A Sacred Storm (53 page)

He led them across the studio floor to a row of chairs at the other side. One of them was marked ‘Director' which was obviously Romano's, and there were two empty ones next to it marked ‘Executive Producer'. Next to those a man sat holding hands with his heavily pregnant wife. He looked up and smiled. Jennings grinned and strode over to greet him.

“Looking good there, Grady,” he said.

Grady stood up and held out his hand. “Likewise, buddy.” He pulled him in and slapped him lightly on the shoulder. “It's good to see you.”

After being introduced to Grady's wife, Brooke, they sat down and waited for the filming to start. Jennings looked at the set and sensed something familiar about it. It was a room with books covering the walls and an antique desk in the centre. To the left was an old grandfather clock.

“You'll like this,” said Grady. “In fact you'll be a big help.”

Jennings looked at him with curious eyes. “Me?”

“Yeah, you. You're not just here for a holiday you know. We need your input.”

“Why? What's going on?”

“Just wait and see.”

Jennings watched the two actors walk onto set. One of them was dressed in a shirt and tie and the other was dressed in black, his head covered by a balaclava. It suddenly dawned on him what was going on and he laughed.

The actors took their positions and an assistant held up the clapperboard and shouted: “The Reiki Man – scene one, take one. Action…”

Stratton followed his young guide through the light brush. It was early morning and the jungle was cool and still. They had been travelling for just over ten days, and according to the boy they would reach the monks by early evening. Stratton looked forward to seeing Majami again, and taking a long break at the temple.

For a week after the Day of Miracles he had hidden himself away in the Vatican with Pat Cronin. The only other two people who knew he was alive were Stella and Jennings, and he wanted to keep it that way. As far as the rest of the world was concerned, he had died in the collapse of the basilica.

Cronin had decided to stay on in the Vatican and help root out the inherent corruption. Whatever had happened on that fateful day, there were still a large number of people in the world who wanted to remain Catholic, and he felt that left to their own devices the Vatican would build another web of lies. People needed to know the truth, and he was damn sure that Vittori and his fellow conspirators wouldn't give it to them, no matter how badly they had been burned.

On leaving the Vatican Stratton had taken a trip back home to England in Kharkov's submarine. He had missed home and had wanted to spend some time there before heading off to India. After just over a month Kharkov had come back for him.

As the morning drew into afternoon the heat once again became almost intolerable. Stratton and his guide stopped for a while in the shade and ate a small meal. It was then that Stratton had his first surprise. He had just dropped off for a brief nap when he was woken by the guide shaking him vigorously.

“What's wrong?”

“Bagheera!” the boy whispered urgently. “Bagheera!”

Stratton looked to where the boy was pointing and smiled. Trotting towards them across the small clearing was a large black panther.

“It's alright,” said Stratton, calming the boy. “There's no need to be frightened.” He got to his feet and welcomed his old friend. “Hello, Titan. I was wondering where you'd got to.”

The panther stood on his hind legs and nuzzled Stratton's face.

They journeyed the rest of the afternoon together, and arrived at the small temple just before sundown. Majami welcomed him warmly and they sat and talked well into the night.

The next morning Stratton awoke early and joined Majami, Tawhali and another monk for breakfast.

“There is somebody I think you should meet,” said Majami, as he poured Stratton some jungle tea.

“Who's that then?”

“The fourth member of our order. He has only recently joined us.”

“Doesn't he eat breakfast?” asked Stratton.

“He has already eaten,” said Majami. “He is outside meditating. I will take you to him in a while. The villagers called him ‘Mardkonmarna' – the man who cannot die.”

Stratton finished his breakfast quietly, curious about Majami's keenness for him to meet this other monk. A crazy idea kept popping into his head, returning ever stronger each time he tried to dismiss it.

By the time breakfast was finished and they had washed the plates Stratton was eager to go and find the mystery monk. Majami led him down a series of paths until they reached a small clearing next to a stream. The monk was sitting in the lotus position on a large flat rock. His head was shaved and he wore a white robe. Stratton walked up beside him and sat down on an adjacent rock. The monk opened one eye and glanced across.

“I wondered when you were going to get here,” he said.

“I've been busy.”

“What, saving the world?”

“Not exactly, it kind of saved itself.”

“So, you're no longer needed then?” said the monk.

“I guess not.”

“Do you think they'll remember what has happened? Do you think they'll learn from their mistakes?”

“Who knows,” said Stratton. “You know the old saying – you can lead a horse to water…”

“What about Stella?” asked the monk. “What's happened to her?”

“She's gone off with Jennings. Best thing really I guess. They love each other more than anything.”

The monk nodded sagely. “And what about the knowledge? Did you bring back the box?”

“No, it's been destroyed. And so has the copy the Vatican made. It only exists in my head now.”

The monk reached to his side and produced a plain wooden box. “I made this for you,” he said. “It just needs the lid doing. Perhaps you'd like to finish it off.”

Stratton took the box. It was pretty much exactly the same size as the original, with a secret compartment underneath. Inside he found a small chisel. “Thanks, mate,” he said.

“It's not a problem,” said the monk. “Just don't fuck it up.”

Stratton grinned. “Fuck off, Oggi.” He picked up the chisel and started to carve.

The End

Roundfire Books put simply, publish great stories. Whether it's literary or popular, a gentle tale or a pulsating thriller, the connecting theme in all Roundfire fiction titles is that once you pick them up you won't want to put them down.