“They’re all dead!” Lomar cried. “All of the highlanders I have spent so long building friendships with are dead!”

Lomar’s anguished voice trembled as he reported to the church last Sabbath. He had just spent a week building his family’s house near the highland village where he planned to minister. What he had found had shocked him.

“Just as I arrived in the village,” Lomar continued, “A little six-year-old girl ran to her father, clinging desperately to his legs as sobs racked her body. She had just gone to the nearby spring to get some water. Walking into the clearing, she found the bodies of her friends and relatives scattered around the spring. They had been murdered through witchcraft and had fallen dead in their tracks without a scratch or a mark on their bodies. The image of their corpses, terror still seared on their cold faces, will haunt that poor little girl to her final hour.

“Friends!” Lomar pleaded, “we have to go! We have to help them! It is time! It’s almost too late! We must go! Won’t you go with me?”

No one spoke. No one stood up. Lomar watched them with desperation in his eyes. “I must go. I cannot wait for you any longer. Whether you go with me or not, I must go!”

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