by DiAnn Mills
“One of the villagers said he was Paul Farid just before I shot him.”
The commander chuckled. “The infidel said that to save himself. He’d have claimed his mother was Farid.”
The two laughed.
The commander stood and stared into the trees. Paul’s heart pounded harder than the drums alerting nearby villages of the approaching enemy. The two soldiers scanned every plant and tree, often staring at Paul’s rock and brush fortress.
“I saw Farid in Khartoum with the president’s family some years ago. It looked like him running from the village. He resembles his brothers, especially Nizam.”
My brother who may want me dead?
“Hard to say,” the commander said. “Rumors are everywhere, but I’m itching to catch him. The reward would make me a rich man.”
The soldier stared straight at the rock and brush where Paul hid. A grin spread across his face. He lifted his rifle and took aim.
* * *
Larson Kerr Farid took a long drink of water and stepped into the sunlight. Home: the village of Warkou, the province of Bahr al-Ghazal, the district of Aweil. The unforgettable Sudan. She had its location memorized as though she’d lifted the words from the pages of a travel brochure. Its hypnotic appeal never failed to draw her into its beauty. The lush, green earth, with its abundance of waterfowl beside the Lol River, and the magnificent wildlife—from the tall giraffes to the graceful gazelles to the thick-skinned elephants—painted a pastoral setting. The soil, rich with nutrients, awaited plantings. But nature’s cloak hid the turmoil.
Since dawn, patients had trailed toward her clinic, forming an endless line of despair. Weariness settled in her bones. Paul was right. She needed to rest more. Her back ached, and she craved hours of sleep. Queasiness spread through her stomach as though she’d taken a raft down the Nile’s rapids. She didn’t have time for such nonsense. People needed her.
Larson closed her eyes and willed the sensation to disappear. Why hadn’t Paul come home?
Paul never let an opportunity pass to talk about Jesus. Sometimes she wished he weren’t so vocal when others wanted him dead. She wanted her husband alive.
Larson pressed her lips together. She had work to do. Lots of it. But the uneasiness marching across her mind, coupled with the sickness churning in her stomach, left her apprehensive.
Pushing away the sensation, she beckoned to a woman carrying a naked, sleeping infant—or maybe the baby was dead. A good many of her patients traveled for days to reach her. Too often, the ordeal killed them. She refused to dwell on those unfortunate Sudanese but on those who recovered. They were the lucky ones, the ones who could go on living another day in hope of peace and a better tomorrow.
“Good morning,” Larson said in Dinka. “Thank you for bringing your baby to me. I want to see if I can help him.” Larson lifted the baby boy into her arms. She couldn’t detect a pulse or a heartbeat. Her heart plummeted. The mother’s emaciated body told the story.
The day wore on. Weariness wrapped a debilitating clutch around her, but she refused to give in. Perhaps she needed an antibiotic. But the thought of wasting precious medicine on herself didn’t sit well. Rest. A few hours’ sleep would wipe all this nonsense away.
“Larson,” her assistant, Sarah, said, “you don’t look so good. Are you sick?” The woman laid a wrinkled hand on Larson’s arm.
“Just tired. I plan on going to bed early tonight. Paul will be back soon, and having him here always helps.”
“Do you hurt somewhere?” Sarah’s shiny black face held many beads of perspiration.
Larson added the last stitch to a cut on a boy’s forehead. Sarah took over with antiseptic. “I’m simply exhausted, Sarah. In fact, I’m so tired that my stomach is upset.”
“How long have you felt like this?” Sarah kissed the young boy’s cheek and complimented his bravery.
“A few weeks.”
“And your monthly flow?”
Larson stiffened. Impossible. She and Paul took precautions for that very reason.
“Children aren’t for us. At least not until peace is set into place,” he’d said. Combating multiple diseases wasn’t the safest environment for a child either. “If you ever become pregnant, I’ll insist you head to Nairobi, or better yet, the States. Until my family is no longer after me, there can be no children.”
“The pill will take care of that.” The words echoed across her mind. She had taken her pills.
Larson paused before summoning another patient. Why hadn’t she kept track? Eight weeks late. She’d attributed the delay to stress and lack of sleep.
Sarah smiled, her face etched with lines of wisdom. “A woman knows no greater joy than to bear a child.” She pointed upward. “It makes God’s love and the love for your husband a complete circle.”
Larson shivered. She should run a urine or blood test to be sure, but not knowing sounded better than learning the truth. She cringed at the thought of Paul’s response to such a mess.
This was silly. A false alarm. She should be concentrating on her patients. “I don’t want to talk about this.”
“Maybe God has a different plan.”
“Not for me.”
Sarah turned and tilted her head as if she hadn’t heard correctly.
“Having a baby is a ridiculous idea,” Larson said.
The old woman chuckled. “We’ll see what the future holds.”
Hours later, Larson lay awake on the wood-frame bed she typically shared with Paul. Despite her overwhelming urge to sleep, her thoughts rushed ahead. Pregnant? A baby would ruin her work—maybe her marriage. As she mulled Paul’s declarations over in her mind, she knew he would want only the best for her and his child.
Sudan was not a toddler’s playground.
The nagging thought persisted until she rose and made her way through to the clinic. She wouldn’t get a moment’s peace until she ran a test and found out for sure. As Sarah had said, maybe God’s plans were different from theirs. Larson envisioned her husband’s dark eyes and tanned skin . . . the shape of his mouth and his thick, nearly black hair. Dare she let her mind drift to thinking about a baby girl or boy?
No, this couldn’t be happening. More problems were brewing. Paul’s brother Nizam had written another letter indicating a desire to see Paul. The thought frightened her. Her husband’s Muslim family wanted him dead for converting to Christianity.
Larson completed the test and breathed a prayer for a negative result before taking a look.
* * *
Colonel Ben Alier narrowed his gaze to concentrate on his orders from the Sudan People’s Liberation Army headquarters. The print seemed small, or maybe his creeping over the forty-year mark had affected his eyesight. If it was the latter, that thought did nothing to ease his mind about any of the worries hammering in his head. In fact, hard-to-read print fell under the topic of a minor irritation. The signed peace treaty by the government and the struggling southern Sudanese was another matter.
Colonel Alier,
We are encouraged by the signing of the peace treaty uniting northern and southern Sudan. Khartoum promises to work with the South through the efforts of John Garang, as first vice president and advocate for the South. We are fortunate to be represented by our most highly respected leader. Only through arbitration can the people of southern Sudan be free from oppression and free to utilize our own resources. We have fought hard for self-rule and won. In six years we can vote to become an independent nation. Your presence is requested in Juba beginning 15 August. Our goal will be to focus on the immediate needs of the South and the best way to fulfill our responsibilities to the suffering and oppressed. We appreciate your commitment to the Sudan People’s Liberation Army/Movement and your years of sacrificial service. Your contribution to the SPLA is of infinite value to the rebuilding of our country.
Ben lifted his head and closed his eyes just long enough to allow another thought to march across his mind. Incessant pain hammered against his spin
e and halted his musings. Too many years in the bush had weakened him physically, and now he was paying the price. He stared at the letter in his fingertips.
How could the leaders of southern Sudan ever believe in lasting peace? Khartoum had no reason to keep a cease-fire—other than pressure from the U.S. and the international community. For that matter, the US was now focusing its attention on the war in Iraq. Sudan’s affairs had little to do with American endeavors.
Ben expelled a labored sigh. Every thought for as long as he could remember had centered on some facet of the civil war—the north/south conflict had gone on for more than twenty years. He argued the points of war, planned strategic battles, or fought the GOS. The three-pointed sword of religion, politics, and oil occupied his waking and sleeping hours.
Shaking his head at the ludicrous thought of peace for a united Sudan, Ben crumpled the paper in his hands. He was proud to be a Dinka, even prouder to be a member of the largest tribe in Sudan, the ones who gave the government the most trouble. He had no intention of discontinuing the fight, any more than the lying GOS had.
“Arab devils. They should be boiled alive.”
Commander Okuk entered the tent. After respectfully saluting Ben with his left and only arm, he relaxed. “The men are encouraged about the new peace.”
Ben stiffened, and even that sent a surge of pain up his spine. “Good for them.”
“Colonel Alier, is this not what we’ve been fighting for?” Hope rose in the man’s voice. “I have known nothing but war since the day my mother gave me life. When my wife and children were killed, I joined the SPLA.”
Ben fought the urge to lay a fist into Okuk’s face. “Are you so stupid that you can’t see? The last time we were near your village, the GOS had burned everything to the ground and killed the goats and cattle. What was left of your people had been herded into a displacement camp without food and medical help. And you trust a worthless piece of paper?”
The muscles in Okuk’s face tightened.
“I’m a realist,” Ben said. “Let the results speak for those who are committed to the peace process.”
The tall, slender Okuk, barely thirty years old, maintained a controlled posture. He’d lost his right arm from a land mine, but that hadn’t held him back from learning to shoot with his left. He had served his country three years with both arms and five with one. Ben read the pain in his eyes.
“And I dream of the free world pressing Khartoum to honor the end of bloodshed,” Okuk said.
“I do too, but I have no faith in the word of a Muslim.” Ben stood over the man, the crumpled letter still in his fist. “I have seen nothing in the past that indicates willingness for the government to make concessions.” He shrugged. “Who knows? Perhaps the US has more information about Osama bin Laden’s connections to Khartoum. Pressure from the free world to negotiate peace in exchange for monetary aid is another factor to consider.”
Okuk nodded. “What are my orders?”
Ben felt the edges of the paper scratching his palm. “We’ll move out in the morning as planned. If we encounter the GOS, then we’ll find out if they’re keeping a cease-fire.”
The lines in Okuk’s forehead deepened.
“You have a problem with my orders, Commander?”
“No, sir. I will alert the men.”
Ben watched Okuk turn and leave. He’d rather die fighting than let the enemy deceive those who believed in southern Sudan. And what would he do in the event of permanent peace?
CHAPTER 2
Paul closed his eyes and prayed for Larson and for the work left undone in Sudan. He hoped the bullet pierced straight to his heart, ending any soldier’s plan to escort him back to Khartoum. But they wanted him alive, or so he thought. Memories of the GOS’s gruesome torture techniques gave him nightmares. Images from the “ghost houses” flashed across his mind. He remembered the screams, the maimed bodies, the hangings, and the government’s denial of the death chambers.
“Don’t waste your ammo on a snake,” the commander said. “The SPLA are certain to be ahead, and we want to surprise them.”
From the corner of his eye, Paul saw a green mamba not ten feet away. He inwardly moaned as it slithered toward him. If he moved, he’d give himself away, but the snake—one of the deadliest reptiles in Africa—had an aggressive reputation.
Several seconds passed while the two GOS soldiers said nothing. No doubt they were watching the mamba move over the brush and rocks.
No one escaped the reptile’s fatal bite.
“Must have its eye on something,” the commander said.
“I’d like to watch.”
Paul’s pistol rested against his thigh, easy to pull out and fire. He needed to kill the mamba before it reached him. That also meant he’d have to eliminate the two soldiers. The sound of gunfire would bring the rest of the battalion, still combing the area. To him, preaching “Love your enemies” meant not killing them—unless he had to.
The snake inched closer.
“Come on, soldier. We have kilometers to go, and I don’t think the man’s here.”
“What about Farid?”
The commander shook his head. “Farid? Every scared villager and money-hungry man in the country has seen him. No one has time to chase down every rumor.”
“Yes, sir.” He paused. “But I did see a man fitting his description fleeing the village.”
“As you stated before. But we have orders to overtake an SPLA compound.”
Paul flinched. Ben was there. Paul needed to warn his friend.
“Yes, sir.”
The grass swished against the soldiers’ pants, and Paul watched them tramp away. The commander shouted for his men to stop the search and move eastward.
The snake edged closer, squirming over brush and small branches. Its bright-green body extended over three meters in length. Paul had a knife in the side of his boot. If he missed, the mamba would strike. Two more seconds ticked by.
Paul reached for the knife and aimed at the snake, then released it with a snap of his wrist. The blade sank into the mamba’s head, pinning it to the ground. Adrenaline rushed through Paul’s body. His ears rang, and he breathed in deeply to calm himself.
Thank You, Lord. He’d live another day. Suddenly the needlelike sensation in his knees became nearly unbearable. Unable to squat any longer, he eased his weight onto straightened legs, stooping over so as not to attract attention from any GOS soldier lagging behind.
After confirming the soldiers had left the area, Paul pulled his satellite phone from his backpack and flipped it open. He must warn Ben at the SPLA compound. The Rhino battalion had taken a three-day reprieve to rest up and gather supplies. Since the peace treaty, their work had officially ended—but that was a story for newspapers and international politicians, not the truth. How had the GOS found out about the compound’s secret location?
Ben answered on the third ring.
“Hey, Ben, got a bit of news for you.”
“If this has anything to do with Sudan’s new government, spare me. I’m not in the mood.”
Paul could have spent the next eight hours debating the value of peace, but he understood the deep-rooted problems his friend had with the fledging new government. “This is different, more your style.”
“I’m listening. Are you in trouble? Larson okay?”
“Not us, you. I just encountered a whole battalion of GOS headed your way. They got wind of your location somehow.”
Ben cursed. “A mole. Too much information has leaked out. And I think he lives in Yar. Commander Okuk says a cousin of his suspects a man living in that village. How far behind us?”
“About thirteen kilometers.”
“We’re ready,” Ben said. “Thanks. I owe you one.”
“Join us for dinner soon. It’s been too long, and we miss you.”
“Right. Real soon.”
Paul disconnected the call, knowing how difficult it was for Ben to see Larson and him together. They’
d been married for over two years, but Ben still carried the agony of a broken heart.
What a strange threesome they were, proof that war created unique relationships—or rather, God put people together for a purpose. Paul chose to dwell on the latter.
Thoughts of Larson pushed away all other issues raging inside his head. God had blessed him with her love. Her clear blue eyes and sandy-colored hair stayed fixed in his mind. She didn’t look the part of a third-world doctor. Neither did she complain about their primitive living conditions. He chuckled. Pity the man who ever got in her way or riled her.
He reached inside his backpack and pulled out the letter from his brother Nizam, the third in the last four weeks.
My brother,
I am disappointed that you will not come to Khartoum and meet with me at the Hilton. I want to see you, hear about your new life, and discuss your new faith. We have always been Muslim, and I’m sure this is simply an indiscretion on your part. I’m confused why you left your family when we have established ourselves as advisers to the new government.
I miss you. Let’s be brothers again. I understand you are fearful, and I can arrange secrecy. For now, let’s meet near Kibum in Darfur. No one will suspect us there. You haven’t answered my previous letters. Write me soon.
Nizam
Paul shook his head, stuffed the letter back into the envelope, and slapped it against his palm. Did his brother think he was a fool? He knew how his family believed—kill the infidel, and Allah will be pleased. But he’d agreed and mailed his reply. How could he refuse when he’d vowed to bring Christianity to all who would listen? Even if it meant his death. Perhaps he should have discussed it with Larson or Ben. This would affect their lives too. In fact, this decision had an impact on everyone he touched.
Unable to wait a moment longer to talk to her, he punched in the code for Larson’s phone.
“Hey, gorgeous,” he said. “How’s the sexiest doctor on the continent?”
“Absolutely perfect. Missing her husband.”
“Thanks. Missing you too. How’s the clinic?”
