Into the Storm

by Lisa Bingham

  Emotions wound in my stomach mirroring the snakes as they twisted tighter and tighter in alarm. I could understand just how those creatures felt, because I was trapped as surely as they were. Trapped. Angry. Filled with a sickening dread.

  And confusion.

  How had I come to this point? How, in the space of a few years, could my father have transformed from a stern disciplinarian…

  Into a monster. A monster who insisted that I hold one of these deadly reptiles to prove I was among God’s chosen followers.

  We’d been coming to this church in the hills long enough for my father to assume the role of preacher and for me to know what to expect. Either the snake would accept the worshiper’s faith and God would intercede to provide protection, or the serpent would strike. If so, there would be no medical intervention. The venom that surged through one’s body would be God’s punishment for a lack of devotion.

  A chorus of “amens” rose from the congregation as my father held the rough wooden box high for all to see. The snakes hissed in protest, heads rearing, the rattles shaking and adding to the din.

  Somewhere from the back, a woman began singing The Old Rugged Cross. I could feel the crowd’s anticipation swelling, seeming to suck the very air from the room. My knees trembled so horribly I thought I would drop, so I locked them together until spots swam in front of my eyes and I gulped air into my lungs to keep from swaying.

  “RueAnn Boggs has come willingly before the serpent to prove the depth of her commitment and devotion to God.”

  Come willingly? I hadn’t come willingly. I’d been threatened and bullied into performing this ritual. I would have been resisting still if my father hadn’t promised to throw me into the street to fend for myself if I didn’t comply.

  Nevertheless, as the box was lowered and extended toward me, I quickly reviewed my options. I was strong. I knew how to work.

  But at eleven years of age, I was also firmly attached to my mother’s apron strings. To my utter shame, I knew that to leave my mother and find my own way in the world would be far more frightening than any snake.

  “Do it,” my father growled. “Take up the serpent and declare yourself worthy before God and this congregation.”

  My tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth, the panic rising like bile. I met my father’s gaze, cringing against the glint of obsession and malice I saw there. I watched as his skin darkened in anger, becoming mottled and purple. Flecks of spittle dotted his lips as he whispered more forcefully, “Take up the serpent, RueAnn Boggs. Show your worthiness to God and to this congregation.”

  He may as well have added: “…and to me.”

  I looked at the snake then, nausea churning in my stomach as I realized that, regardless of the outcome of this experience, my father might decide I had been found wanting in the eyes of God. If so, I could still be disowned.

  Or I could be dead.

  One of the snakes hissed at me, drawing taller against the side of the box. It waved its head from side to side, clearly agitated by the noise and the threat I represented.

  I tried to pray, knowing it was expected of me. But the words skittered across the surface of my brain like water on a hot skillet. Deep down, I knew my faith was lacking. I didn’t know if there was a God—and even if there were, I didn’t know if I wanted to pray to a God who believed in ruling His children through fear and retribution like my father. I wanted my God to be like the painting of Jesus on the schoolhouse wall. The one where the Savior sat in a field watching a flock of puffy white sheep. He’d seemed kind in that picture and slightly distracted.

  “Do it! Now!”

  Knowing my father would probably throw the entire box of snakes at me if I hesitated any longer, I reached out, slowly, carefully. Inwardly, I tried to convince myself that touching the serpent would be no worse than approaching an angry dog. Employing that philosophy, I held out my hand, fingers down, wondering if a snake could smell fear on a person like a canine.

  Mesmerized, I kept my eyes locked on the snake’s tongue as it darted and licked and hissed in anger.

  Don’t bite me, little snake, I repeated in my head.

  Bit by bit, I forced myself to close the gap between us. The tips of my fingers became tingly and numb, but I refused to let them drop. Holding my breath until my chest ached, I slid one hand around its neck, the other beneath the coil near the rattles, scooping the animal into my hands as if it were a baby to be gentled into submission.

  The snake hissed. The rattles shook like milk pods in the wind as I lifted it free of the box.

  Behind me, the singing continued, joined now by a chorus of members shouting, “Praise be!”

  I dared a quick look at my father, shivering at the coldness that shone from his eyes. But I didn’t allow myself to wonder why my actions hadn’t been enough to win his approval. Instead, I gently laid the snake back in the box, then turned to make my way back to my seat.

  I had barely shifted my weight before I heard a movement and felt a searing pain in my back. Crying out, I fell to the ground, but not before I felt the snake clamp down hard on my skin and a burning ache begin to radiate outwards from the spot. Just like my father, the creature had stolen my acceptance and my willingness to give it love, then had lashed out at me all the same.

  “You see!” my father proclaimed loudly as I curled in on myself whimpering. “This child has been found wanting in the eyes of God! He has offered her a warning that she would do well to heed!”

  Closing my eyes tightly, I prayed for the darkness, begging God to take me now if I had proven to be so unworthy. But the blackness never came. Instead, I was left to writhe in agony as the poison began its slow and steady journey toward my heart.

  It was then that I realized there were far worse things than being alone and I began to plot the moment of my escape.

  Your loving wife,

  RueAnn

  Chapter Seventeen

  The muted jangle of the doorbell reverberated through the empty house. Hours had passed since Susan had found Phillip’s note. Her valise still lay at the foot of the stairs and the parlor where she’d collapsed had grown ice-box cold.

  Susan had remained impervious to the discomfort. She’d spent the night huddled in her mother’s chair, reading and rereading her brother’s letter for some clue that might help her to find him and bring him home. But he’d carefully crafted his words so that she’d been left with no information other than he’d run away to join the war.

  The bell rang again, jarring her from the dark cloud of misery and loneliness which had gripped her most of the sleepless night. Pushing herself to her feet, she drew her jumper closer around her neck, moving woodenly to the front door.

  If not for that insistent summons, she supposed she would have continued sitting in her mother’s chair for hours, staring at the wall. She couldn’t shake her feelings of despondency—even though she knew there wasn’t a thing she could do to remedy her mood. She couldn’t bring her parents or her siblings back, couldn’t force Phillip to come home, couldn’t make Paul love her.

  Swinging the door wide, she froze when her gaze fell on the peaked cap of the telegram delivery girl.

  In an instant, Susan was seized with fear.

  No. No more.

  But she must not have uttered the words aloud, because the woman held out the clipboard for her signature.

  “Sorry for the delay in the delivery, Miss,” she said. “I’ve tried your home several times before, but no one’s been home.” Then, after Susan had scribbled something unintelligible on the paper, she handed her the slick envelope and disappeared.

  Even as the delivery girl disappeared into the swirling fog, Susan couldn’t move. The cold twined around her ankles and filled her muscles with lead.

  At long last, knowing that the news could not be changed, only ignored, Susan slit the envelope and unfolded the slip inside.

  Her eyes scanned the message, her brain refusing to make sense of it. So she read the words a
second time. Then a third.

  Finally, meaning seeped into her brain, and when it did, the paper fluttered to the ground as she whirled into action. Racing upstairs, she gathered her purse and coat, hesitating only a moment to grab something from her dresser and shove it deep into her pocket. Then, she was thundering down the staircase again, slamming the door behind her.

  A glance at her watch caused her brow to knit in concern.

  Don’t let her be too late. Please, don’t let her be too late!

  Running to the cross streets, she hailed a taxi. She was sure she had enough in her pocketbook to pay for her fare, but only just.

  “Victoria Station,” she gasped as she slid onto the hard bench seat and slammed the door.

  The taxi crawled toward its destination. With morning approaching—and Londoners emerging from their air raid hidey-holes—traffic was snarled with foot traffic, busses, automobiles, and even horse-drawn carts.

  Susan glanced at her watch, feeling her stomach tighten as the precious minutes ticked away, until, finally, the taxi pulled to a stop just past Carlisle.

  She already had the coins ready in her palm and dropped them quickly into the man’s hand, then darted onto the sidewalk and through the huge brass door.

  Weaving through the thick clumps of travelers, she made her way to the platforms. Panic seized her chest when she realized the train had already pulled away from the station. Dodging, she tried to peer around a trolley overloaded with luggage and a pair of porters scolding the newsboys who stood in their path.

  Darting around them all, her eyes scanned the last of the passengers who remained—an elderly woman with a hatbox; a pair of businessmen walking toward the exit; a stern-faced woman dressed in the severe green wool of the WVS, issuing instructions to a handful of children seated on a bench. The youngsters looked mournful with the strings of their gas mask boxes slung over their chests, their identity tags fluttering in the cold breeze.

  Susan’s gaze skipped to a small girl on the end who had been swinging her feet and banging her heels against the bench supports. She tipped her head and a bright red braid escaped from her hat to tumble over her scarf.

  Susan stutter-stepped to a halt, her hand plunging into her pocket, pulling out the threadbare rabbit she’d stuffed there.

  “Magpie!” she shouted.

  In that instant, the little girl turned. Her eyes were the shade of cornflowers, her nose sprinkled with freckles. Jumping down from the bench, she ran full-force toward Susan.

  Susan knelt to catch her, offering Wuzzy as the fulfillment of a long-uttered promise. But as Margaret threw herself into Susan’s arms, the toy fell to the ground, utterly forgotten.

  In some corner of her brain, Susan acknowledged the woman who rushed toward them. She half-heard the breathless explanation of the way Margaret had been picked up by a Liberty Ship—and due to injury and miscommunication, had only just been returned to her rightful family. In time, Susan supposed she would demand more details, but the woman’s words soon washed over her like so much noise as she breathed deeply of Margaret’s little girl scent and heard her sister proclaim, “I’m home now, Susan. I’m finally home.”

  • • •

  Rouen, France

  The early morning air was bitter cold as the small knot of Resistance members gathered in the woods outside the old abbey. Crouching low in the copse of bushes, Charlie counted eleven—no, fifteen people including Elizabeth and himself. These were no farmers with pitchforks. It was clear from the set of their features and the casual ease with which they handled their weapons that these were battle-hardened guerrillas.

  They’d been resistant when Charlie had insisted on coming along. But Charlie had been adamant. He’d spent far too long inactive, waiting, praying he wouldn’t be discovered. He was itching to strike back, to finish the job he’d been sent to do. The team was going to need as much manpower as possible and Charlie had recovered enough to prove a significant help to them.

  Only then would he allow himself to think of the next step: finding a way home.

  Mere hours ago, Charlie had made good on his promise to help arm the mission. The radio had weathered its long journey, and the batteries had held long enough for him to contact his superiors and arrange for an ammunition drop. Less than twenty-four hours later, he’d been part of the group waiting in an empty field several miles out of Rouen when the Resistance had set up a pair of smudge pots at the appointed time. Signaling to a low-flying Lancaster with a flashlight, he’d watched the plane circle, fly low, then disgorge a series of parachuted crates that floated to earth like lumpy paratroopers.

  England, it seemed, was eager to dispose of the research facility. They’d forwarded more than enough provisions to supply them all—machine guns, extra rounds of ammunition, explosives, and detonators.

  The weather was cold, the sky heavy with storm clouds when the strike team gathered for final instructions. Charlie used a stick to draw a map of what they knew about the compound. “There are two entrances.” Scratching the sharp point of wood into the dirt, he showed the position of the gates. “Supplies and maintenance vehicles come in from the north, here.” He tapped at the opposite entrance. “But here, on the southern end, is the spot where they’ve been taking personnel.”

  He gestured to a lean Frenchman with a hooked nose. “You’ll need to take three men and slip over the wall. There are weak spots in their patrols here…and here…”

  Charlie looked up and the leader of the group nodded.

  “You’ll have less than fifteen minutes to set the charges and lay the wires along here…” He drew a line at the base of the outbuilding, then pointed to another pair of men waiting to the side. “You two, will need to set the charges here…in the orchard. There should be two ventilation shafts. One ten paces away from the well, another midway down the center of the row of trees. It’s imperative that you set these off within seconds of the first explosion so that we can maximize the damage to the tunnels underneath.”

  The two men nodded.

  “The rest of us,” Charlie said referring to Elizabeth, Olivier, and a half dozen others, “will create your diversion. As I’ve said, you’ll have only ten or fifteen minutes at the most once you’ve made it to the other side of the wall. Our attack needs to be swift, sudden, and deadly. Then we need to get the hell out of there to avoid being caught in the blast.”

  He peered around the circle. “Is everyone agreed?”

  A murmur of assent rose from the group.

  “Check your watches. It will be 0345…now.” Several of them adjusted their timepieces. “At 0400, we begin. Precisely 0415, detonate the charges.”

  Within a matter of seconds, the figures had melted into the darkness, heading for their assigned points.

  “Let’s go.”

  He loped deeper into the cover of trees where they’d hidden a German transport truck stolen from God knows where. According to the records Elizabeth had seen in Hauptman’s files, four prisoners slated for arrival at the railway station would be examined by the physician, then sent here, precisely at four this morning. Another group of men, closer to town, would intercept that transport long before it arrived.

  Lowering the tailgate, he stepped aside to let the remaining members of their group climb into the back of the truck. As she took her place in line, Charlie grasped Elizabeth’s elbow, pulling her close.

  “You don’t have to do this. Your role here is done. Head for home before everything blows to hell and back.”

  Elizabeth shook her head. She looked small and frail with a machine gun strapped around her neck and her hair shoved beneath a tight wool cap. She’d had only the most rudimentary of lessons on how to shoot the blasted thing.

  “Non.”

  “Elizabeth—”

  “This is my fight too, Charlie,” she hissed under her breath. “I’ve come too far to stop now.”

  Climbing up beside her, he fastened the tailgate, then held his watch up to the faint light b
ouncing off the icy snow.

  0400.

  At that instant, Olivier climbed behind the wheel and revved the engine.

  “Hold on, everyone,” Charlie warned.

  Olivier pulled out onto the road, quickly building up momentum, going faster and faster, until the truck barreled down the hillside, straight toward the gate.

  Peering from beneath the canvas flap, Charlie watched as a guard stepped out of nowhere, lifting his hand for the vehicle to stop. But Olivier was pushing the truck to its limits, moving at breakneck speed.

  The guard barely had time to shout and lift his weapon before the truck crashed through the metal gates, sending the man flying through the air.

  Olivier careened to a stop toward the rear of the compound just as soldiers in greatcoats began streaming from one of the smaller buildings. But just as quickly, the tailgate to the truck dropped and members of the Resistance stormed into the murky darkness, guns blazing.

  Charlie was the last to emerge, his eye sweeping the area, taking in the Germans who already lay on the ground, the firefights which had begun to break out as more soldiers came rushing from other parts of the facility.

  “Over here!” he shouted to Elizabeth, gesturing with a jerk of his chin to a low stone trough that could provide them cover. They dodged behind the rocks just as a volley of bullets strafed the spot where they’d stood.

  Elizabeth sat with her back braced against the rocks, panting.

  “You all right?”

  “Oui.”

  Then, she was turning, firing at a pair of soldiers who attempted to flank their position.

  Sensing that Elizabeth could take care of herself, Charlie began firing as well, the sights and sounds of battle coming hard and fast—the staccato stutter of machine guns, the flare and reverberation of grenades.

  Laying his rifle on the top of the trough, he began sighting and shooting, sighting and shooting. Until, bit by bit, the noises became more sporadic and it became harder to find a target.