THAT EVENING AFTER AN early dinner, Abelard dismissed Jerry and the other recruits to their rooms. “It’s been a long day,” he said, “and a stressful night is coming.” He flashed an approximation of a smile. “While we make preparations get some rest gentlemen. Reflect on your pledge and await our summons.”
While we make preparations…preparations for what? Jerry closed his eyes, his mind a whirl of ill-defined and overlapping images and thoughts -the Gullah Henry, the vulture-like thing sliding from the shadows, Bodien, the pledge.
Jerry was startled awake by a knock on the door. One of Stiediger’s men was there. “I’ve been sent to collect you and the others,” he said in a heavily accented voice. “Drs. Abelard, Neisen and Stiediger will meet you on the boat.”
They pulled away from Haig Point into Calibogue Sound with Henry at the helm of Stiediger’s sports fisherman. As it picked up speed, its wake flashed silver in the moonlight. Through the cabin windows, Jerry could see the lights of Sea Pines Plantation twinkling dimly all the way out to the point where the sound kissed the Atlantic.
“We should be at Bloody Point in a few minutes,” Abelard said. “Henry assures me it’s an excellent place for night fishing. He says we will go a mile or so into the Atlantic then turn back and begin laying a chum line. With the tide coming in, it should draw some big ones to our bait.”
Jerry looked across the cabin where Stiediger and Neisen sat and saw them exchange knowing glances. What seemed an afterthought remark by Abelard this afternoon now came back to Jerry as a witch’s cauldron filled with ominous possibilities. If you agree to join us, you will seal your vows tonight.
All seemed anxious to join and quickly expressed willingness to make whatever vow was required. Like the others, he had seen vow taking as a mere formality, a quaint rite of passage, borrowed from a time long ago. But now?
Now he saw fear written on their faces. They probably see it on mine as well, he thought. They know now there is no turning back, that the vows are serious with a deadly price to pay if they are broken. Proof lay sprawled at their feet where Father Henrì Bodien lay bound and gagged.
The opulent stateroom of polished woods, chrome and leather in Jerry’s fevered imagination had become a medieval torture chamber. As in a dream, he heard Henry announce they were passing Bloody Point and would soon be ready to turn about and begin laying down the chum line.
“De guts be ready in de stern,” he said looking over his shoulder at Stiediger.
“Right.” He motioned toward the rear of the boat. “Get to the stern. Abelard’s bodyguards moved away from the hatch and took up their positions. “Begin dipping out the chum when Henry gives the word,” he ordered.
Across the cabin, Jerry saw Stiediger move to a locker and remove a large rod and reel. He stripped line from the reel and fed it through the rod’s eyelets. From a nearby cabinet, he retrieved a huge stainless steel hook, swivel, and several feet of steel leader.
Panic pounded on the door of his mind as he glanced at the other recruits. All were watching in morbid fascination as the German tied the hook and leader together, attached the rig to the line, and took a seat near where Bodien lay.
One of the recruits gasped as Stiediger began to dangle the hook’s needle-sharp point before the Priest’s terrified eyes.
His look of terror and the wild gyrations of his head as he tried to avoid the hook caused an immediate change in the German’s manner. He was no longer the stiff and formal man Spencer had met that morning. Now he was like a wild animal toying with its prey, as he swung the hook closer and closer to the Priest’s face.
Back and forth, back and forth, the hook’s movement was hypnotic. Bodien’s muffled scream suddenly broke the spell. The poor man had jerked his head away just as the hook brushed his nose, misjudged its position, and succeeded in driving it past its barb, deep into his cheek.
Jerry’s head spun. As if on a merry-go-round, he whirled past Neisen who pointed and laughed at the Priest’s shocked expression. Another turn and Abelard appeared, sitting toad-like on a chair, his eyes empty of feeling, watching as Bodien struggled helplessly.
The room turned full circle and Stiediger reappeared tightening, then releasing, the tension on the fishing line. Bodien tried to scream through his gag as the hook dug deeper and deeper into his cheek with each click of the reel.
“Careful, Eric,” Abelard said, with an easy casualness usually reserved for dinner conversation, “Henrì will need all his strength for the battle.” He held out his hand to Stiediger. “Pass me some pliers from your tackle box, and then be kind enough to get me a damp cloth.”
Stiediger laid down the rod, pulled a pair of pliers from a drawer, handed them to Abelard, and then went to the head for a towel.
“Mr. Spencer.” Abelard motioned toward a newspaper beside him on the seat. “Please pass that paper to me. We wouldn’t want Bodien bleeding all over the carpet of our host’s lovely boat.”
His hand trembled as he passed the paper to Abelard who acknowledged his nervousness by saying, “the path of progress, dear boy, is sprinkled with blood,” as he adjusted the paper under the Priest’s head. “I believe the Bible says ‘without the shedding of blood, there is no remission of sin’ or some such drivel.”
He managed a little chuckle as he took the pliers, bent and grasped the hook’s curve and with one quick jerk tore it free, along with a small patch of Bodien’s skin.
The Priest was choking as he tried to scream through the gag.
“There, there Bodien.” Abelard patted the Priest gently on the head. “There’s no need for this,” he said, pulling the gag from his mouth. “At this hour we’re quite alone out here on the water. No one but God can hear you.”
Bodien gasped as he turned his bloodied face away from his tormentor.
His grimace of pain reminded Jerry of Abelard’s lurid description this afternoon of the torture the Templar endured.
Abelard had become the black-robed inquisitor he had described torturing a man strapped to a wooden frame.
For a moment, he broke the nightmare’s grip and looked at the other recruits. Their expressions told him the horrible vision was his alone just as Abelard turned and flashed him a yellow-toothed grin. Now, instead of pliers, he held a glowing poker in his hands!
The body of the poor man on the frame was a patchwork of seared and mutilated flesh, his stomach a seeping, red, raw mass, with his peeled back skin hanging apron-like across his groin. His terrified eyes bulged from their sockets as they watched his tormentor bring the poker nearer and nearer.
Abelard leaned over the helpless man. “Tell me,” he said gently, “I cannot ease your pain unless you tell me.”
“I have confessed everything!” the man whimpered. “I’ve worshiped the devil, eaten the flesh of children. I have done everything you say. Please, have mercy. Free me from the pain. Let me die. No more…no more,” he begged as his words dissolved into gasping sobs.
“You have made a full confession and asked for absolution, my son. In the name of the blessed Virgin, I give it,” Abelard said as he laughed and brought the poker closer to his eyes. “I will release you and dispatch you to Paradise, but first you must tell me. Where is the stone?”
“The religious carry a heavy burden.” Jerry remembered Abelard’s cryptic remark that morning. “They must hide their greed under a veneer of piety.”
After Bodien gave his report that afternoon, Abelard explained what he had meant. “The religious labor under the burden of pretense,” he explained. “Pope Clement was far more interested in discovering the stone’s whereabouts than rooting out heresy.
“Proving the Templar guilty of heresy would lead to the confiscation of their wealth, but the Pope knew it would flow directly into Philip’s treasury and be of no profit to the church. Enrichment of the French treasury was hardly a reason for him to sanction torture unless…“Abelard smiled knowingly as he paused for effect. “Unless he could use the search for heretics as religious cover for his effort to find something of far greater importance.”
“The stone,” the recruits replied almost in unison. “The stone,” Abelard echoed.
Henry switched off the motors. “Mr. Shark be a’comin,” he called.
Jerry felt bile rise in his throat at the sight of Bodien lying bloody and whimpering on the cabin floor as Stiediger and Neisen, like pit bulls, looked at Abelard for the command to attack.
“What are you going to do?” Though tied on the cabin floor, Bodien managed to turn his head and look at Abelard.
“You’ll know soon enough.” Abelard motioned to a bodyguard who jerked Bodien to his feet. “In the meantime, there’s no need for you to be uncomfortable. Take him to the stern,” he ordered.
Through the cabin’s glass hatch, Jerry watched them push Bodien into the fighting chair.
“As I said,” Abelard turned and faced the recruits, “one of the main reasons I chose not to dispatch Bodien in Rome was that I thought he would make a good object lesson for you young men.”
He paused and looked at Jerry again before he continued.
“Several times today I have asked Mr. Spencer a question that he has yet to answer. Let me repeat it for the final time. What mistake did our brothers, the Templar, make that led to their downfall? It is important that each of you knows so that none make it again.
“I have arranged a unique departure for Bodien to demonstrate their mistake if you will be good enough to follow me to the stern.”
“Henry, turn on the aft spotlight, and then join us,” Stiediger said as he picked up the rod and reel and exited the cabin behind Abelard and the others.
Jerry saw Bodien handcuffed to the fighting chair. Abelard’s bodyguards had just finished removing all the Priest’s clothes except for his underwear.
“We must leave the the good Father a little dignity.” Abelard patted Bodien’s bony shoulder, then took several steps back and looked down at the helpless man and asked, “Are you really a man of prayer Bodien?”
Except for his cry of pain when the hook was jabbed into his cheek, the Priest had said almost nothing since his confrontation with Abelard earlier in the day. It had been eerie watching him walk zombie-like onto the boat between the guards, seemingly resigned to whatever fate was coming.
He looked up at Abelard, the pain from the wound on his cheek still reflected in his eyes. “Yes, I pray,” he said softly.
“I know you say your Hail Marys, but do you make your prayers personal? Do you ever ask your God to do something and fully expect him to comply?”
Jerry was sure prayer had something to do with the question Abelard had asked him and the object lesson he planned to make of Bodien.
“Yes, I pray to God in a personal way.” Bodien’s face had already swollen terribly, and his speech was slurred. “I’ve even prayed for all of you.” For a moment his pain-filled eyes looked directly into Jerry’s as if seeing something none of the others could see.
He can’t know who I am! I would be suffering the same fate if they found out. Fear mingled with shame as Jerry turned his eyes away, regretting he could not have answered Abelard’s question as had Bodien. I’ve never had the faith to believe as Bodien does…or Ruth.
Jerry remembered the evening on Lovers Leap when he kissed Ruth for the first time and told her of his struggle to believe. Then, it was some jungle native he sensed could come to faith in Christ so naturally; now it was Bodien, who held so tightly to his faith he could even pray for his tormentors in the face of death. How he envied them. How he wanted that something that made their faith possible.
“Well, knowing you’re praying for me is a comfort,” Abelard replied sarcastically to the helpless Priest, “but are you praying for yourself right now?”
“I’ve prayed for courage to bear my cross.”
“But have you prayed for deliverance from it?”
“Yes,” Bodien answered weakly.
Jerry realized the last few hours had taken an awful toll on Bodien’s strength. His words slurred more and more as Abelard continued to goad.
“Like my Savior in the garden,” he whispered, more to himself than to Abelard and the others.
“As when He said, ‘let this cup pass from me’?” Abelard leaned forward and turned an ear to Bodien’s swollen lips. “Tell me Priest, has the cup been taken away? Have you been delivered by your God?” Abelard turned from Bodien and faced Jerry and the other recruits. “Tell me gentleman, has God delivered him?”
With one voice all answered, “No.”
Turning again to Bodien, Abelard asked, “Wouldn’t you like to ask him to deliver you right now?” Abelard laid a hand on
Bodien’s shoulder again and pointed toward the stern of the boat where the spotlight painted a narrow ribbon of light across the calm water. “You really should, you know. Do you see the slick on the water?”
Bodien did not answer.
Jerry could see the oily sheen made by the chum reflecting in the light as it trailed out behind the boat before disappearing into the darkness.
“The chum line,” Abelard said. “Five gallons of beef blood trailing from the Atlantic to this spot.”
Everyone’s eyes were on the ribbon of light. Watching. Waiting.
“Mister Shark!”
The Gullah’s cry hit Jerry like a clenched fist. The nausea he felt at seeing Bodien’s cheek impaled returned as he braced against the gunnels of the boat praying the shadows would hide the horror he knew was on his face.
He thought he was prepared to see Bodien murdered. Since this afternoon when he saw him led away, everything pointed to it. Now, with sickening certainty, he knew he and the other recruits would play a part. He knew something stronger than a simple oath must bind them to The Brotherhood and accomplices to murder would be a tie none of them could break. But to murder a Priest! Jerry ground his teeth together and willed himself not to vomit.
“Why don’t we bow our heads right now, Bodien, and let you offer a last prayer before Stiediger baits his hook?” Abelard’s voice was heavy with mockery as Stiediger again dangled the large hook before Bodien, who closed his eyes as it brushed his forehead.
“Look! He is praying.” Abelard lowered his voice to a stage whisper. “Just like the Templar all those centuries ago. They prayed for deliverance from the rack and the flames; now Bodien prays for deliverance from the terrors of the deep.
“What was the Templar’s mistake? What led to their downfall?” He looked directly at Jerry and obviously expected an immediate answer.
“They believed God would save them,” he heard himself finally mumble.
“Exactly!” Point made, Abelard almost shouted. “Like all the religious, they nursed on the teat of an illusion. They believed God was near and cared for them, when in fact he had long since deserted this planet for other worlds.”
He swatted a moth drawn to the light, then crushed it in his hand. “He cares no more for us than I do this moth,” he said, tossing it into Bodien’s lap.
Jerry saw the Priest’s lips were moving.
“He’s praying, but no one is listening.” Abelard’s voice was acidic with sarcasm.
He turned again and faced the recruits. “We of The Brotherhood have learned from the Templar’s mistakes. We are realists. God has left us here to make this world a heaven or hell. He will not help us to remake it. The work is ours to do, and we shall accomplish it with the aid of the stone. Then we will get what is due us—both the power and the glory.”
“Mr. Shark be here,” Henry hollered, as he pointed down the pathway of light.
Jerry saw a wake break the calm surface of the sound and move straight toward them.
“Throw over a big piece of bait,” Stiediger barked at Henry who immediately reached into a box at the stern and pulled out a whole dressed chicken. He tossed it into the water as more wakes appeared behind the boat.
The wakes paused for a moment just before reaching the chicken. Then there was an explosion of snapping jaws and thrashing tails as six or more monster sharks fought for the choice tidbit.
“I see our guests have arrived.” Abelard motioned to his bodyguards who reached down, unlocked Bodien’s handcuff, and pulled him to his feet.
“Get your rod, Stiediger,” Abelard ordered as the guards led the Priest to the railing at the stern.
“Now, gentlemen, it’s your turn to help.” Abelard motioned to Jerry and the others to gather around him. “Give them the hook.”
Stiediger quickly stripped off some line and handed the hook to one of the men as the bodyguards forced Bodien’s body forward against the rail.
“The rest of you, take hold of the hook,” Abelard ordered. “It is time to seal your vows.”
The recruits threw frantic glances at each other. “Now!” he commanded.
Shaking hands reached and took hold of the hook in any way they could. One grasped the first one’s hand, another a wrist, and still another a forearm.
“You too, Mr. Spencer,” Abelard commanded.
Jerry glanced at Neisen who, with a nod, confirmed The Brotherhood.
Abelard reached and grasped the arm of the recruit holding the hook. “Put the point of the hook on the skin between his shoulder blades just here.”
To Jerry it seemed Abelard’s voice was coming from far away and that he had become an observer rather than a participant in the horrible act. However, he knew he was no mere spectator.
In his newly entered world of subterfuge and conflicting values, Jerry tried to persuade himself the greater good sometimes outweighed the means of its accomplishment, yet he knew, like the other recruits, he could never wipe Bodien’s innocent blood from his hands.
“On my command push the hook completely through his skin,” Abelard ordered, then, rubbing his hands together, laughed manically and shouted, “Are you still praying, Priest?”
Pushed as it was against the rail, Jerry could not see Bodien’s face or his lips that were moving in prayer, but he could feel himself and the others trembling. God forgive me, he prayed, just as Abelard gave The Brotherhood.
“Now,” he shouted, “push!”
Spencer tried to will himself out of his body, to insulate himself from the crime being committed, but he could not. They all jerked, driving the hook deep into Bodien’s flesh.
He screamed, then screamed again as the point was pulled completely through the fold of skin, and blood began to flow.
“Any last words, Priest? A final blessing for us poor sinners perhaps?”
Again, he didn’t reply to Abelard’s goading.
“Very well,” Abelard said, “push him overboard. Let’s see if the sacrament of his flesh will be accepted.”
The two bodyguards grabbed the helpless man by the ankles, lifted his feet off the deck, and then dropped him head first into the water behind the boat.
“Start the motors, Henry. Go ahead slow,” Stiediger ordered.
As the boat began to inch forward, Stiediger let out line on Bodien who was splashing helplessly in the water behind the boat.
When the boat had moved ahead twenty or thirty more yards, Stiediger put the reel in gear and tightened the line. Bodien screamed again as the hook pulled open the wound and a ribbon of red formed on the surface behind him.
Suddenly, wakes came out of the darkness from three directions and glided toward the Priest.
“Pray, Bodien, pray,” Abelard shouted as Neisen laughed and Stiediger braced for a strike.
It was not long in coming. There was a churning of the water around the helpless man, a momentary calm then…
“The sharks are coming up under him,” Abelard shouted over Neisen’s laughter. “Get ready Stiediger.”
“Oh, dear God…no…no,” Bodien cried out helplessly.
Jerry would never forget Bodien’s piercing scream or his own nausea as he turned away from the gory sight. Then silently, though of little faith, Jerry prayed for this man of great faith who, only hours before, believed he was above suspicion.
A last shrill cry, so loud it seemed to be tearing the Priest’s vocal chords from his throat, interrupted his prayer. Then silence…then, a clicking sound.
Jerry opened his eyes and looked. Stiediger had put his reel in free spool and set the clicker. One of the sharks had locked the hapless man in its jaws, dived, and was taking out line. A spreading red film marked the place where Bodien had struggled with the beast.
Click…click…click…clickclickclickclick. Line peeled from the reel in a blur as the shark continued to sound. Faster, faster.
Suddenly the clicking stopped.
“The shark’s mouthing the bait,” Stiediger said with a chuckle just as the clicker sprang to life again, and the fish took off.
“Now he’s feasting,” Abelard squealed in sadistic delight.
For what seemed an eternity to Jerry, all eyes were on the taut line descending down into the depths of the sound.
Then again, there was a pause.
“Now,” Abelard shouted. “Set the hook!”
At Abelard’s order, Stiediger flipped the reel in gear and came back hard on the rod. It almost doubled as the star drag sang.
“He’s on,” Stiediger yelled, as the line peeled off the reel. “He’s going to take all of it,” he said, just before the line snapped.
“Let him enjoy his prize,” Abelard said as he turned to go back into the cabin.
Jerry and the other recruits watched as Bodien’s bloody signature on the surface yielded to the pull of the outgoing tide and drifted toward the Atlantic.