The Caleb Collection

by Ted Dekker

  She watched the muscles on his arm flex as he gripped the wheel. It took a strong man to live in this country, and he’d done it for two years, he’d said. He wore blue jeans and a well-worn khaki shirt rolled at the sleeves, both layered with dust—typical American.

  “Maybe the soldier was wearing a vest of some kind,” she said. “Or you hit his belt or something. Enough to knock him out without hurting him.”

  Jason nodded. “Makes sense.” He shook his head. “What doesn’t make sense is why they haven’t picked up the chase again. But they’re coming. There’s no way they chased us this far if they had any intention of letting us go. Something’s not adding up.”

  “And why do you suppose they took off in the first place?”

  “They fled because they were terrified by my carefully placed shots, that’s why,” he said, grinning. “Either way they did. For now anyway.”

  She smiled, slightly amused. “So you’re with the Peace Corps? They’ve already been withdrawn from Eritrea.”

  “And from northern Ethiopia. Trust me, I’m not out sightseeing. I did this as a favor to an old friend who I’ll probably never see again.”

  “How long have you been with the Corps?”

  “Almost two years on this assignment. Before that, two years in the Congo. Not much better than this.”

  “So you don’t approve?”

  He looked at her past her furrowed eyebrows. “I wouldn’t have given four years of my life to this place if I didn’t care for the people. I don’t see you running back to Eritrea.”

  “My camp was wiped out. I saw hundreds of unarmed civilians killed in less than an hour. I’m not running from the people.”

  “And neither am I.”

  Neither spoke for a few minutes. She had never been good with men. At least not North American men. It was part of her reason for leaving Canada seven years earlier. A head doctor—Dr. Flannagan, his gold door sign read—had once given her some psychobabble about insecurities brought on by her burns, but she rejected the reasoning wholesale. She could hardly be more secure.

  And what if Dr. Flannagan was right?

  So what if he was right? Everyone on the planet struggled with at least a smidgen of insecurity.

  She shook her head at the thought. “I’m sorry. Like I said, it’s been a bad day. So what are you running from?” That sounded bad, so she quickly explained. “They say that everybody in Africa is running from something.”

  Jason stared ahead without turning, his jaw line firm. It struck her looking at him that his complexion was as pure as she had seen. Darkened by the sun and silted with dust, but unbroken.

  “I have a degree in agriculture,” he finally said. “I’ve spent the last two years with the Irob people on the border, propagating an unusual method of soil conservation they developed.”

  “Really? How so?”

  He looked at her carefully, as if to judge whether she had genuine interest. “They build sandstone walls along the escarpments leading down to the Red Sea to collect soil that washes from the highlands.”

  “The Alitena gardens. I’ve heard of them,” she said.

  He looked surprised. “You have? And what brings you?”

  “Me? I’m just a nurse.” She didn’t let him pursue the question. “So then, here we are, the Peace Corps and the Red Cross. Regardless of how we got here, we’re now on the same mission. We might as well make the best of it.”

  “And what mission would that be?”

  “The boy, of course.”

  “Your mission?”

  “Ours. Why not?”

  She shifted her gaze to a small cluster of stone huts on the outskirts of Biset. A young man leaned on his cane next to a smoldering field of tef grain. The man watched them pass with a blank stare.

  Leiah looked over her shoulder. Caleb had his head twisted back, watching the scene. He must have sensed her, because he turned around. His large aqua eyes locked onto her, questioning and thoroughly innocent. He stared into her eyes without blinking. What kind of boy was this who had never seen beyond the monastery until today? And what did he make of these two people arguing before him? For that matter, could he even understand their words?

  She suddenly wanted to reach out and take the boy into her arms.

  Leiah cleared her throat and spoke slowly in her broken Amharic. “Are you all right, Caleb?”

  He hesitated and then nodded. “Hara,” he said softly. Yes. He looked away then, without changing his expression.

  Leiah felt a sudden lump rise to her throat. The boy was like her in many ways. They were both alone. So much alone.

  “Let me take the boy to Kenya,” she said.

  Jason didn’t answer.

  “There’s a refugee camp on the border. I was thinking of possibly going there. Or I could take him to the coast. Either way he would be safe with me.” She would’ve thought Jason would jump at the suggestion. Instead he avoided her look and stared ahead.

  “Father Matthew wanted him out of the country, didn’t he? I’ll take him for you,” she offered. “In a way his evacuation provided for mine. It’s the least I can do.”

  “We’ll see,” he said.

  They drove south on a paved road now, quiet in their own thoughts.

  Caleb’s mind spun with the new world. When he climbed into the truck and buried his head in the woman’s garment, he’d told himself that it was all another vision—a dream in the night. It had to be, because even though Dadda had told him that the world was going to change, nothing in real life could be like this.

  But when he’d opened his eyes, the world had not changed. He was still in the truck (he knew it was a truck because he’d seen a picture of one in the book Father Timons had shown him once), and he was still moving very fast on the hard path. What was this, a part of the kingdom of heaven? Or maybe hell—he was being shown hell. But it wasn’t a vision, was it?

  The mountains seemed much bigger than he would have guessed. Dadda had told him that the hills around the monastery went very far and reached very high, but looking at them now for the first time he thought they were touching the sky. If he could climb up one of those, he might be able to see God.

  He looked at the man and woman in the front. They called each other Jason and Leiah, and it was obvious that Jason and Leiah were both angry people. They didn’t know how to speak kindly. It was no wonder Dadda had suggested he not leave the monastery until it was time. And if he was leaving the monastery as Dadda had told him he would one day, he didn’t know how he could manage with such odd men and women. Even the ones in the other truck had been angry. The world was full of grumpy, angry people who wanted to hurt each other.

  But Jason did not mean to hurt him—he knew that. Miss Leiah loved him. So did Jason, he thought, although he wasn’t very good with showing his love. He should spend a few years with Dadda.

  Caleb heard the sound of a bird, and he turned to a gaping valley beside the road. Below them, but high above a tiny river, glided a big bird. Maybe as big as he. The sight sent a chill down his spine. What a lovely creature! They had pigeons and doves and some other small birds at the monastery, but nothing so big.

  When he returned he would have to tell Dadda about this bird.

  If I could be a bird,

  If I could be a bird,

  I would fly to heaven and land in my Father’s hair.

  He smiled.

  Jason drove south with a feeling of disconcertion gnawing at his mind, as if a tick were working discreetly away up there. He had a surplus of excuses, of course: it was not every day you saw a monastery obliterated seconds after stepping from its sanctuary. And how many of this planet’s inhabitants would ever have a stream of bullets part their hair while they lay sweating on the ground? It was no wonder his head was throbbing.

  Then again he was alive, which was in itself a wonder.

  It’s the boy, Jason.

  He grunted and was rewarded with a quick look from Leiah. The nurse with th
e stunning face and the scarred body and a mouth big enough to swallow Africa. It was her offer to take the boy that dug at him, he thought. Which made no sense. He could be rid of both of them with the nod of his head, for crying out loud. And this was not good?

  Not really.

  No? And why not, dear Jason? Father Matthew would approve.

  It suddenly occurred to him that he hadn’t examined the papers Father Matthew had given him. He pulled the envelope from his breast pocket, steadied the wheel with his left knee, and tore it open. Inside were two sheets of paper. He managed to unfold them without running off the road. An immigration form and a letter.

  He scanned the pages quickly, surprised by their content.

  “What is it?” Leiah asked. It was her first question in over an hour.

  “Nothing.”

  But it was something. The form was a consular general recommendation for Temporary Protective Status under section 44 of the Immigration and Naturalization Law, completed and signed by the priest and an embassy official. If Jason wasn’t mistaken, an Immigration and Naturalization Service officer had been persuaded that the boy might have claim to U.S. citizenship as a birthright. His mother may have been an American nurse.

  The commander who had deposited the boy at the monastery’s gates had killed an American nurse. Or so the theory went, but the evidence was inconclusive. Still, enough cause for investigation.

  Furthermore, as long as Caleb remained on the African continent, his life was at risk. Father Matthew had signed custody of the boy over to World Relief ’s resettlement program. All it required was the signature of an authorized agent of custody in the event of the priest’s death.

  Father Matthew wanted the boy in the United States.

  Of course that was insane. There was no way Jason could take the boy back to the States with him. He shoved the papers back into his pocket.

  “They’re for the boy?” Leiah asked.

  “Yes.”

  “And?”

  “And we’ll need to pull over for gas in Woldia. Maybe, just maybe, we’ve made it far enough south to avoid any more run-ins with the EPLF. I don’t want to hold you up. If you want, you could take a bus to wherever you’re going.”

  “Take a bus from Woldia? To where?”

  “You mentioned Kenya.”

  She hesitated. “With the boy?”

  “I’m still thinking about the boy. Either way you could go.”

  “Why do I get the feeling you wouldn’t mind my going?”

  “I didn’t say that. You’re headed for Kenya; I’m not.”

  “I really think the boy should stay with me. I’m with the Red Cross, for goodness’ sake. He’s now a refugee; let me take him.”

  He didn’t respond.

  She turned away from him and stared at the passing hills. They fell into an awkward silence.

  Jason considered apologizing. She hardly deserved the cold shoulder he was dishing out. Thing of it was, he didn’t even know why he was so bothered by her. She’d done nothing to hurt him or the boy. She was strong willed; that much she couldn’t hide if she wanted to. But then he was usually attracted to strong women.

  It’s the boy, Jason.

  They rolled on to the hum of the road. Jason looked back once and met the boy’s eyes. They stared large and innocent. His dark, wavy hair fluttered in the wind. He sat with his hands limp in his lap, and it occurred to Jason that he was in shock.

  Jason smiled. “Tadius.” Hello, friend.

  “Tadius,” the boy returned, smiling sheepishly.

  It was the first smile since leaving the monastery, Jason thought. His heart suddenly felt heavy staring into those innocent round eyes. He faced the road and swallowed. Maybe it was the boy.

  Beside him Leiah had nodded off with her head against the roll bar. Her hair lay against her cheek in delicate black strands. Her complexion was smooth over her nose and her lips, down past her chin to the base of her neck, where the burn scars began. Looking at it now, Jason blinked at the sight. Judging by the scarred tissue at her wrists, he surmised that her whole upper torso had been baked in a fire. The fire had either missed her face, or reconstructive surgery had given her a new one.

  Either way, the result was a stunning display of contrasts. Watching her at any distance in her tunic, you would see only a beautiful woman with a silky tanned face and the eyes of the sky. But under her garments lay a mangled mess of skin.

  Jason removed his eyes and studied the asphalt rolling to meet them. He had been too hard on her. Whatever had brought her to this rugged land was no less than his own reason for coming. What are you running from? she had asked. And what are you running from, Leiah?

  She was right about one thing: they were now both running with the boy . . . this enigma behind them, who had never before today seen an automobile, much less fled for his life in one. Who did not hesitate to run into the field of fire to see a wounded man up close. The boy was either badly disturbed or so totally innocent he simply could not understand even the most obvious threat. He would be lost in a UNHCR refugee camp.

  They rolled into the outskirts of Woldia with the sun nudging the western slope of the Great Rift Valley. The dusty concrete streets were a maze of activity, filled with more than the usual fare of drawn carts and old automobiles spewing plumes of gray smoke. News of the attacks farther north had obviously quickened the pace even this far south.

  “We’re here?” Leiah looked around, dazed by sleep.

  “Welcome to the lovely metroplex of Woldia.”

  She chuckled. Jason braked for a crossing horse-drawn cart loaded with bulging gunnysacks. Wheat. The driver shot them a stern glare and pulled in front of the Jeep without concern for his own safety.

  They pulled into a dilapidated BP gas station five minutes later. An attendant ran out, eager to service them. Even as far south as Woldia, jean-clad Europeans were immediately branded as tourists loaded with cash. Jason asked for a full tank of fuel and an oil check and climbed out. Leiah was already out, extending a hand for the boy, who sat gazing about from his rear-seat perch.

  “Come on, Caleb,” Leiah urged. “Stretch your legs.”

  The boy had settled his stare across the road where a street merchant dressed in a bright red tunic sat surrounded by his caged birds. Jason saw the boy’s interest and motioned to Leiah. “You go ahead and visit the rest room. I’ll take the boy across the street to see the birds.”

  Leiah hesitated before dropping her arm and heading for the small tin shack labeled “Rest Rome” in broad black letters on a cockeyed wooden sign.

  “Come on, kid. You want to see the birds?”

  The boy glanced at him and returned his eyes to the cages. He suddenly stood and hopped to the ground. Without waiting for Jason, he struck out across the street.

  “Hold on!” Jason took after the boy into the busy street. A small pale yellow Fiat honked its horn and slid to a stop three feet from the boy.

  The driver’s face puffed red with angry objections, but the Fiat’s window was up, and Caleb only looked curiously at the man’s shaking jowls. He walked past the car, fixated once again on the birds.

  Jason lifted his hand in a hasty apology to the driver and hurried after the boy. The incident had gathered some attention from pedestrians strolling along the cracked sidewalk. “Caleb . . . Caleb wait.”

  But Caleb did not wait. In fact he was suddenly running. His eyes were now wide in a look of sheer horror, and he ran right up to the merchant’s collection of thirty or so cages.

  They were the typical tubular cages which frequented markets throughout Ethiopia, holding a variety of birds, in this case mostly white-collared pigeons. The merchant had his back turned to Caleb, but at least a dozen onlookers had now stopped and focused on the boy. He was of mixed race, an unusual sight to be sure. But it was his expression, Jason thought; his face held such a blend of innocence and anguish that it would have stopped a dumb mule had one been in front of the boy.

 
At the last possible moment, Jason knew what the boy intended to do, and he broke into a run. He spoke sternly but quietly, not eager to draw attention, although with the running he was beyond that. “Caleb, stop! Don’t touch the birds . . .”

  It was too late. The boy reached the first cage, flipped the gate open, and pulled a rather strange-looking bird free. A look of delight splashed across Caleb’s face as the bird flapped noisily to the sky. He giggled.

  The merchant spun around at the sound, but before either he or Jason could reach him, Caleb had repeated the process with another cage, setting free another bird of the same species. He was turning to a third cage when Jason reached him and grabbed the arm extended for the cage.

  Had Jason not been there, the merchant would have probably slapped the boy’s head from his shoulders. As it was he screamed a string of obscenities and flung his hands to the sky. A crowd was gathering, delighted at the show.

  Jason pulled Caleb back. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why he did that.”

  The merchant immediately switched to English. “You must pay! You must pay!” He looked at the sky, lifted his arms as if beseeching the sky for mercy, and swore in Amharic. “These are very rare birds, you know. Very rare! Abyssinian catbird! You will pay for these now!”

  Jason was reaching for his wallet already. “Yes, of course. I’m sorry. I don’t know what got into him. Please, how much?”

  Around them the crowd was cackling and pointing to the skyline, where the two birds had perched themselves on a three-story building.

  “Very rare, you know. These are very rare, very expensive birds.” The merchant now had his eyes on Jason’s wallet.

  “Of course, and I’m very sorry. Please how much do you want?”

  Caleb stepped away from Jason and stood looking up at the merchant. He spoke in a dialect of Amharic usually reserved for Orthodox religious ceremonies. “What will you do with these birds?”

  The sound of the language from the boy’s mouth cut through the crowd like a sword. A hush swallowed their laughter. The merchant looked from the boy to Jason and then back again.

  “Please, tell me what you will do with these birds,” the boy repeated.