Long Walk Home

by DiAnn Mills

  He motioned to a pair of soldiers. “Take the wounded to Dr. Kerr, and get me a list of the casualties.”

  The two men left him alone with his thoughts of Rachel. He should have arranged schooling for her in the States long before this. He’d gotten his education there, and Rachel could have studied anything she wanted. His selfishness kept her here. He wanted his last living family member near him. He knew Larson cared about her and looked after her in his absence.

  Everyone loved his Rachel.

  The danger had crossed his mind on occasion, but he had always thought Rachel had some natural immunity to the horrors of war. How stupid he’d been. Now he doubted whether she would make it before the plane landed without being raped. Hadn’t he known about the same things being done by his own men? Hadn’t he closed his eyes and ears, knowing they’d taken advantage of some young girl when he should have intervened? He was their leader. What kind of an example had he set for those who looked up to him? Although the SPLA had never had any rules of proper military conduct, the leaders had an obligation to represent a moral army, an obligation they’d failed repeatedly. Now it was payback time.

  Ben smacked his fist into his palm. In the beginning, being an SPLA leader had challenged his mind and spirit. He hated the GOS and its oppressive regime. This warfare against the North had seemed to be the answer to his restless rebel mind, and he’d quickly risen to champion the rights of the southern people. Since Sudan had gained its independence in 1956, internal conflict had escalated, and two civil wars had not produced a way to negotiate the problems between the North and South. Every day the death toll rose, and the list of wounded grew. Ben turned toward the village. He was tired of fighting and dealing with all the aspects of the war: religion, politics, and oil. Each one wove into the web of the other, and for the Muslims, all three called for the blood of the infidels, the innocent southern Sudanese.

  Dirty Arab Muslims. Death to them all. Farid included.

  “Sir,” a soldier said. “James has been injured.”

  Ben’s pulse quickened, and he searched the soldier’s face. “How bad? Where is he?”

  The man moistened his lips.

  “Tell me, soldier.” His voice rose.

  “He’s unconscious. Dr. Kerr is treating him.”

  Ben barely nodded an acknowledgment before taking off in the direction of Larson’s clinic. His sister had been kidnapped. His best friend was wounded. Could things get any worse?

  The mournful drone of those struck down during the attack met him at Larson’s hut. Grief-stricken families and friends nursed the injured the best they could until Larson doctored them or they died. Ben shoved aside their frightened sobs and stepped into the hut. Dr. Kerr neither looked up nor hesitated from her ministrations to the patient. Ben had expected her to be working on Paul Farid, not James.

  His longtime friend had been shot in the lower stomach, leaving a gaping hole that exposed his intestines. Some spilled out onto his flesh. Ben wanted to scoop them back inside, make it right somehow. James failed to move or cry out. Glancing from his friend’s face to Larson, Ben attempted to read her prognosis. As he expected, she worked diligently without a sign of emotion. Nyok acted as her assistant, taking Rachel’s place. He attached an IV bag to a pole and dabbed at the blood.

  “Don’t stand in my light, Ben,” Larson said, not once glancing up or pausing.

  He moved from under the overhanging lightbulb strung by wire to the generator. “How is he?”

  She swallowed hard, and Ben had known Larson long enough to know what that meant. The anger he’d felt earlier over Rachel’s situation attempted to resurface, but he refused to give in to it. James was a fighter, and he’d pull through. Ben needed his friend now—for more reasons than he could count.

  “Don’t quit on me, James,” Larson said through a heavy breath. She sprang into action and began pumping on his chest. “Come on. Stay with me.”

  James’s body convulsed as she worked to restart his heart. Ben watched, wanting someone to tell him what to do. After long moments, she stopped and peered at him. “He’s gone. I’m sorry. I did all I could.”

  For the first time that day Ben had nothing to say, stripped of his emotions. He ached from the losses of this war. His dear Rachel was now the property of the GOS. James had died defending the cause of the southern Sudanese. And if Rachel had been here, she would have watched James breathe his last.

  Larson detached the IV, and Ben lifted James into his arms and carried him outside. Somewhere on the outer perimeters of the village, he and his men would dig a grave for each one who had perished.

  While he carried James to the lineup of the dead, he remembered all their boyhood games, their dreams, and their goals for Sudan. Inseparable since childhood, James and Ben had been closer than brothers. They’d joined the SPLA at the same time.

  An old, toothless woman stepped into his path. “Bishop Malou will come and say prayers,” she said. “We’ll send word, and he’ll come.”

  “I’m sure he can help you.” Those were the first decent words he’d spoken all day.

  Ben knew the Episcopalian bishop’s reputation. Malou’s family lived in a refugee camp in Kakuma, Kenya. The man traveled mostly through the northern Bahr al-Ghazal region, evangelizing and establishing churches. Many times he’d narrowly escaped with his life. The government had raided his churches, killing members and snatching up the women and young girls for slaves. Malou claimed his good fortune was the hand of God. Ben accepted just enough about God to blame Him for all the suffering in Sudan.

  Dusk swept across Warkou, and mothers hurried their children inside before the lions roamed. Ben had gone through the motions of fulfilling his responsibilities for hours. Now he made his way back to Larson’s hut. He’d given her a rough time today, and she might want a little help. Besides, he needed to talk.

  Inside the clinic she was stitching up Farid’s thigh.

  “I thought you finished with him long ago,” Ben said, a little more gruffly than intended.

  “He insisted I take care of the others who had worse injuries.”

  Instead of building a sense of trust in the man, her statement fueled Ben’s anger. “Why? Feeling guilty?”

  Farid lifted his head and stared directly into Ben’s eyes. “Some could wait. Others could not. The ones who haven’t received treatment have surface wounds.”

  Ben tapped his foot against the earthen floor. “Before I leave, I want to know everything that happened out there with Rachel.”

  Every muscle on the Arab’s face tensed. His face had swollen until the entire right side was purplish black. “It all happened so fast. Once we saw the helicopters, we ran for the village. Bullets flew everywhere, hemming us in. One hit my thigh. A chopper landed, and two soldiers jumped out and headed toward us. One grabbed Rachel, and the other tried to take Nyok, but I positioned the boy behind me.” Farid took a deep breath. “They made off with Rachel before one of your soldiers opened fire.”

  Ben glanced at Nyok. “It happened just like he said,” the boy said. “Except for the part where the soldier hit him in the face with the butt end of his rifle.”

  Exhaustion swept over Ben. He crouched in the middle of the floor and attempted to make sense of the day. This encounter with the North was like so many others, but none of those had involved his sister or his childhood friend. A tear slipped from his eye, and he swiped at it with the back of his hand. He should apologize to Larson, but the words refused to come.

  “Why do you think they targeted us today?” She dabbed at Farid’s wound with Betadine. “Were they expecting you?”

  “My visit today was a decision made this morning.” Ben cursed. “Does Khartoum really need a reason? Maybe they found out about the clinic.”

  “It’s not marked. How could they?”

  Ben shrugged. “A woman said Bishop Malou has a congregation here. They might have planned to squelch it.” When Larson nodded, he continued. “That might be the answer.
Maybe not. But I know it wasn’t my men here in the village. No one had any idea about our arrival.”

  Silence prevailed, and the darkness drew its heavy cloak around them.

  “I’m sorry about your friend,” Farid said. “Rachel called to him when he tried to stop the soldiers from taking her.”

  “Rachel and James were in love,” Larson said. “He planned to speak with Ben, but there was a problem with the bride-price.”

  Ben remembered the conversation from the evening before. “We’d worked it out.”

  James’s words echoed in his mind. “I love Rachel, and I want to marry her,” he had said. “You know I don’t have any cattle—all are gone. But if you will grant permission, I’ll give you sixty cows for her once the war is over and we can restore our way of life.”

  “And what kind of a life will my sister have with you away fighting?” Ben had said. The idea of his little sister considering marriage had shaken him more than he wanted to admit.

  “No worse than she has now. I will be with her whenever I can, and Dr. Kerr needs her at the clinic.”

  Ben had taken only a moment to consider James’s request. “I think of you as a brother. The age difference between you and Rachel bothers me some, but . . . I can’t think of any man who is more deserving of my sister. My answer is yes, although seventy cows is the bride-price.” Ben had chuckled and slapped James’s shoulder. Another matter had snaked through his mind. “Don’t get yourself killed. I don’t want my sister to become just one more Sudanese widow.”

  James had shaken his head, then laughed. “I have no intention of filling an early grave. I want many sons and daughters.”

  Now James lay ready for burial, and Rachel knew a living death.

  Larson interrupted his thoughts. “How do you plan to get her back?”

  “I’ve already sent a runner to the slave traders—to let them know a family wants a kidnapped girl,” Ben said. “I hope she doesn’t tell them who she is.”

  “She’s a smart girl. I don’t think she’d jeopardize her life or your position.” Larson laid her hand on his arm. Her touch soothed his weary mind.

  “If there’s anything I can do, I’ll be glad to help,” Farid said.

  Ben whipped his attention to the Arab American. “Filthy Arabs like you are the ones who took her. I don’t need your help—except to offer you in trade.”

  CHAPTER 4

  Paul chose not to respond to Ben Alier. No reaction was better than taking the defensive. He knew his actions spoke volumes about what he believed, and what others said about him didn’t really matter. After all, Jesus kept silent in front of His accusers.

  “What’s wrong with you, Ben?” Dr. Kerr adjusted the light above Paul’s wound, and Nyok held it steady for her.

  “He’s one of them. That’s all I need to know. I should have killed him when I had the chance.” Alier stood from the floor and brushed past her. The hut shook. He stomped into the night, leaving an air of hatred in his wake.

  “Guess I can’t blame him,” Paul said, breaking the thick silence.

  “It’s not your fault,” Larson said. “He loves Rachel very much.” She picked up a box of the medicine that Paul had delivered. Pulling a knife from her pant pocket, she deftly slit it on three sides. “She’s all Ben has left of his family, and he feels responsible.”

  “I understand.”

  She studied him curiously. “You’re a strange man.”

  “Not really, Dr. Kerr—”

  “Larson, please.”

  “Okay, Larson, and I’m Paul.” He watched her sort through the bottles, organizing them to suit her purpose. She reminded him of a flower blooming in the midst of chaos. “I’m not so unusual. You have a purpose and a commitment to these people, Colonel Alier has his, and I have mine.”

  “My opinion of Ben leaves room for improvement. Of course, I believe this genocide of the southern Sudanese could be stopped if both sides were willing to give instead of take.” She lifted a small bottle to the light.

  “If that’s a painkiller, I don’t want it,” Paul said. “Save it for someone who is really suffering. I’m pretty tough.”

  She slid him a smile, one that stole his breath. “I don’t think so. I need to dig in there a bit to yank out the bullet, and it will take quite a few stitches.”

  Paul closed his eyes as a stab of pain seared his thigh. “Don’t waste it on me. Nyok can help hold me down if need be.”

  “Forget it. Save your heroism for another time. If you don’t heal properly, I won’t have anyone to bring the village supplies.”

  “I . . . I don’t look at it the same way.”

  She wiped an antiseptic-soaked cotton ball over his thigh and quickly administered the pain medication. “That’s why I’m the doctor and you’re the pilot.”

  His thigh throbbed, not unbearably but getting worse. Even with the medication, Paul felt Larson’s probing. The soldier’s bullet had sunk deeper than he thought. Perspiration streamed down his face.

  “You know,” Larson said, “when I was a kid and the family piled into the car for a long trip, my dad had this philosophy. He believed the car didn’t stop until we ran out of gas or we reached our destination.”

  Paul forced a smile, thankful for any conversation.

  “The problem was when one of us had to use the bathroom, we were out of luck. We learned it did no good to cry or complain, because Daddy had his convictions. Once, I had to go so badly I couldn’t stand it. Mama knew and tried to persuade him to stop, but he wouldn’t hear of it.”

  “What happened?” Paul swallowed hard and clenched his fists.

  “I asked every half mile, ‘Are we there yet?’ until he turned in to a gas station.”

  “What’s the reason for telling me this?”

  “To tell you we’re almost there.”

  Paul wanted to poke fun at himself. After all, he was in the presence of a beautiful woman, but the pain soaked up his efforts. “Thank you, I guess.”

  She lifted her gaze to meet his and smiled. “My nonpaying patients are forced to hear my stories. Isn’t that right, Nyok?”

  Nyok nodded. “Some are very bad stories, Mr. Farid.”

  “I can pay.”

  “Nah.” She reached for the gauze. “This one’s on the house.”

  He watched her bandage up his leg, noting how Nyok observed her closely. No doubt with Rachel gone, he would be assisting the doctor. Blood stained everything around Paul, although not all of it belonged to him. The sight spoke volumes about Larson. Most US doctors wouldn’t last a day under these conditions. The smell of sweat and dirty bodies in the cramped quarters tugged at his stomach. “How long before I can get around? I need to take a look at my plane and get out of here before Alier decides to finish what the GOS started.”

  “Not for a few days. It’s going to take time for your leg to mend, and your face is rather pathetic.” She glanced about the hut. “You can stay here. I have a few patients in the other room, but they’ve filled the cots.”

  He realized his eyes were nearly swollen shut. Luckily he could still see. “Thanks. I do remember seeing this listed as a five-star property.”

  “Wait until you taste the cooking.” She began to clean up around him, and Nyok helped. “Actually, I like your sense of humor.”

  Paul fought to keep his eyes open, weariness taking its toll. “It’s kept me alive.”

  She turned to Nyok. “Check on the other patients for me. I’ll be there in just a moment.” Nyok disappeared, taking orders from Larson as though she were a colonel. “Paul, what did Ben mean by offering you in trade?”

  “Bad joke.” Blackness engulfed his senses. He fought to stay awake, but his body knew its limitations. As he slowly gave in to the overwhelming sleep, he thought he heard the sound of gunfire.

  * * *

  Larson noted Paul’s blood pressure and pulse before adjusting the mosquito netting around him. She would check on him in a few hours along with her other patients
. With his strength, he would recuperate much faster than most of her patients. She stared into his face, a handsome man with thick hair and dark eyes that seemed to penetrate her thoughts. For certain, with the tales swirling about him, he was a mystery.

  Death, maimed bodies, disease, the cries of the wounded. If she allowed herself, she would go crazy with the devastating job before her. Most days she felt more like a Band-Aid lady than a real doctor.

  With everything completed for the night, exhaustion swirled through her body, which begged for relief. A surge of realization attacked her. A lump formed in her throat, one she could not swallow.

  Rachel is gone.

  James is dead.

  How could life be so unfair? Just when she thought the GOS couldn’t hurt her or the southern Sudanese anymore, they unleashed another banner of fury. Hot, stinging tears flooded her eyes, the grief piercing her heart as though a knife twisted inside. She slipped to her knees on the dirt floor and buried her face in her hands. For how long she didn’t know, only that time ceased while memories of Rachel played like a movie reel across her mind—the young woman she loved as her own.

  She remembered when Ben first brought his sister to the village, a frightened little girl who, like so many Sudanese children, had seen far too much for any child. Nightmares plagued Rachel’s sleeping hours, and fear stalked her waking ones. She refused to leave Larson’s side for even a moment. That insecurity was what led the girl to observe and ask questions about Larson’s work. She learned what instruments were needed and how to sterilize them. Later, she assisted in medical procedures—inserting an IV with the touch of an angel or administering injections under Larson’s critical eye. Rachel soothed the patients and kept them comfortable. She sang to them and read to them from the Bible.

  Larson urged Ben to send his sister to England or the States where she could study medicine, but he repeatedly refused. Even Rachel begged him. For some reason he wanted her in Sudan. Larson attributed it to Ben’s selfish and controlling nature.