Badu-Badu!
This scene has already been discarded and doesn’t merit a lot of comment. I’ll be posting its descendant later, for comparison.
Mud and drizzle and the scent of wet leaves threatened to drown the old village, down the washed-out road from the church. Cries of Badu-Badu! rippled through the huts on either side of the road. Children and well-wishers watched nervously through cracked-open doors; only the village elder stepped out onto the path to meet him. The wizened man bowed almost comically low upon greeting the young bishop – the one they called Badu. A translator relayed his words to the two foreigners, both of whom towered like giants beside the elder.
The one they called Badu smiled politely – despite knowing that the natives thought this made a man look ferocious – and dipped his head in reply. He already knew what the elder would ask of him. He had brought the translator so that he could give his reply. “Take your people up the road to the church,” he instructed. “If you go all at once and make haste to the house of God, He will protect you.”
As the translator repeated his words dutifully, the man at his right muttered, “They’ve taken a shine to you, Mr. Thorne. Better than the church officials, at least.” The way his lip curled beneath his mustache made it clear he was biting back a laugh at the way Thorne had invoked a higher power in his comment to the elder.
Thorne – Badu – could only shrug. “They believe they are plagued by a demon. It’s only sensible to promise them the protection of some higher power, even if I myself am hard-pressed to believe.”
Major Peters made a show of his horror at hearing such words from a bishop of the church. “And you, the keeper of your flock! What’s this world coming to? A swift and violent end, I shan’t wonder, hurled into a fiery lake of damnation…” His nose-bristles shivered, the way they always did when he chuckled under his breath. “You’ll want the .403 double, I suppose?”
The bishop glanced up at the clouds overhead as a drop landed on his nose and the sounds of life around him were soon overwhelmed by the racked of water striking leaves. “I think the .455 would be a better choice tonight,” he said, listening past the racket. “The beast is quite large I’m told, and voracious. I’ll only get one shot anyway.”
The major gave a grim nod. “Keep it close,” he advised, gesturing to the hefty weapon now slung over Thorne’s shoulder. “You sure you won’t want any help?”
“Just be sure no one is left behind in the village.”
“Very well, then,” said the major. “But you will take this, with my thanks.” The major pressed a long, slender bundle into his hands. “I think you’ll find it quite reliable, even in the wet of the jungle – and a damn bit more accurate than any rifle.”
Thorne said nothing. He knew the package by its heft, but to carry such an item was forbidden for a man of his class. He nodded at last and made a note to return the bundle as soon as possible.
Major Peters saluted him, something the major could never have done in polite company. Thorne did not insult him by returning the salute. He simply nodded and continued down the road, toward the slow spot in the river where the villagers filled their water jars, and where the beast had taken its last three meals.
The natives called him Blood Horse, for his sheer size – or perhaps for the way he cried at night, often in reply to horses neighing in the field. Sean guessed he was a mountain cat, driven south by drought, driven mad by hunger and loneliness. He’d seen the beast’s pugmarks not a week ago; they were truly gigantic, the largest he’d seen yet in a time when big, hungry cats had become all too commonplace in the Vale. The cat would not stray far from water, he knew; the jungle heat was oppressive, constantly sapping the strength of such a large creature.
At last, when he could be sure he was out of sight of anyone else, he unfastened his collar and shoved it into his pocket. He would put his faith in steel tonight.