The Missionary

Men who were once sane... now vandalized. Certain fellows who once possessed soundness of mind, lay numb… shut up in the throes of psychosis. The execution of the King aroused suspicion among the Puritan laity, whom some claimed, feared a resurgence of Catholic authority. The zeal of Sir Oliver Cromwell had commissioned a devout group of protestant males to go on assignment to a remote location off the Isles of Vulgare. Twenty-five men servants—supposing to resuscitate humanity, with all compassion—embarked upon a journey against divine providence. I am not one to say, nor fear, for I trust in the Lord God Almighty. Nevertheless, the charges supposed by these young men against the Puritan faith have been deemed unworthy of investigation by dissenters and of nothing more than vain contrivances. I was not present to witness the alleged treacheries, they insist, happened upon them; therefore, I must rely solely upon spiritual discernment from the God of Heaven.

These are the documented accounts of my counsel with one of the claimants, our dear brother, Thomas Blaine:

“Greetings, dear brother, my name is Sir Lawrence Wingate, counsel to the disciples of the Third Sect. Do you mind if I sit and chat with you for a while?”

“What is there to “chat” about? Did they not warn you that I am “mad?” Why have you truly come here?”

I could see that he was dreadfully cross. Though unkempt, he was a very fine-looking young man, twenty-two years of age, virgin ivory skin, and eyes of an eagle.

“Mr. Blaine, may I call you, Thomas?” I asked calmly. However, he snatched away from me, turned his seat counterclockwise towards heaven’s noon and tightly clasped his hands around his knees.

“What is truth that life serves no higher purpose than for man to be broken?” he challenged, keeping mindful not to turn his face away from the box-sized window.

“Truth is absolute, a salve and bitter herb. It can both wound and heal, though its purpose is to perfect us. It can never lead or be led astray; it is everywhere-present and all-powerful.”

“It is of God then, is it not?” he queried, turning his face to study me.

“Yes, Thomas, that is correct. Truth is what I am here to seek.”

“Why will He not simply reveal truth for my sake?” he roared as he ejected his frail body from the splintered wooden seat.

In an instant, he was standing over me, grabbed the collars of my shirt—as one would the reigns around a horse’s neck—and nearly lifted me from my chair. I could feel the bony tips of his knuckles pressing deep into my esophagus. He stood as solid as a tree shaft, breathing heavily, as though one were engaging a bagpipe. His breath smelled of mistrust, hurt, anger, and weariness; it was very foul, from lack of delight. His anger controlled the atmosphere; every molecular element remained suspended, awaiting their next directive.

“It is evident you believe you have been wronged, Thomas, but there is certainly no justice in violating me.”

I carefully reached up to release the noose from my throat, slowly trying to create a secure distance between us. Initially, he resisted, and soon released the hold on my garments, allowing his body to slide down the curve of the back of my chair. He dropped his head in my lap and began weeping and sobbing. He tried to force sensible language through a net of grief, but to no avail. Wallowing in angst, he carried on...

“...Human sacrifices, cannibalism, idol worship, divination…the dances and songs; demons everywhere…”

“Thomas, please forgive me, but that sounds a bit capricious. How did you come to witness these things? Please, elaborate further. Tell me what happened on your training mission!” I insisted.

“Sir Wingate, do you believe Satan exists?”

“Yes, of course.”

“How do you know? Have you seen him with the naked eye?” He stood again, gazing into the immediate space between him and the wall.

“No, I have not. However, I trust the Word of God, and I see the effects of evil in men and in nature.”

“Why, then, do you attack my dignity? I know what my eyes have seen. It was real…as vivid as the empty space in this room. I simply cannot make sense of it all!”

“Please, Thomas! The mission!” I persisted.

“See there…that fly on the wall? Do you suppose it yet realizes its purpose? It has investigated that very spot with great persistence since first light.”

“It is innate behavior. It is not that it wishes to perform the ritual. It is by design; yet, all things equally serve a purpose, one for the other.”

“Purpose is a wild beast that must be tamed. The disciples said it was “God’s will,” that we should take the mission. Tell me, what good will come from my insanity?” he yelled, as he paced the floor, raking the sides of his face.

“Thomas, please reveal what happened on that island!”

He walked to the place on the wall where the fly mingled, pressed his hand and cheek against it, and began to tell what happened:

Puritan leaders recruited the young men to accompany them on an evangelistic mission to a remote island off the coasts of Vulgare. The initiates accomplished most of the biblical training inland at a secluded compound held by one of Cromwell’s adherents. After which, the men set sail for the voyage, arriving on the coast during nightfall, where they were immediately met by a pack of “savages.” The full ordeal would wobble the confidence of even the most faithful and seasoned Puritan. One of the most projecting accounts was Thomas’ description of the sacrificial ceremony, told here:

“Men were hunted and captured like wild beasts. After the hunters trapped the prey, the priest sprinkled them with a strange liquid concoction and then blew a white powdery substance up their noses. The lead hunter wrapped the catch, from the crown of its head-to the soles of its feet, tied a noose up the center rope, and yanked at it until the body was left suspended over a burning ditch. The poor lamb’s bulk swung back-and-forth like a human pendulum. Opposite the unfortunate victim was a strange looking beast tied up and hanging in like fashion. The ceremonial priest ordered the pit master to lower the animal into a fiery black substance, then raised his hands and began to chant in unintelligible language as the beast writhed and squealed in pain. After he finished reciting his incantations, they lifted the molten body from the burning mass and placed it on an altar.

They cut down the men and moved them to an adjacent alter, securing their bodies on it by the cubits of their hands and feet. The priest pierced the beast with a sharpened tool, drained the blood from its body, mixed it with bitter herbs, offered it up, and drank it. All of the hunters partook of the ritual before sprinkling the blood on the men tied to the altar. At some point during the ritual, all of them were released, but straight away began howling and screaming and acting as if they were in sheer terror.”

This activity, according to Thomas, continued for many days. He also testified of how the young missionaries were tortured and scarcely escaped death, although, several of them were not so fortunate. As we neared the close of the report, one of the disciples stood speaking at the threshold of the holding cell, while three other young men accompanied him. Thomas’ eyes widened and wandered eastward as he gave heed to the voice speaking, though his face and body remained adjoined to the wall. His eyelids shut with indifference, but then quickly turned up, revealing a sense of consciousness delivered by the other male’s presence.

“YOU…I know who you are, you’re the DEVIL! Where are the rest of your fiends?” Thomas scorned, as he stumbled backward, falling over a chair.

“Sir David, are you acquainted with Mr. Blaine?” I asked, as my eyes crept over his shoulder to get a better view of the others. However, they hastened not to speak.

“No, Sir Lawrence, I should say not.”

“It is quite strange, don’t you think, that his reflexes send him retreating to the opposing side of the room because of your entry?”

“Let us not be entertaining, Sir Lawrence. We are in an asylum. Every exploit is strange, if not more.”

“Yes…I remember! He is the tribal leader, and the men in the shadows, they tormented us! You must believe me!” Thomas howled, as his finger jabbed the air, aiming it repeatedly at Sir David. “Deceivers! They are not of the faith! Imposters! Oh, dear Lord…pierce me through, wring my innards so the residue of this vile Puritan blood no longer remains! Then, I shall be made whole. You serpents! May the wrath of God be upon you!”

“It would be best if you left us alone, Sir David. We do not wish to upset the other patients. Please go on with the business of the day.”

Thomas had become physically irate and had to be sedated— the poor fellow. As I made my way down the corridor, I overheard Sir David conversing with the others about Thomas. For the space of one quarter of an hour, I remained there, scribbling anxiously and in horror, transcribing every word he uttered. Thomas and his fellow laborers had indeed been wounded in the most wicked way; drawn into an intense missionary training experiment concocted by a radical cell group of Puritan evangelists. Sir David’s unwitting testimony corroborated all of Mr. Blaine’s accounts. At the adjournment of their discussion, I intruded and rebuked the men for their treachery and ill repute.

“You have ravaged these men’s souls, and then come to spoil what is left of them! May God have mercy on your souls for the atrocities you have committed against your own!”

“Hmm, pity. You show a great deal of promise, then too, so did he. Unfortunately, the young lad exhibits greater zeal in his current state, though that is of no consequence to us now.

His mind is not fragile due to his experiences on the island. We aptly extracted from him what he needed to realize…that he, as well as the other weaklings, is simply not fit for the mission. We cannot afford to compromise such great a work. The Great Awakening is not for the faint of heart. Else, those wretched counterfeiters shall overtake us again.”

“You have these men committed in this asylum, but are ye not yet mad?”

“Yet and still, Sir Lawrence, providence has made it so, and his fate has already been determined.

I glanced at his desk to see an order for physical torture and trephination of the tongue…unfortunately, Thomas’ name was inscribed thereon…

I must appeal to the council.

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