Scott Mariani - The Armada Legacy

Father Scally frowned. ‘Dr Marcel?’

‘Brooke Marcel. I have a picture.’ Ben’s heart began to plunge towards his boots. Surely, after all this, he hadn’t come to the wrong place?

But the priest’s next words almost made him collapse with relief:

‘You wouldn’t happen to be Ben, would you?’

Several stunned moments passed before Ben could reply. ‘Yes, I’m him. I mean, I’m Ben.’

Father Scally’s wizened face broke into a smile. ‘When the fever was at its worst, she must have asked for you a hundred times. So you came looking for her, did you?’

‘Is she all right?’ Ben asked dizzily.

‘She is now,’ Father Scally said. ‘Why don’t you come and see for yourself?’

They left the hut and the tall, long-striding Irishman led Ben through the village, followed by a crowd of excited, clamouring Sapaki people who, now that Ben was officially a hero and not some evil invader come to murder them, all seemed to want to touch his strange blond hair. ‘You’ll have to forgive them,’ Father Scally explained. ‘I’m the only white bloke most of them have ever seen. Which I’ve always regarded as generally a good thing.’

At the far side of the village was a long, low hut with a wooden door. ‘This is what I use for a sick bay,’ the priest explained to Ben. ‘Not exactly the Royal City of Dublin Hospital, but it does us all right. Tica and Kusi, two of the tribe girls, help me run the place. We currently have just one patient.’ After a pause he added, ‘She won’t talk about what she was doing wandering the jungle alone, and I haven’t pressed her for answers. To be honest I prefer to remain ignorant.’ He knocked gently at the door. ‘Brooke? Are you awake, my child? You have a visitor .’

Ben felt as if he was dreaming.

Father Scally opened the door of the sick bay.

And there, sitting by the light of a candle on a low bed made of wood and rattan, wrapped in a blanket, her hair tousled, her face turned towards the doorway with a look of rapt bewilderment, was Brooke.

Chapter Fifty-Four

Ben rushed into the hut. ‘Brooke—’ he began. He couldn’t believe it. It was really her. She was wearing a cotton skirt like K’antu’s, and a torn T-shirt that had been carefully darned with coarse thread.

‘Ben! You’re here? ’ Her voice sounded faint.

‘You two have a lot to talk about,’ Father Scally said with a smile. ‘I’ll leave you alone.’ He slipped away.

Brooke burst into tears. Ben stepped closer to her, welling up with emotion, then dropped to his knees by the low bed, took her in his arms and held her tightly for the longest time.

‘I thought I was never going to see you again,’ he murmured, rocking her gently back and forth. ‘I thought I’d lost you.’ She clung to him, weeping. He had to struggle to hold back his own tears. ‘I love you, Brooke. I’m so, so sorry that we fought the way we did.’

‘So am I,’ she sobbed.

‘I’m never going to leave you alone again. Never, not for a minute. I swear it.’

Brooke went on crying in his arms. His own face was wet now. He stroked her back, her shoulders, her hair. She felt thin and frail. As she drew away from him to gaze into his eyes he could see her face was drawn and pale in the candlelight.

‘You’re sick,’ he murmured.

‘I was,’ she said through her tears. ‘I’m so much better now, thanks to Padraig.’ She touched his cheek. ‘Oh, Ben, I can’t believe it’s you,’ she whispered. ‘I can’t believe you found me. How did you know where I was?’

‘It’s a long story. Don’t worry about it for now. What matters is that I did, and that you’re all right.’

She burst out sobbing again at the memory of her captivity. ‘It was terrible, Ben. He was holding me prisoner. He’s insane. He thinks I’m someone else. I had to get away.’

‘I know all about the compound, and the fire,’ he said. ‘About Ramon Serrato, too. And about his dead wife Alicia.’

‘She was his wife? Oh God! He killed her, didn’t he?’

‘Let’s not talk about it. Serrato can’t touch you now. I’m here. You’re safe.’

‘Sam’s dead,’ she sniffed.

He nodded. ‘I was in Donegal with Amal. I’m sorry.’

‘Amal! Is he here too?’

‘He’s back in London. He’s been worried sick about you. Thinks none of this would have happened if it hadn’t been for him and his play.’

Brooke smiled weakly. ‘Poor Amal. It’s not his fault.’

‘That’s what I told him. But he needs to hear it from you. And he will, soon, because I’m taking you home.’

‘Yes, take me home, Ben,’ Brooke said softly. Her voice faded away. Her eyelids fluttered shut and he felt her go limp in his arms. For a moment he was ready to panic and yell for Father Scally – but then he realised she’d just passed out from sheer weakness and fatigue.

He laid her down gently on the bed, brushed the auburn tangles away from her face and kissed her brow. ‘You rest now,’ he whispered. ‘We’ll leave in the morning.’

‘That’s completely out of the question,’ Father Scally said a few minutes later. Ben had left Brooke asleep in the sick bay and found the priest near the chief’s hut, from which the sounds of chatter and laughter were still drifting out into the night.

‘No disrespect, Father, but there are places she can be better cared for than out here.’

The priest shook his head firmly. ‘The Brazilian wandering spider’s bite is no joke – I’ve seen strong men die from it within half an hour. Thankfully, I can only suppose that she didn’t get the full dose of venom, or it’d have been a corpse we found in the forest. She’s responded better to treatment than ever I dared hope, but she’s still very weak. There’s absolutely no way I can allow her to be moved, let alone take a long trip downriver. She needs at least several days’ complete rest, maybe a week, before I can permit you to take her away.’

Ben said nothing. The Irishman was making sense, and he knew it.

‘You look fairly worn out yourself,’ Scally said, his tone softening. ‘I’ll bet you haven’t had a scrap to eat for days. Come with me and I’ll sort you out.’

‘I’d better find Nico and Pepe,’ Ben said. ‘They must be hungry too.’

Scally nodded towards the chief’s hut. ‘Don’t you worry about them. They’re being well taken care of. This way.’

Ben followed the priest along a compacted dirt path that led round the outskirts of the village to a little hut slightly apart from the others. The dwelling was built from earth and reeds like the rest, but unlike them it featured a little lean-to extension and a flower garden surrounded by white-painted stones.

‘This is my abode,’ Father Scally said, showing Ben inside. The furnishings were virtually non-existent, just a raised mat for a bed and a couple of stools carved from sections of tree trunks. In one corner was a tiny, primitive kitchen area that amounted to an open fire and a hook for hanging a pot. A battered wooden chest served as a cupboard.

The priest ladled something that looked like stew from a large dish into a smaller bowl and handed it to Ben with a homemade spoon to eat with. ‘It’s not bad, actually,’ he reassured him. ‘And here’s a little something to wash it down with.’

He reached into the cupboard and brought out two clay beakers and a bottle of colourless liquid. Pouring a generous measure into one of the beakers for Ben and then one for himself, he said, ‘It’s not quite the way we used to make it back home, but it’ll warm the cockles just the same, sure. And something tells me you could do with a drink. It’s been quite a day for you, hasn’t it?’