to kill him. Immediately, they scurried around, and as they started walking towards the door, that led to the outside of the church building, a young boy of about seventeen stood hands akimbo, watching them.
'Get that idiot!' one of them said, and the boy was gone.
They'd made a deadly mistake. They were in a uniform, which depicted whom they were. And the boy knew them. He was not going to be an idiot like Mallory. He was going to be responsible.
They ran after him-searched for the slim, but well-built young man that had stood at the large framed door of the church. In that place, lay someone, who was so foolish. He was now lying down there, waiting for the miracle to come. The two men were also disappointed. They had been seen. By a young man, who might be talkative. They could not find him.
And he was gone.
Short story by Onyeka Nwelue
Read 647 times
Written on 2006-04-26 at 11:56
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