The hot evening seemed endless. Although the sun had already hidden behind the horizon, the sky still flared with red flowers.
Days were becoming even hotter, and there was no mercy for those who, having left their home, came to this land of sand and drought. An aged gray-haired traveler sat on the sizzling sand, trying to shake at least a couple more water drops out of his iron flask. He was at the point of no longer wanting anything, neither food nor drink, and even the very thing for which he had headed here with a group of explorers now seemed one big absurdity. His only desire was to fall asleep and wake up in his beloved England where there were no sandstorms, only thick fogs, dear to his heart.
He dreamed about how he would go home, sleep for an entire week, and for the next week he would wander around the streets of London, in solitude, soaking in the moisture of the fog. He would visit his sister—the one he couldn’t forgive no matter how many times taught his small parish about forgiveness. And a month later he would return to the pulpit, full of strength and determination to change the world, proving that the so-called “collection of myths and legends” points at real events and was the true Word of God Himself.
<->He’d already gathered a lot of proof, and now the old camera held scores of priceless photographs. The sufferer sat on the sand, among scorpions scurrying back and forth, and fantasized how his photos would get in the biggest papers of England, and then of the whole world. Then the world would open its eyes, and everyone would understand how very mistaken they were.
“Sir, we have put up a tent for you.”
“Oh, yes.” The gray-haired minister emerged from his dreams and fantasies.
“My men brought skins with water, would you like to bathe?” A tall, broad-shouldered man standing over him spoke in fluent English, his tone eager to please.
The old explorer couldn’t even dream of such luxury. He’d been surprised once again. What a strange man he was with, this fellow he’d met over a week ago in the God forsaken land. Like a guardian angel who’d come down from heaven with his three friends, showing up to protect him in the most difficult hour.
It was him they assisted in survival, while the rest of the group was dead. All fifteen men…
That last week flashed through his memory. Tuesday. A sandstorm buried two people alive somewhere in the sands of Iraq. Wednesday. A sudden thunderstorm, three more were hit by lightning. Thursday. Plotting something, five men walked behind the rest of the group and were swallowed by quicksand. Friday. From a bite of a strange insect, almost instantly, died another man. And these four who came out of nowhere had always stayed with him, as if guarding him.
On Saturday, the last surviving members of his team told him that the foursome were not men but demons protecting the mysteries of this land, and by the time he understood that, it would be too late. On that same night they had all gotten sick, and by dawn fever took them away from the fallen earth.
What if it’s true, and they are not angels? Who are they, these four mysterious strangers? What if they are demons, or—
No, that was just his sick imagination and despair painting frightening pictures…
But perhaps he had grown so insane during the last several months that he lost the ability to discern good and evil? He had stopped praying. He had become possessed with his idea. Or was it the approach of a new twentieth century affecting him so?
I must pray! Then everything will get back to normal.
He drank some of the water that was brought to him; it seemed a little salty, but his thirst was so strong that even if it were swamp water he would still have drunk it. Then he washed his face, and having thrown off his clothes, asked to be bathed from head to foot. The strange smell of the water could not spoil the pleasure he felt as streams of reviving moisture ran down his dehydrated body.
But the water does have a strange smell. Or am I getting paranoid? Insanity, it pounds in the temples as if someone is playing a drum in my head…
The Englishman bowed to the kind strangers.
Although the lower parts of their faces were covered with masks made of fine black fabric, the pastor knew they were smiling. He wanted to ask them something but, feeling slightly dazed, thanked them once more and went to the tent, wiping away traces of water from his tired body.
The pastor entered his tent and knelt. He tried to pray, but he could not say a word. His tongue grew numb and couldn’t obey.
He struggled to say something, but the inside of his mouth burned, as if a swarm of bees entered it, stinging again and again, every second. The old man fell on the floor in excruciating pain and crawled to his backpack. He pulled out a small mirror he used for shaving.
Terror gripped him. His face, still wet from washing, was covered with scarlet drops. How did he fail to see right away that it was blood, not water? Thoughts rushed through his head in a crazy stream, splashing over each other, so fast that he could only catch bits and pieces. …blood, not water… …whose blood?... …WHY!... …help…
The swarm buzzed deeper, into his stomach, covering everything on its way with bloody sores. …Blood – infected… …it is my fault, I didn’t believe them… …who are these people, why do they need us dead?... Struggling with his thoughts, the minister at last seized the one thought that was the most real, most resolute. He grabbed the Bible belonging to one of his dead friends; it happened to be in his backpack on the day he’d died and was the only memory left of the man. The edition had a small defect: it missed the second part of the book of Judges and the whole book of Ruth; instead it had empty pages, on which the owner of the Bible had been writing letters to himself, something like a diary. The minister used to think it a little too bold, almost blasphemous, but now he realized that it was the only source of information about what had been going on and what he had not seen.
The old man clung to every word, searching for salvation, but there was nothing there except for facts and descriptions of findings. Not wasting time, he flipped a couple of pages and found the day when their team was joined by the four men. The pastor read and couldn’t believe his eyes. How blind he was, trusting these strange people who never even showed their faces, hiding them behind the cloth masks. How foolish he turned out to be, telling them about all his plans and revealing secrets. He was bewitched, as the owner of the secret diary put it.
But there was a blank page, almost asking him to write at least a couple of words. He snatched a pencil and, struggling with pain, began to scribble uneven English letters.
Twenty minutes later one of the masked men walked into the tent and looked at the dead old Englishman. The pastor’s face twisted. His hands, covered with small sores, clutched a Bible in a leather cover. His eyes gone.
“Is everything all right?” asked the chief.
“Yes. Only…”
“What?”
“He died with the Bible in his hands.”
“That’s the way it should be, he’s a minister!” And the dark chief laughed in such a way that the desert itself shuddered in fear. A lean black stallion with scarlet eyes came galloping at the sound of his laugh.
“We’ve got nothing else to do here.”
Out of nowhere, a fiery torch ignited in the man’s hand. The horseman threw it in the tent, and the tent burst into flames, like a splinter of wood placed on hot coals.
Sudden wind rose somewhere in the east, lifting dust and sand in a huge wave that swallowed the four horsemen and buried the mystery of Paradise together with its last explorer.