The Watchers (32 page)

Then, even if the inquirer lived a week, which was not likely, he or she still possessed a miniscule chance of uncovering the person's link to the Brotherhood of the Scythe.

SUNGBO'S EREDO RAMPART

They spent the night warm and dry in the hammocks, swathed in light cotton throws and raised well above the cool floor.

The next morning Abby awoke to the sound of heavy rain pelting the rampart outside. She padded out to the entrance and, instead of light and an outdoor world, was greeted with a curtain of water nearly obscuring the entire outside view.

Dylan sat before the scene while he prepared himself to venture out to scout for enemies. But given the forbidding nature of the weather and the long list of things she wanted to teach Dylan, Sister Okoye had other plans. He protested weakly and only for a short time, for experience was teaching them that not only was the older woman persuasive, but her entreaties always wound up having ample merit.

So they spent the bulk of that day huddled in the cave, watching the rain and listening to Sister Okoye's lilting, patient voice.

What the Nigerian taught Dylan, in the course of those long hours, was essentially a reeducation into a whole new form of warfare. It began, however, with a primer on the most essential parts of his relationship with God.

“God is far less interested in what you can do for Him, or in all this spiritual warfare,” she said, “no matter how important it may be, than He is first of all in knowing
you
. Abiding with
you
. That comes first. All the other wonders come second.”

So she taught him the varied ways of being in Him—the vital role of daily time in His Word. The critical importance of remaining constantly in prayer instead of just speaking to Him at mealtimes or important occasions. Especially, she emphasized, during times of warfare. She stressed the enormous value of hearing His voice through the less reliable yet still crucial sources of creation and of other people. She told him about the gifts of the Spirit.

“I'm surprised, and fairly confused,” Dylan confessed after several hours. “All this time and you haven't yet talked about do's and don'ts or getting clobbered for committing this or that sin.”

“Well, don't get your hopes too high,” she answered with a smile, “because following His commands for righteous living is definitely important. The problem is, most people get it backward. Living right is not the way you become saved by Him. It's the proof, the evidence, that you already
are
in Him. So it's not as high on the list as you might have imagined, that's all. First comes brokenness, then walking with Him. Obedience is a byproduct.”

After a light lunch, she moved on to the rest of his warrior's training. Relentlessly, she verbally pounded on the notion of his self-reliance, of his turning his heart cold and hard during battle. Dylan argued that emotionally insulating himself was the only way he could do what had to be done. And Sister Okoye responded that it could be true in conventional earthly combat, but not in the spirit realm. In that realm, complete openness and receptivity to God's Spirit was a prerequisite. She insisted that he empty himself during battle and soften his heart to hear from a general who wasn't far away in some command bunker but right there inside him, trying very hard to speak to him right where he stood.

And if he had done the real work of what she had taught him that morning—the practice of abiding in Him every day—then his most crucial preparations for conflict were already in place. He would be already primed to hear God's voice clearly through His Spirit. He had already invoked the strongest angelic protection possible, already sharpened his spiritual senses by having cleaned away all the impurities clogging his soul.

Sometime around six hours later, at the crown of midafternoon, the expression in Dylan's eyes began to soften and relax. His gaze toward Sister Okoye began to ease and yet somehow grow more intent, more understanding.

Somewhere in his thinking, Dylan had just turned a corner. His comprehension of spiritual things had just reached critical mass. And yet his doubts over being able to follow through had just crested as well.

“I don't know if I can do this,” he said. “It all goes so completely against the training I've imposed on myself for decades. I'll try, because I've seen what God can do through women like you. But I don't know . . .”

Both Abby and Sister Okoye smiled at him knowingly.

“What is it?” he asked, self-conscious.

“It's our Sight,” Abby began. “We can already see a difference in your spirit.”

“Yes, and by the way,” said Sister Okoye, “the little nuisance spirits are gone. They've all fled, because you already have twice the angelic escort you once had.”

“It's true,” Abby said. “You already look different in the spirit than you did first thing this morning.”

“Yes, but if you follow my advice,” said Okoye, “you will soon be twice the strapping warrior in that realm than you are in the flesh. And more important still, your name will be written in the Lamb's Book of Life. You will be a follower of the Most High.”

CHAPTER
_
44

Soon afterward, a respite in the rainfall beckoned them out once again. The threesome exited the cave and stood peering out over mile after mile of thick emerald vegetation, punctuated only by clouds of fog which rose like white ships sailing a dark green sea.

“Let's not expose even the tops of our heads,” Dylan warned. “Even now, someone could be in the jungle, reconnoitering.”

“I'm seeing something,” Abby said, her eyes closed as though experiencing some kind of torment. “I'm being shown an image. It just keeps blinking in and out, like something that's trying to stick in my mind's eye but keeps slipping away.”

“Do you recognize anything?” asked Okoye, staring at her anxiously. “Well, I think unless I'm fooling myself, it involves a thick mass of darkness moving down the river. That's all so far.”

“A mass of darkness,” Okoye repeated thoughtfully. Slowly, her hand crept up to Abby's head and settled there. Okoye closed her eyes and her lips began to move furiously.

Dylan instantly realized what was happening and felt his own hand moving forward, almost of its own will. He felt bashful for some stupid reason, as though it somehow corroded his manhood to join in earnest prayer.

Yet he also knew, more strongly than ever, how vital this all was. He had tilted his allegiances irrevocably, forever.

“It is a single warrior who brings with him a whole dozen demonic strongmen. And he is coming for you,” Sister Okoye said in a somber voice.

“Coming for
me
?” said Dylan, scanning the treetops behind her.

“Yes. He is our enemy.
Your
enemy, if I read things correctly.”

“I don't understand.”

“The Lord just showed him to me. A soldier all alone, floating down the river toward us. Very experienced. Very capable. And filled with hate. Most of it for you.”

The truth burst on Dylan with an almost visible reaction. “Shadow Leader,” he said.

“Is that the leader of the Scythe?”

“One of them, I think. I don't know much about the Brotherhood, but I believe he is very near the top of its hierarchy.”

“And do you have a relationship, a history with this man?”

Dylan shook his head in bewilderment. “I thought I did, but apparently the position is handed down from one operational manager to the other. The Shadow Leader of five years ago was a former army officer who was my superior for much of my military career. He was one of my best friends. Saved my life once, in Grenada. The one who recruited me into extra-governmental work. But he . . . well, I don't know what happened to him. I didn't even realize he'd been replaced until another of their operatives told me. His voice had been synthesized, I think, to sound like the man I knew. You see, after a certain point, we only spoke by phone.”

“He is very angry with you,” Okoye added. “In fact, he is coming down here as much out of a thirst for revenge as a desire to complete his mission.”

“That's all right,” said Dylan. “We can handle him.”

“No,
we
can't, remember—?” Okoye insisted.

“You're not listening to me,” interrupted Dylan with an indulgent grin. “By
we
, I didn't mean we three. At least not the three of us, alone.” He took both her hands in his. “Don't worry, my Sister. I understand now.”

Sister Okoye gave him a relieved smile. “Did I tell you what most authorities, even the archaeologists, believe was the primary purpose of the Eredo Rampart?”

“A military barrier, I'm sure,” said Dylan.

Okoye shook her head. “It was almost certainly a spiritual boundary. They've discovered countless clues pointing toward it being like a barricade on a demonic highway: Do not go any farther. In fact, even today superstitious locals hike in here and make offerings on the rampart to protect themselves against evil ones.”

“You mean this jungle used to be full of demons?” asked Abby.

“It seems that way. Or maybe a specific spirit war waged here. It's possible that's why the Iya Agba were brought here in the first place.”

“So in a way,” Dylan said darkly, looking out again, “this is just another skirmish in a war that's been fought here for a long, long time.”

“You have no idea how long,” said Okoye, closing her eyes in a way that suggested she was quietly gathering strength. “In fact,” she continued, “neither do I.”

They began their battle plan with a procedure that suited both the carnal and the spiritual warrior: a thorough circling of their surroundings. In this case, they were carrying out two utterly different objectives at once. First, cataloguing their position's most useful features and lines of approach, and at the same time laying down an intense prayer-journey around its periphery.

They walked as furtively as they could, mindful that their attacker could already be watching. Dylan had convinced the other two to proceed in a manner where, as two of them moved forward along the top of the wall, one would remain behind and closely watch for any sign of detection or telltale signs among the surrounding wildlife.

After several minutes of this, they regrouped at an odd hump-shaped rise on the ridgeline. Despite the fact that she crouched just two feet from a seventy-foot drop, Sister Okoye sat with her eyes shut, her lips constantly moving.

“What are you asking for?” Abby said in a soft, woman-to-woman tone of voice.

“For direction,” Okoye replied without opening her eyes. “Simply direction from Him. For Him to move on our behalf. Lead us to His defenses, not ours.”

Finally she opened her eyes and fixed her gaze on Dylan. “What are you thinking about?” she asked.

“I'm thinking our enemy will probably do his recon at nightfall, like most good special ops guys do,” he muttered. “If we can trick him into misidentifying our position, maybe with some kind of an improvised heat signature, then maybe if we stay very quiet in an offset ambush spot, we can fool him into going after it.”

“This is where this new warfare goes into action,” said Okoye. “Be praying as you go that God will lead you to His place, and His solutions. No need to close your eyes or anything. Just say it inside as you go.”

I feel weird, God,
Dylan began silently,
asking the Creator of the universe with help on something as down-to-earth as a place to hide. Or a plan of attack. But if you're in the business of saving my sorry hide, then I guess I better ask you . . .

They kept creeping along the wall's summit. Nothing happened, and Dylan felt the cold gray world returning hard, and for a moment despaired of his new faith.

“Look!” cried Abby, pointing.

At the base of a wall of rocks, covered by new moss, lay the remains of a shrine. A small clay plate, the rotted clumps of some kind of food offering, and scratched-up icons—a cross and a few symbols Dylan vaguely recognized. And a half-burned candle.

“There's your heat signature. Would that work, Dylan?”

He picked up the lumpy mass of old wax and turned it around in his hands. Nodding, he smiled at Abby. “Yeah, I think so.”

“And look here.” Sister Okoye was pointing just above the shrine, at a spot on the rock face.

Her discovery was a group of ancient-looking drawings, finely etched into the wall's surface. Most of the symbols were representational: a crocodile, a rain cloud, two beasts that reminded Abby of American pronghorn antelope. Then an eye. A strangely formed figure eight. A broad-hipped female form.

Sister Okoye could not tear her gaze away from the sight. She stopped moving. Her breathing seemed suspended.

“What is it?” asked Abby.

“Well, several things. First of all, that eye is the symbol of the Iya Agba. There's one in a corner of the cave we've been staying in. There's another one marking the beginning of the steps up the rampart; that's how I knew where to find it. I imagine they're all over this place. But I've never seen one grouped with other images. Or even heard of it before.”

“Is that woman a fertility figure?”

“It appears so.”

“Aren't those usually pagan?”

“Yes. The people around here mix everything together, often with tragic results. They don't know any better.”

“What about that number eight? Isn't that weird? Isn't that shape a modern, or at least a Western number?”

Okoye frowned. “You're right, Abby. I wonder if it's supposed to be an eight at all.”

“A coiled serpent?” offered the younger woman.

“I surely hope not.”

“Yes, but look at how the bottom loop of the eight is sort of curled sideways. And there's a double shape inside. Another loop with a curled top. A baby serpent maybe?”