The Breath of Night (40 page)

‘To think that a casual remark should have led to all this!’

‘I am sorry for you. You must be finding the life here hard. And now there is bad news to add to the pain.’

‘There’s one compensation, I suppose; the writing’s going great guns,’ Philip said, ruing another inopportune image. ‘Coming here has given an unexpected boost to my novel. I’ve had so much time on my hands that I might even finish it before I return home.’

‘Then you will have to send us a book and we will read it in turns.’

‘I can hardly put “somewhere in the Sierra Madre” on the package.’

‘This is true,’ Irene said, walking away. ‘Then you must tell us the story, so that we can read it in our heads.’

After more than four months in the camp and nearly five hundred pages of his novel, Philip gave up the daily tally of his captivity. He could no longer listen to Irene and her comrades extolling the spirit of the forest without feeling as brutish as one of the prisoners who had tattooed their names on JJ’s skin. Besides, it felt increasingly irrelevant. The notches, now well into three figures, were no longer his primary timescale. Although he woke up every morning in the mountains, he spent the rest of the day in Manila, San Isidro, Pampanga or Cauayan, with Maribel, Max and Dennis; his imagination had become more real to him than his life. His captors remarked incredulously on his good humour, but it was no act. ‘The healing power of art’, which had
hitherto struck him as an empty phrase, coined by people with neither the talent nor the discipline to be doctors, had taken on new meaning. Not the dirt or the lice or the rain or the cold or the unchanging diet or the primitive sanitation could dampen his enthusiasm for his work. Suspecting that confinement had freed his creativity, he even worried that a precipitate ransom or rescue might stifle his inspiration. He wondered whether his obsession, bordering on mania, were the mark of a true artist, or whether he had absorbed the fanaticism of the platoon.

So it was with mixed feelings that he greeted Rommel’s announcement that Julian, who had been in Bicol throughout his detention, was coming to the camp on official business. After months of longing for just such a visit, Philip felt
threatened.
The Julian whom he had read about, talked about and written about had attained such near-mythic status that he was convinced the man himself must be a disappointment. To calm his nerves, he left his hut on the morning of Julian’s arrival, slipping into a secluded clearing where he sheltered beneath his favourite tree, its huge trunk crowned by an umbrella-like canopy of leaves, with a sheet of moss hanging from one of its lower boughs. He was perched on its buttress of roots,
studying
the mosaic of foliage, when he was roused by a discreet but emphatic cough.

‘I trust that I’m not disturbing you.’

‘Hardly!’ Philip replied with an unexpected burst of
resentment
. ‘You’re the reason I’m here.’

‘Not at my behest, I assure you. Shall we be very English and shake hands?’

‘Of course.’ As he stood to face Julian, Philip was struck by a series of anomalies. He walked with a stick (which looked to have been freshly stripped from a laurel branch), but his grip was firm. His shoulders were stooped, but his spine was straight and his stomach taut. His pewter hair was thick, but his skin was blotchy with unshaven patches on his cheeks and chin. A milky film covered his eyes.

‘Julian Tremayne, I presume.’

‘That sounds rehearsed.’

‘Only since yesterday, when they told me you were finally coming. I thought I’d got as close to you as I ever would when I visited your tomb.’

‘Ah, there you have the advantage of me.’

‘That’s not the way it looks from where I’m standing.
Requiescat
in Pace
, according to the inscription.’

‘I apologise if you’re here under false pretences.’

‘That doesn’t begin to describe it.’

‘I’m a little confused as to why you’re here at all. My
comrades
informed me that you were sent out by my niece and her husband. Do you work for Hugh?’

‘I was engaged to their daughter.’

‘Really?’ Julian smiled shyly. ‘I christened her, if it’s the same one, when I was last in England.’

‘She had no sister.’

‘Then it is. How idiotic of me! I forget her name.’

‘Julia. She was named after you.’

‘Oh, yes.’ He looked wretched. ‘That must be why I’ve
forgotten
. But you speak as if the engagement’s over.’

‘She died.’

‘No. How terrible! I’m so sorry. But how? She was young. She can’t have been –’

‘Twenty-three.’

‘I’m so sorry.’

‘And I should also tell you that her brother, Greg, died at the same time. There was a car crash.’

‘Poor Isabel! My poor dear Isabel! She so longed for children. I can’t begin… Are there any other boys?’

‘No.’

‘This is one time when I feel truly dead. When there’s nothing I can say or do to comfort her: when I can’t even write.’

‘Believe me, you’ve brought her more comfort than a
thousand
letters of condolence. The only thing that she lives for now
is to see you canonised. The one way she can leave her mark. A kind of sanctity by association.’

‘That’s sad.’

‘Under the circumstances I’d have to agree. She was so
frustrated
with the pace of the episcopal investigation that she sent me out here to speed things up.’

‘She hasn’t changed. Even as a girl she was always bubbling with enthusiasm for her latest cause.’

‘But at least then they had some value: animal welfare and the like.’

‘She discussed them with you?’

‘I read your letters. I’m sorry; I thought you were dead.’

‘An easy mistake.’

‘I would never have presumed if I’d known the truth.’

‘Do you mind if we walk a little? My back tends to seize up if I stand still for too long.’

‘Not at all. Just a second.’ Philip rubbed his arms and legs with the crushed leaves that Irene had given him. ‘Once bitten…’

‘Akapulko leaves. I’m impressed. You’re becoming a true man of the forest.’

‘The mosquitoes don’t think so. They make a beeline for me – if that’s not a contradiction in terms.’

‘Me too! My friends used to claim it was poetic justice. Nature’s revenge on Caucasians. Ready?’

‘Sure. Is there anywhere special you want to go?’

‘Everywhere is special up here. Shall we say “wherever the spirit moves us”?’

Philip watched anxiously as Julian strode off through a clump of ferns and down a path lined with bracken, fungus and pine needles. ‘Are you sure you can manage? It’s fairly rough underfoot.’

‘Don’t worry, I’ve been down far rougher paths than this. And not just figuratively.’

Philip felt impelled to keep pace with the older man, while maintaining a steady flow of conversation. ‘Did you have any
idea that the Bishop of Baguio had launched an investigation into your’ – He struggled to articulate the phrase ‘– “heroic virtue”?’

‘Certainly,’ Julian replied. ‘I follow the news on the radio and in the papers far more assiduously than I ever did in San Isidro.’

‘So how do you feel about the prospect of becoming a saint?’

‘I can honestly say it has no meaning for me at all. I may not be dead, but the priest they’re investigating is.’

‘It may not mean anything to you, but it means a great deal to the people who believe in you: who’ve based their faith on an illusion.’

‘Mightn’t an illusion lead them towards a deeper truth? I remember when I was at the seminary in Holland and, without (it should be said) official sanction, we each chose a handful of the ten thousand or so saints and tried to assess their
authenticity
. One of mine was St Margaret, who escaped from the belly of a dragon by making the sign of the cross. Yet she was a great favourite in San Isidro. Must we dispatch her into some kind of spiritual lumber room, or can we acknowledge that as a focus of devotion she can be a force for good?’

‘You amaze me! You sound exactly like the Vicar General of Baguio.’

‘I don’t know him, I’m afraid. He’s new since my day.’

‘He professes a kind of Christian utilitarianism: the greatest good is what promotes the greatest belief in the greatest number.’

‘I think you’d find that where we part company is in the
application
of that belief.’

‘True! I haven’t read any letters he wrote thirty or forty years ago – and I may be doing him an injustice – but I doubt that there’d be page after page about the need to live according to the gospel.’

‘I’m relieved; I was afraid there’d be interminable accounts of domestic trivia.’

‘You’re missing the point! For the past twenty years – more – you’ve been living a lie.’

‘Have I?’ Julian came to a halt on a narrow ridge overlooking a vast coniferous slope, dotted with waterlogged gullies. ‘Don’t forget that Father Julian Tremayne isn’t living at all. I went to immense efforts – there’s “heroic”, if you like – to kill him off. I make no claims of any sort on his behalf. But, if you’re
speaking
of the claims that others make for him, remember that there were those who credited him with miraculous powers during his lifetime.’

‘What about you?’ Philip asked, perturbed by Julian’s switch to the third person.

‘As a priest, I always believed that I was an instrument of the Divine Will, irrespective of my own merits. Perhaps God will choose to work through me again? Perhaps the Blessed – even Saint – Julian will keep alive the memory of Father Julian and his lifelong quest for justice which will in turn inspire others to take up the cause?’

‘That may already have started. There’s an Ibaloi tribesman who swears that he woke one night to see you standing over him, holding up two rifles in the shape of a cross.’ Julian burst out laughing. ‘Why’s that funny?’

‘I’m sorry. Did he say where he saw me?’

‘Not that I recall. I’ve only read the official report.’

‘If you check the dates, I think you’ll find it was the night of a raid on the Lamtang gold mine. As we were driving away, we passed a drunk sprawled in the middle of the road. I jumped out of the truck to move him. He must have seen and recognised me in the glare of the headlights. Now that truly is a miracle!’

‘Have you taken part in a lot of raids?’ Philip asked tentatively.

‘I’ve obeyed whatever orders I’ve been given. That’s something that has never changed. When I was ordained, I was taught that the essence of priesthood is to offer up one’s life unconditionally. The same holds true for a revolutionary.’

‘The commitment may be the same, but everything else – doctrine, practice, let alone the end result – couldn’t be more different.’

‘Not at all. It took me many years, but I finally came to realise that the gun is as much an instrument of salvation as the chalice.’

Philip wondered whether spending so long undercover had affected Julian’s brain. ‘So are you saying that you became a
revolutionary
because you lost your faith?’

‘No, I’ve never lost my faith – at least not in the way you imply. But I’ve lost my faith in the power of faith. I no longer believe that all I have to do is to ask and God will answer, even if it’s only to tell me that I’m not worthy of His help. I believe that He has already given us all the answers: in Christ, of course, but also in Moses.’

‘You mean in the Ten Commandments?’

‘No, in the Exodus. The hero who set his people free.’

‘But what if people don’t want to be free? What if bitter
experience
has left them wary of change? Better the devil you know and all that!’

‘Didn’t the Jews turn against Moses? Remember how they attacked him: “Was it for lack of graves in Egypt that you had to lead us out to die in the desert?” The paradox is that like all great revolutionaries (and I choose my words with care), Moses had to impose his own will on the people in order that they could express theirs.’

‘And you’re suggesting that the same applies to you?’

‘No, not at all.’ Julian sounded offended. ‘I’m saying the same applies to the movement of which I’m a part.’

‘A movement which, unless I’ve got it wrong, is implacably secular. In the four months I’ve been held captive, I’ve not once heard God mentioned, except in a curse.’

‘I’d be surprised if you had. I’m here not as a priest but as a fighter. My comrades don’t see my presence as legitimising theirs. If anything, they feel it’s the other way round. But my priesthood – my former priesthood – informs everything I do.’

‘Including murder?’

‘In certain circumstances.’ Julian paused. ‘I understand – and respect – your objections to bloodshed, but as a Christian I’ve
always believed in the “just war”. I was born during one and I’ve no doubt that I will die during another, the only difference being that the first took place on a world stage and the second is locked within national borders. Our enemies can smear us with terms such as “terrorists”, but the truth is that we’re fighters for justice and freedom: in other words, soldiers for Christ.’

‘I feel as if the rug has been pulled out from under me. I came here suspecting that you’d been the victim of a murder plot and instead find that you’re the one brandishing the gun.’

‘If it’s any consolation, I haven’t fired a shot in years. I’m going blind, which makes me a liability.’

Philip was suddenly aware of Julian’s proximity to the edge of the ridge. In quick succession he imagined the harrowing scream as he stumbled and fell, the guilty verdict of the
kangaroo
court and the volley of shots as he himself was condemned to summary execution. ‘Don’t you think you should stand a bit further back?’ he asked.

‘Don’t worry. I can make out shapes, just not details.’

‘So long as you’re sure,’ Philip said doubtfully. ‘I don’t want to open old wounds, but I have to ask about Quesada. Were you in any way involved in his death?’

‘No. I’ve no reason to lie to you. I’ve made it clear that I have no qualms – although I may have regrets – about taking all
necessary
steps to advance the revolution. But while I supported the NPA’s aims and gave them whatever help and information I could, I didn’t take part in any of their actions until I joined them in 1989.’