Excavation

One of the robed men was clearly the leader. He stood a bit taller than the others and was the only one with a prominent silver pectoral cross.

“Monks…” Philip muttered in amazement.

Some of the Indians dropped to their knees at the feet of these religious men and bowed for a blessing. While the other monks placed palms atop heads and whispered prayers in Spanish, the head of this group approached Philip.

The man shrugged back his own cowl to reveal a strong handsome face framed by black hair. “We have heard of your time of need, my son,” he said simply. “My name is Friar Dominic Otera, and we’ve come to offer what aid we can.”

Philip blinked. English! The man had spoken English! He suppressed an urge to step over and hug the friar. Instead, he tried to compose himself enough to speak. “How… how did you -?”

The monk held up a hand. “On our journey among the small nearby villages, we came upon the Indians you sent for help. I’ve sent them on to Villacuacha to alert the authorities, but in the meantime, we’ve come to offer prayers and consolation in the tragedy here.”

Philip felt himself sag as his burden was finally eased. There were now others – others who spoke English – who could share his anxiety. Philip found himself blathering, unable to form a clear thought, blurting out a mixture of heartfelt thanks interspersed with his own worries. None of it made sense.

Friar Otera crossed to Philip and placed a cool palm upon his cheek. “Calm yourself, my son.”

His touch centered Philip. “Yes… yes… where are my manners? You’ve all traveled far and must be thirsty and famished.”

The monk lowered his face. “The Lord is all the sustenance we need, but as travelers we would be remiss in refusing your hospitality.”

Philip bobbed his head like a fool; he could not help himself, so giddy with relief was he. “Then, please, come to my tent. I have juice, water, and can put together some quick sandwiches.”

“That is most gracious. Then perhaps, out of the harsh sun, you can tell me what has befallen your group.”

Philip led the monks toward the cluster of tents, though he noticed that three lagged behind, continuing their ministrations among the workers.

The friar noticed that Philip had paused. “They will join us later. The Lord’s work must always come first.”

Swinging back around, Philip nodded. “Of course.” In short order, Philip and the friar were ensconced in his personal tent upon camp chairs. Resting between them was a platter of hard cheeses and sliced meats. The other two monks had shyly accepted glasses of fresh guava juice and had retired outside in the shadow of the tent, leaving Friar Otera and Philip in peace.

After sampling what Philip offered, the friar leaned back in the canvas chair with a sigh of gratitude. “Most delicious and kind.” He placed both palms upon his knees, studying Philip. “Now tell me, my son, what has happened here? How can we help?”

Philip sipped his juice and collected himself. The simple duties as host had calmed his nerves, but he found himself unable to meet the friar’s gaze. In the dim tent, the man’s eyes were dark, penetrating shadows, wells that seemed to see into his soul. Philip had been raised Presbyterian but had never been particularly religious. Yet, he could sense power in this quiet figure who sat opposite him, and his initial relief had slowly changed to a mild trepidation in the presence of the man. He knew he could not lie to him; the monk would know his true heart.

Setting down his glass, Philip began his story of Gil’s betrayal and subsequent sabotage. “… and after the explosion, the temple continued to collapse in on itself, driving those trapped deeper and deeper. There was nothing I could do to help them.”

Friar Otera nodded his head, once, like a benediction. “Be at peace, Philip. You’ve done all you could.”

Philip drew strength from these words. He had done all he could. He sat up straighter as he continued relating how the Indians were attempting to dig a rescue shaft, and how Sam and the others had discovered a secret tunnel behind a golden idol. He found himself going on and on. He even described Sam’s discovery of the statue’s key. “A gold knife that somehow transformed.”

The friar’s eyes grew wide at this last bit, slowing Philip’s tale. The monk interrupted, “A gold knife and a hidden tunnel into the mountain?” The man’s voice had grown strangely dark and deep.

“Yes,” Philip said tentatively.

The friar was silent a moment, then returned to his normal even demeanor. “Thank the Lord for their salvation. At least your friends found a safe shelter. The Lord always opens a way for those of good heart.”

“I hope to have the rescue shaft completed in two days or so. But if the Indians I sent can fetch more help -?”

Friar Otera suddenly stood. “Fear not. The Lord will watch over all those here. In his eyes, we are all his beloved sheep. No harm will come.”

Philip quickly pushed from his own chair, meaning to accompany the friar.