Robert & Linda Evans - Time Scout

"You sound like a Basque," one of the men dressed as an artisan said excitedly. Another had gone in search of something to feed their unexpected visitors.

"Yes, I am Father Edrigu Xabat. I had the grace to be ordained in Rome by the General of our Order, Father Loyola. Father Almada is ..."

Kit "roused" with a faint moan. "Where ... where are we, Edrigu?"

"God has delivered us safely to these Christian men, Inigo, praised be His name." One of the farmers handed Malcolm a cup. "Oh, bless you, my son ..."

Malcolm held it to Kit's lips and helped him drink hot soup, then consented to eat some himself. It was terrible, no salt, no pepper, watery and thin-but it was hot. Kit struggled to sit up, then begged to know who their rescuers were.

"I am Vilibaldo de Oliveira Salazar, the military governor of Lourengo Marques," the governor introduced himself proudly, sweeping a courtly bow. He was a small man with sharp eyes and a thin face. He wore expensive velvet garments under his armor despite the grime. "This is Joao Braz, the Sergeant of my command, and these are my soldiers, Francisco, Amaro, Lorenco, Mauricio, Ricardo."

The soldiers saluted sharply.

The big man with the wheel lock rifle shuffled forward. "Please, Father, I am Rolando Goulart, a humble blacksmith. I speak for the artisans of Lourengo Marques when I bid you welcome. This is Bastien, my assistant."

Bastien was the man who'd been so excited by Malcolm's Basque name and accent.

"And this is Vincente, our butcher and tanner, Huberto the miller, Nicolau the cooper, Xanti our baker, and Mikel his assistant..." More Basques, Malcolm realized. The farmers and husbands who tended the community's herds also proved to be Basques: Narikis, Mikolas, Peli, Kepa, Posper, and Satordi.

The other five men were stranded sailors, as Malcolm had suspected. Three were Portuguese, introducing themselves shyly as Rodrigo, Adao, and Pedro. Erroman and Zadornin were both Basques. There were no women in evidence.

"Please," Vilibaldo de Oliveira Salazar begged, "if you are strong enough, Father Almada, tell us of yourselves and your misfortunes."

Kit rose to the occasion with wonderfully fluent Portuguese, embroidering on Malcolm's original tale. He described the conditions in Goa and Father Francis Xavier's concern that the men here at this desolate outpost had no priests to confess or shrive them. He elaborated on their harrowing journey back to Africa from India, described the terrifying shipwreck which had drowned all the ship's company sparing only the two of them, spoke with tears in his eyes and a choked voice of reading last rites to the crashing waves, then of their struggle up the coast, praying that they stumbled in the direction of the outpost, not deeper into trackless wilderness ...

Even Malcolm was impressed.

Several of the men cleared their throats and stamped their feet to hide their own emotions. Vilibaldo insisted they change out of their sodden cassocks into something warm and dry, producing good quality, simple tunics and cloaks in which they wrapped themselves. The farmers hung their wet things to dry in one corner of the room. Vilibaldo then broke out wine and shared it around, making certain his new priests were warm and comfortable. The governor spoke of the hardships they had endured in the outpost, the troubles they had with the natives who stole Portuguese cattle or ran their own cattle through the grain fields, destroying the crops utterly, and the illnesses which had befallen them, the men they'd lost.

Finally, insisting that the soup and good company had revived him, Kit suggested that he and Malcolm hear confessions without delay. "Clearly, my son, you have been without the comforts of a priest for too long. It would be best to relieve your souls of the burden of sin you carry now, before another moment passes. I am only glad that God has sent us to minister to your needs."

The traders mumbled and looked embarrassed, then hastily rigged blankets to form two crude confessionals. Kit insisted they put on their wet cassocks again, then Malcolm took one side, Kit the other, and they began hearing confessions. They were not even through the first one when Kit emitted a roar of outrage and snatched back the curtain.

"Witches!" he cried, wild-eyed. "What say you, witches!"

The artisans crossed themselves. The soldiers paled

Vilibaldo stared at the floor for a moment, then cleared his throat. "It is true, we have a prisoner who is a witch, Father. The other witch has died of some evil disease he brought upon himself

Sergeant Joao Braz ventured, "We have closely questioned the other and-"

"You questioned this person? Are you a man of God? Do you presume to know witchcraft?"

The sergeant paled and stumbled to a halt.

"But, but Father-" one of the sailors, Rodrigo, protested. "They were witches! Seven weeks ago it was, I saw with my own eyes a terrifying sight, a great glowing raft of white sticks that sailed through the heavens far away to the north. Then last night terrible storms raged all night and well into the morning. You see how the witch-brewed storm has nearly destroyed even you, who are men of God? What do you think we should find on the beach, Father, but that same great white raft, broken it is true, into pieces, but there were devilish items on the sand and the man and woman wore Satan's garments and,--"

Kit groped for the nearest chair and sank into it. "And the other witch? What have you learned?"

The men of Lourengo Marques glanced at one another again, clearly uneasy.

"Father, the dead witch," governor de Oliveira Salazar said quietly "he babbled in a possessed madness. He spoke Dutch!"

Malcolm and Kit exchanged glances.

"I speak a little Dutch, Father," Sergeant Braz put in. "The witch was raving about another of their company, who is not with them. We have search parties out looking for him and have told the black heathens hereabouts there is a reward for capturing this other witch and bringing him to us."

The Welshman,, Malcolm realized. Poor terrified bastard ...

"You must take me to the witch you have captured," Kit said severely. "I must examine the woman and see if Satan's hand is truly upon her. Has she spoken at all?

One of the Basque farmers spat onto the floor. "No, only to scream."

Kit lost all color. Malcolm hastened to his side. "Father Almada, you are still unwell. You should be in bed."

"How can I sleep when God's work is waiting? Come, show me this witch."

What are you going to do, Kit? We can't escape through the gate for another five days. She'll tip our hand for sure.

But the desire to know what condition these men had left her in worried at him like a rat gnawing at his foot. How much worse must it be for Kit? The governor and soldiers led them through the downpour to a tiny stockade on the far side of the fort. The rest of the community trailed behind. Sergeant Braz produced an iron key. It grated rustily in the lock. The room beyond was so dim Malcolm couldn't see a thing. Kit gestured impatiently for a lantern. The smith, not Goulart, gave Kit his.

"Leave us," Kit said harshly. "Father Xabat will examine the witch with me."

"But Father Almada, she might do you an injury-"

"God is the sword of the Jesuit, my son. Do not fear for our safety. Go. We will lock her in again when we have examined her."

The soldiers shuffled uneasily, then retreated to the far end of the overhang, refusing to go farther. Kit lifted the lantern, drew a hasty breath, and stepped into the foul little room beyond.

Margo shivered in a corner of her prison, hating with a greater passion than she had ever felt in her young life. She hurt so desperately, tears formed. They tracked down her cheeks in the darkness. These brutal animals -- they were worse than animals, that was an insult to animals -- men raped her, beaten her, demanded things in as many languages as they spoke and hit her every time she couldn't answer. They'd finally stumbled on broken English in their efforts to find out who she was.