Called to Gobi

by D. I. Telbat

  My stomach growled. I heard doors slam once in a while and boots walk past my door.

  I suddenly remembered the vent in the wall. The vent! Of course! During my prison years in New York, we spoke to each other from cell to cell through the ventilation system.

  Using the wall for support, I slowly stood on my good leg, and felt above my head for the vent. It was ten inches wide with mesh bars wide enough through which I could stick my fingers. Feeling vertically, I discovered the vent to be about six inches high. After fitting my fingers inside, I lifted myself up twelve inches from the ground until a faint stench drifted into my face. My muscles trembled as I held myself there and listened through the vent for voices, breathing, anything.

  "Sembuuk!" I whispered forcefully, just loud enough for him to hear if he were indeed in a nearby cell.

  Straining for some sound, I listened for five seconds before I could no longer hold myself up. I dropped down to stand on my good leg. After gathering my strength, I pulled myself back up to the vent.

  "Sembuuk!" I called louder. "Sembuuk!"

  Faintly, so very far away it seemed, I heard someone. I slid down the wall, rested for a few seconds, then went back up.

  "Come to the vent!" I said, then rested long enough to give him time to get there. He was much shorter than me, but nearly as strong. The fact that he probably hadn't eaten anything since our arrival certainly didn't help matters, though.

  "Andy!" he finally answered. "They beat me, but I told them nothing!"

  I laughed in relief until I was nearly in tears.

  "Are you okay otherwise?"

  "Yes. You?" he asked.

  "Well, I was shot in the leg, but it's healing. God is with us, Sembuuk! Pray to Him. He hears you."

  "Like Joseph in prison," he yelled and chuckled, "but we have no butler to help with his dreams to get us out!"

  We laughed together, not caring momentarily if anyone could hear what we said.

  "God knows our situation, Sembuuk." I rested my arms, then went back up. "He'll give us strength to endure if we trust Him."

  "Andy, I'm not afraid. We've done no wrong."

  "I'll pray for us. We'll talk again soon. This is our secret. They told me you were dead, but I refused to believe it."

  "Me, as well!"

  "Good-bye for now, friend."

  Sliding down the wall to the floor, I rested on my back. My smile couldn't be wiped away as I praised the Lord for my friend's well-being. My friend, Sembuuk the Hunter, was alive.

  That afternoon as I was strapped into the interrogation chair, I eyed a table full of food and knew it would be used as a form of enticement. The smells had brought my hunger pangs to the surface before I'd even entered the room. There was wine, cheeses, smoked beef, and fresh lamb.

  The guards hovered nearby and my same tormentor held her belt as she walked between me and the food. She appeared even meaner than last time.

  "You see food? It make you hungry?"

  "The food, yes. It looks very good. Are you having company for dinner?"

  "Funny." She stopped walking. She glared at me, my eyes darting about unsure of what to expect next. Then she hit me hard, on the left side. "Funny now?"

  The belt had nicked my eye and it teared in pain.

  "I can't eat any of your food, but thank you, anyway," I said.

  "Why can't eat? You are ill?"

  "No, I'm fasting."

  She hit me. It hurt, but I swallowed through the pain and pretended I was unfazed. Oddly, I expected a true torturer to maim me, but her treatment was nothing debilitating.

  "Fasting. Funny again. No play crazy today. Confess all and eat."

  "What would you like to know?"

  "Who you speak to on radio?"

  "The radio I was bringing to Sergeant Xing?"

  "So you say."

  She hit me, cutting my lip afresh.

  "Who use radio?"

  "I don't know any spies. I'm a Christian. I preach and teach about Jesus Christ and His love for all people, even you." She hit me, but I tried to ignore it. "I have only been in Mongolia a little while. The story is in the journal."

  "Lies! Where spies?" she screamed and hit me.

  "Do you know Jesus?"

  Her eyes went to the guards. Neither seemed to be paying attention as they snacked on dry beef sandwiches. Why did she look at them? I knew they didn't speak English as we did.

  "Don't say that name! You not real Christian. Real Christian not have Russian spy radio!"

  "I told you, I was taking it to Sergeant Xing."

  "Lies!" Whack! "There no Sergeant Xing. Who you work for?"

  "Jesus."

  Whack!

  "Speak Russian!" she ordered. "I know you speak it!"

  "I don't know it too well. How about I tell you about this one man I heard about, though?"

  "Why? A spy?"

  "Was he a spy?" I asked myself aloud. "No, I think he was just curious. He was a religious ruler named Nicodemus. And the first time—"

  Whack!

  "No Bible stories! Tell me of spies!"

  Startled, I stared at her. Had I heard her right?

  "Uh, how would you know Nicodemus was a man in the Bible? I didn't say he was."

  She glanced at the guards. They weren't watching. She hit me with the belt on the side of the head where it didn't hurt much. Then, she winked at me. Winked? An instant later, she turned away and walked to the table. What was happening? How many Chinese torturers knew who Nicodemus was? And what did the wink mean?

  Taunting me, she offered me a slice of beef, dangling it inches from my nose.

  "Tell me answers! No lies!"

  She reached out and unzipped my coat a ways, made sure the guards weren't watching, then dropped the meat inside my coat. She hit me with the belt above the ear, then zipped my coat up.

  "I'm telling you . . . no lies," I stuttered. She gave me a look of warning. Was this a game? A thought began to take shape. "You're a . . . believer . . .?"

  She lunged forward and violently gripped me by the throat, and though she could've choked me since I couldn't resist, the gesture seemed only for show.

  "Careful what you say!" she snapped, her grip not hurting me at all. "The guards don't know English, but they know attitude."

  Backing away, she hit me as her words registered. My head was spinning. Was she for real? Her face twisted ruthlessly.

  "I will speak harshly, but these two will know nothing." She hit me almost too lightly. "Do you hear me?"

  "Yes, I hear you. What do you want me to do?"

  She circled me and gripped my hair in her stout fingers.

  "To keep you alive, superiors want information. Give me something."

  "I've got nothing to give you." I chuckled, wondering what this new game was about.

  She shook my head by my hair.

  "Make something up, idiot! Something to buy you time!" She slapped me. "Something real, but nothing that would hurt whomever you protect. Now!"

  My head was spinning as she hit me again. I licked my lips and tasted blood. Make something up? If she was on my side, I wasn't completely convinced yet.

  "South, um, southeast of Tavan Bogd Uul, my pilot crashed our plane after China shot us down. He died. I lived."

  She savagely clutched my throat again.

  "The plane is there?" she asked harshly. I nodded, unable to speak or breathe. "It's something I can send them to hunt and no one be hurt? Something real?" Again, I nodded. She released me. "I'll give them this. They want spy confession at head office about spy radio. They bring me from Nanjing to question you." She hit me lightly to maintain the facade. "Soon, I help you escape, but I stay here to help others after you gone." Gripping my hair, she shook my head. "The trumpet calls us soon, you know?"

  "I know. I'm doing what I can."

  "Good." She stepped back. "Your friend is alive. I try to help you both. Now, this one will hurt."

  She cocked her arm and hit me hard across the ear
with the strap, so hard my ear rang. Then she snatched up a slab of lamb and shoved it at my mouth. It was too big to get into my mouth, so I bit onto it as she ordered the guards to take me back to my cell. As they were busy unstrapping me, she nodded at me from behind them, then touched her hand to her heart briefly. I couldn't respond; I could only blink. The guards hauled me back to my cell and threw me on the floor where I wept with mixed emotions.

  How grievous it was that this woman maintained such coldness when her heart was obviously loving. She gave herself to the facade in order to help others, and I knew such torment for her was a hundred times worse than any pain she could inflict on me. No doubt she'd saved others as well, by living as an undercover Christian.

  I wept for myself as well—though with joy. God had brought this strange woman, this believer, hundreds of miles from Nanjing, and used her to touch my life. God was in control and had sent this Christian—our guardian—to save me and Sembuuk! Yet, at what cost? Her heart had to be torn apart every day, while she hurt people to help them.

  As I ate the lamb, I prayed for my tormentor and other Christians who lived in secret throughout the world governments in those Last Days. And I prayed for the clan, that they wouldn't just be safe from those who purged the forest for rebels, but that they would grow in Christ in my absence. And I prayed for Sembuuk, for his salvation, and for Dusbhan as he explored to the west.

  Climbing up the wall, I clung to my vent.

  "Sembuuk!"

  A few moments passed. Was he still there?

  "Andy!"

  "I have great news, Sembuuk!"

  #######

  It was three days before I was taken out of my cell again. During that time, Sembuuk and I both received food and water, and I was brought meager first aid and dressing material for my gunshot wound. Unlike New York, that part of Mongolia was too cold for rats or cockroaches, so I didn't need to worry about any critters crawling or nibbling on me as I curled up on the cold floor to sleep. That's not to say I slept soundly, but it wasn't the torture we would've received if the strange woman hadn't been watching over us, making sure we received sustenance. If it were anyone else, I have no doubt we would've been stripped naked and left to freeze, and the food could've been much worse, or even nonexistent. Meat, bread, and water was more than either Sembuuk or I ever expected, so we had much for which to praise the Lord.

  And I did praise Him. I remembered Peter and Silas, and though my circumstances weren't as severe as theirs, there was no reason why I couldn't lift up my voice. All I sang were old English hymns, the golden era of Gospel music being my favorite due to the passionate lyrics. My singing was discouraged, though, which I understood by my cell light being turned off for hours at a time, engulfing me in darkness. I tested this theory by singing at the top of my lungs, and concluded that a guard in the corridor could hear me and turned off my light to discourage me from singing. This information was passed to Sembuuk—that there was someone near enough to hear us if we spoke too loudly. So, we spoke low, directly into the vents, speaking only Mongolian, which was essentially safe, and we didn't take any risks talking about the clan or their location, just in case. Cautiously, I had informed him the torturous woman was a fellow Christian and he was to play along if he came before her again. We were careful not to discuss the issue any further for her sake. With only one friend in there, we wouldn't betray her.

  The same two goons took me out three days later, but the woman interrogator was joined by a Chinese captain in uniform. He wore a scowl, but as appearances go, the woman's lined face and cold eyes were still more menacing.

  As they strapped me to the chair, I mentally braced myself for pain and abuse. It would be nothing that wouldn't eventually heal, I tried to tell myself.

  The table was bare of food, though there was a closed briefcase on it. No doubt, the case belonged to the captain. I tried to keep my eyes from wandering with my head bowed as an obedient prisoner should. But inside my chest, my heart pounded wildly.

  "Andrew Foworthy," the captain said in perfect English, "we found your plane and the message you left on the fuselage. Most importantly, we found this ‘Rex,' a known smuggler of contraband over many East Asian borders. Do you deny this?"

  "Since I was only his passenger, I knew nothing of his smuggling endeavors."

  "I assure you, he was a smuggler. But still, I'm bringing you up on murder charges unless you tell me what he had in the plane."

  "Murder charges?"

  "His murder—Rex, the smuggler. Murder is a crime, you know. Is that where you got the radio? Was Rex a Russian spy? You brought the radio from the plane?"

  "Rex was an American base-bum pilot. Neither of us are or ever were spies."

  "We have reason to believe he was a double agent. What did he give you in the plane? Secret messages? Or did you steal the radio from him, hmmm? Perhaps frequency papers that you've hidden? Now is the time to confess everything."

  I didn't know what to say about this twist in the interrogation. What did the woman want me to say? When everything else fails, tell the truth . . .

  "Look, I'm just an American missionary. I know nothing of spies or radios or—"

  "Yet you were found with a Russian communication device," he said.

  "Sergeant Xing said they were searching for a saboteur. I came upon the radio and knew the sergeant would want it, so I was turning it in to the soldiers. Specifically, to Sergeant Xing."

  "Where did you come upon the radio?"

  "Not far from where I met the soldiers."

  "Did you use it?"

  "No."

  "Someone did. Who? We have transmission transcripts in code from the vicinity of your capture."

  "I wasn't captured. I rode out to the road and offered the radio to a lieutenant with a letter to Sergeant Xing—which you guys have apparently lost."

  "Who used the radio, Mr. Foworthy?"

  "I never heard anyone use it."

  "But you know who used it. Who?" He waited a moment for me to answer. When I remained silent, he walked to the briefcase on the table. "You claim to be a missionary, an honorable, selfless man, but you are a deceiver, Mr. Foworthy, with answers full of half-truths. Do you have a camp near where you were captured?"

  "I was migrating south toward the Gobi. Both clans I was with were wiped out."

  "Yes, I've read the reports. But there were survivors, right? One of the survivors used the radio? Is this possible?"

  His back was to me. I glanced at the woman's face, but she gave me nothing. Maybe the guards behind me were watching her too closely.

  "The clan people weren't educated enough to use the radio."

  He turned toward me suddenly, a syringe of yellow liquid in his fingers.

  "Who among these two clans, the survivors, spoke Russian?"

  "I don't know who did or didn't. I'm only teaching Jesus." As he walked closer with the needle spouting liquid, I squirmed. "You have the radio. Why is this even still an issue?"

  "Because we don't have the spies." He knelt in front of me and pushed up my coat sleeve. With cold hands, he slapped my visible veins. "Identify them, Mr. Foworthy. Where are the survivors?"

  The woman moved swiftly up to my other side. She reached for my shoulder to steady me as the captain inserted his needle. But as his needle plunged, the woman eased a second needle into my opposite shoulder where the man couldn't see. I flinched and looked up at her face, because I certainly felt the bite of the second needle. She withdrew her own syringe and slipped it into her pocket undetected.

  My head suddenly wagged and my eyes blurred. The captain stepped back.

  "That's it, Mr. Foworthy. Don't fight it. Listen to my voice. You'll tell me what I want to know. Everyone always does."

  Trying to focus, my eyelids drooped, and a wave of warm passiveness washed over me. Two syringes—one hidden, and one obvious. What had the woman injected me with? What did it mean?

  "Tell me, Mr. Foworthy, have you ever used the radio you had w
hen we captured you?"

  "No, I haven't," I said, slurring.

  Frustrated, I fought the effects of the drug, but wasn't sure I cared anymore. My emotions and reasoning faculties were in a jumble. I began to cry uncontrollably.

  "It's okay, Mr. Foworthy. Let it out. Now, you're not really a missionary, are you? You're a spy, aren't you?"

  "I . . . don't know," I said, sobbing. "I try to do my best, but . . ."

  "Your best at what, Mr. Foworthy? Who are you trying to please? Who are your employers?"

  As fast as the drug had distorted my perceptions, it seemed to fade just as swiftly. I gained some of my composure, mentally at least, and realized I'd been given an antitoxin in the shoulder. She'd done that! A war had taken place in my system—the antitoxin had battled the truth serum, and won! Understanding this, I fell into the part.

  "No employers," I slurred, intentionally now. "I work for Jesus. Can I tell you about Him?"

  "Where did you get the radio?"

  "From . . . the plain. Didn't I tell you that?"

  "Where did you take the radio?"

  "I took it to the, uh, soldiers on the plain."

  "Before that. Where is your camp?"

  "My camp . . ."

  "Yes, Mr. Foworthy?"

  ". . . is in heaven. I have a mansion in heaven. Do you have a mansion in heaven?"

  The captain scratched his head and spoke to the woman. He seemed concerned that his serum wasn't working. I probably wasn't that good of an actor.

  "Mr. Foworthy, do you know the men who used the Russian communicator?"

  "Men? They were men?" I asked hazily.

  "What? They were women? Female spies?"

  "I don't know . . ." Shrugging, my head wagged left and right. "They smelled like wet camels. Have you ever smelled a wet camel?"

  "Will you show me on a map where your camp is? If you do, I'll give you food and freedom. Where's your camp? Show me on the map. See it here on the wall?"

  He walked to the giant map of western Mongolia.

  "It's a nice map." I sobbed. "I love maps."

  "Do you see where my finger is?"

  "Um, yeah. You need to trim your nails."