Long Walk Home

by DiAnn Mills

  “Why did you go?” Ben anchored his massive hands on his hips.

  Hot tears sprang to her eyes. “I was upset about Rachel. You and I had quarreled. I needed time alone.”

  He nodded slowly. “I won’t ever unload your rifle again.”

  Ben’s words were the closest he would ever come to an apology. She would have to bury them in her heart for the future when he angered her again—and he would. Calm yourself. Be rational. “Can we be civil?”

  “It’s better for the villagers and my men if we get along.”

  “I’ll do my best to hold my tongue.” She breathed a sigh of relief. “I hope this also means you’ll leave Farid alone.”

  “Maybe so. Maybe not.”

  She elected not to push him, and for a moment she considered asking him why Khartoum would want the pilot. “What are you going to do about Rachel?”

  “I’m leaving in the morning with my men. I’ll see a few slave traders and offer them a good price for her.”

  “Will you keep me informed?”

  “As much as I can. We both know the dangers of the government learning her identity.”

  “I don’t believe she’ll tell.”

  Ben clenched his fists. “I’ll kill any man who touches her.”

  She considered Rachel’s innocence, now likely lost forever. Was it just a week ago the two had talked about saving herself for James . . . ?

  “I want James to know me for the first time,” Rachel had said.

  They had been sitting outside in the early morning, watching the sunrise in shades of bright orange and yellow. “I believe my virginity is a sacred gift to be given to my husband. God promises many blessings for those who are obedient to purity.”

  “I’m glad you feel that way.” Larson’s thoughts were different on the matter, but she respected Rachel’s beliefs.

  Larson ushered in the present with a shudder. “I believe I’d help you kill him. I love her so much.”

  “I know you do. She makes my life full of hope.” He paused. “You’re right. I should have sent her away. I’m to blame.”

  “This war has caused enough tragedy. We should concentrate on getting her back and keep fighting Khartoum so other young women will not have to face the same tragedy.”

  “They will be defeated.”

  Larson stretched her neck muscles. “Don’t you believe in the peace talks?”

  Ben spit at the fire. “Not when the bombing still goes on.” He stared into the darkness to where the lions lay dead. “Nyok is very brave. He’d make a good soldier.”

  CHAPTER 6

  Paul battled the haziness from sleep to reality. He swam through a sea of pain hoping his agony stemmed from a nightmare and not foggy remembrances from the day before. Every time his heart beat, the torture in his upper leg increased, building momentum as he struggled to awaken. Yesterday’s events flooded his mind—delivering medicine and food supplies to the village, the attack, Rachel’s kidnapping, the bullet in his thigh, Alier’s hatred, and Larson’s coming to his aid. Too much to consider with a mind dulled by the pain from a bullet wound.

  He forced his eyes open, and when he could focus his attention on an object that wasn’t spinning, he glanced about him. Although the inside of the medical clinic looked dim with only a stream of sunlight from the door, he wanted to tear back the bandages and take a look at the wound. Too weak to consider such a feat, he slipped his left hand down his leg to gauge the amount of swelling. His entire thigh felt large, and the skin was stretched tighter than the bark on a tree. The idea of infection entered his mind, but he pushed away the image with the realization that Larson had given him excellent care. Besides, he needed to get on his feet. His plane’s bullet-ridden condition loomed over him, and he had to find a way to inspect the damage.

  Feed the World must be notified of what happened yesterday, or it would be sending out a search plane. This area was too dangerous for his pilot friends to risk getting shot out of the sky for the likes of him.

  Attempting to ignore the white-hot throbbing, Paul fumbled around looking for his satellite phone. He wanted to call Tom back in California and let him know he was still alive—or at least his heart was still beating.

  “Is the pain causing you to thrash around like that, or are you looking for something?” Larson said.

  He glanced up to see the doctor carrying a basket full of cups, a few mangoes, and a pottery pitcher full of milk. She looked tired, but Paul imagined weariness was her trademark expression.

  “Both.”

  “I thought so.” She set the basket on the dirt floor and unlocked her medicine cabinet, which looked more like an oversize safe. “Would you have asked for pain medication or suffered through it?” She glanced at him with eyes he could drown in.

  Paul forced a smile. “I think you already know the answer.”

  “Bravery belongs to the healthy,” she said. He spied the needle and alcohol-saturated cotton ball briefly before she stabbed his arm. “As soon as the pain subsides, I want to take a look at your leg.”

  Nyok stepped into the room. Sleep etched his face.

  “How’s my warrior today?” Larson’s hand caressed Nyok’s face. “Any nightmares?”

  “I’m doing fine.” His attention spanned the small room, and he reached for the food-laden basket. “I don’t have bad dreams.”

  “I guess not,” she said. “You live them.”

  Paul studied the worry lines on Larson’s forehead. She was strong and determined. Of course, here she would have to be. Having lost Rachel yesterday, Larson most likely wouldn’t let Nyok out of her sight anytime soon.

  “I’ll take the patients their breakfast.” Nyok lifted the basket from the ground. “Mr. Farid, have you eaten?”

  “I’m not hungry. I don’t suppose you have any coffee?”

  Larson selected a mango from the basket and handed it to Paul. “Eat this, doctor’s orders. I can make a pot of coffee. Nyok, go ahead and give the others their breakfast.” She turned to meet Paul’s scrutiny. “I’m a tea drinker myself, but I always have it for Ben.”

  He said nothing at the mention of the colonel’s name. He didn’t intend to say a word that might be construed as controversial. This morning, living sounded a whole lot better than dying, even with his wounded leg. “Don’t bother with the coffee. I’ll make it later.”

  Larson tossed him a warning look. “You aren’t going anywhere today, least of all around a fire where you might fall.” From inside a makeshift cupboard she pulled an aluminum pot, stained nearly black, and proceeded to measure out coffee.

  Contacting Tom pressed against Paul’s brain. “Have you seen my phone?”

  Larson nodded and stepped over to pick it up from the ground near his cot.

  “Thanks, I need to call headquarters and let them know I’m alive.”

  He leaned back on the cot, frustrated at how a simple conversation exhausted him, and he had yet to punch in Tom’s number. Closing his eyes, he elected to rest a moment longer. In the cloudy portals of his drugged mind, he vaguely remembered Larson examining his leg.

  Sometime later, Paul woke. He heard people talking in Dinka outside the clinic and glanced at his watch. Moaning softly, he realized it was the noon hour. His fingers felt for the phone at his side, and once more he picked it up. He must have powered it off. Unusual, since he always kept it on. With a shrug, he punched in Tom’s number.

  “Hey, Tom.” His attempt to project enthusiasm sounded weak at best.

  “Where are you? I’ve been trying to contact you but couldn’t get through.”

  “In Warkou, where I flew in food and medical supplies.” From the noise in the background, Paul envisioned his friend scurrying through FTW’s warehouse, making sure there were enough supplies to fill an order.

  “Why? Does Dr. Kerr need your assistance?”

  “Uh, more like I need hers.”

  Tom chuckled. “Oh, so the doctor is a woman?”

  “Right.”
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br />   “I bet she’s pretty. Say, are you all right? You don’t sound like yourself.”

  “I’ve been better, but I’ll be okay.”

  “How about telling me what’s going on?” Tom said.

  Paul recapped the events of the previous day, telling Tom everything. His friend had a habit of asking about every minute detail, and Paul had learned a long time ago to hold nothing back.

  “So you don’t know the extent of the plane’s damage?”

  “Not yet. I wanted to hobble out there today, but I don’t think it’s going to happen,” Paul said.

  “Take care of yourself first, but keep me informed. I think it would be a good idea to send someone after you.”

  The concern in Tom’s voice warmed Paul. “No thanks. I have a good doctor. As soon as I find out what I need to repair the plane, I’ll call back. Besides, Khartoum’s forces know I’m here and might return.”

  “All the more reason to get you out of there,” Tom said.

  “Too risky. No one else needs to be in my shoes.”

  “Do you think any of them recognized you?”

  Roasting alive over an open fire was more appealing to Paul than being captured by enemies he had once called his friends. “No. Not in the least.”

  * * *

  Larson listened to Paul conclude his phone conversation with someone named Tom in the States. Paul wanted to leave, and she couldn’t blame him. But at the moment, she had questions, and she believed he had the answers. Ben had said the problems in Sudan had existed for centuries, but she wondered if his words were accurate. In her effort to treat these people, she hadn’t taken the time to learn how all the problems in their country had come about.

  I’m embarrassed. I don’t know Sudan’s history, and I desperately want to learn why the North has spent the last twenty years trying to kill the southern people.

  She stepped into the room and busied herself checking Paul’s wound. “I don’t understand the origin of the conflict here,” she said. “Can you provide insight?”

  “Of course,” Paul said, appearing to take her abrupt request in stride. “Talking keeps my mind off my leg.”

  She braved forward. “How in the world did the Sudanese get to the point of killing each other? I know it’s the Muslim North wanting to control the South—the oil, the people’s religion, the black slavery. But has it always been this way?”

  Paul raised a brow. “You want hundreds of years of history summed up in a few moments of conversation?”

  “Yes, exactly.”

  “All right.” He sighed and appeared to contemplate his words. “I’ll do the best I can. In my opinion it’s all about religion. Always has been. Somewhere around the sixth century, Christianity came to northern Sudan and thrived among the Nubians. They had strong Christian kings who were successful in keeping out the Arab invaders. Muslim followers slowly infiltrated the people through intermarriage and eventually turned the people toward Allah. Meanwhile, in southern Sudan, Christian missionaries worked at converting black Africans. Also during this time, the North found a lucrative trade in black slaves. So right there you have two reasons for the South to despise the North.”

  “Religion and slavery? Things have never changed? They’ve always been the same?”

  “Basically. Great Britain and Egypt ruled Sudan in the latter part of the nineteenth century and up until 1956, when Sudan became an independent nation. During that time, Britain outlawed slavery and established schools for the South. They encouraged the North and South to keep their autonomy, as though pushing for the separation.”

  “It seems to me those measures further divided the country.”

  “Some blame the British.” He shrugged. “I think they saw the extreme differences in the country and also saw how easily the North could overrun the South. I’ve read the Brits wanted to eventually incorporate southern Sudan into the British colonies that then surrounded Sudan. In any event, hundreds of years of culture and values can’t be wiped away with legislation, which is exactly what the North has tried to do since 1956. To date the death toll in this war is about two million, while around five million more are displaced either in government-controlled camps or in refugee centers outside Sudan.”

  “And the civil war continues,” Larson said. “Ben has said some of the same things, but I didn’t know if his words were spoken out of anger or fact.”

  “Ben has a respected position because the leaders of the South realize his intelligence. No doubt once this conflict is over, he will be rewarded.”

  “Odd how you can commend him, considering.”

  “We have our differences of opinion, but he is definitely an asset for this country.” A bird sang outside the hut, and they both smiled. “There are volumes of Sudanese history and politics.” Paul shifted in the bed. “Larson, what I just told you is a poor skim off the top. I can tell you about past wars, key political figures and their stands, the current-day officials, whatever.”

  “And I do need to know those things. I should have had a thorough knowledge of the situation before I came. When you’re back in the States and have the time, would you search out a good history book for me?”

  “I’d be glad to.” He leaned back against his pillow.

  “All these people have ever known is war,” Larson said, “and the likelihood of things getting better depends on other nations urging peace.”

  “Probably forcing peace.”

  “Trade sanctions would do it, along with pressure from humanitarian organizations.” Larson turned her attention to the sound of voices outside the clinic. The Dinka tongue and its rhythmic clip had become a part of her. “I’m ashamed of myself for keeping my nose stuck in medical journals and ignoring the rest of the world. If anything of value has come out of Rachel’s disappearance, it’s an awareness of how much work it will take to put this country back together.”

  Paul stared at her, saying nothing. She wondered about his thoughts. Did he think she was stupid? Not that it mattered. Two women and their toddlers walked into the clinic. Wrinkled Sarah trailed after them. She hugged Larson and chatted away. The old woman’s face was a permanent smile. How could Sarah face each day with such happiness and joy? How could any of them find peace and contentment? Where was their hope?

  Larson inwardly shuddered. Her precious Sudanese people clung to Jesus. She didn’t understand how they thought He could help. If God was sovereign, and He ruled the universe, why hadn’t He stopped the genocide?

  * * *

  Ben tramped down the dusty path with his men. They all carried rifles and grenades, their attention tuned to every sound and movement. The noises of nature often deceived the best soldier. Ben’s battalion, part of the Rhino division, had a fierce reputation, and his men deserved the credit. They followed him without question, no matter where he led them. All but two were members of the Dinka tribe. The other soldiers were Nuer tribesmen.

  He gripped his rifle tighter and clenched his jaw. Thoughts of Rachel drove him crazy. His sister in the hands of government soldiers tore at his heart. Every time the image of what those Arabs did to women bolted across his mind, he breathed vengeance. He wanted the blood of every loyal Khartoum man, woman, and child he could find.

  Yesterday afternoon he’d buried a comrade. At least James had died for his country. Nothing nobler existed on this earth. Ben had given him a Christian burial by quoting a few memorized pieces of Scripture ending with the Twenty-third Psalm. As a Christian, Ben’s reputation preceded him, but today murder ruled his heart.

  Paul Farid deserved to die. Ben no more believed the man tried to save Rachel than he believed the GOS wanted peace. The reports from FTW and Christian publications were merely propaganda to disguise the real man. Those who trusted Farid were fools and deserved whatever fate befell them for believing a Muslim could convert to Christianity. Farid had been a member of the royal family in Khartoum until he “found the Lord” and escaped the country with the GOS hot on his heels. Of course, the ma
n had managed to transfer his wealth to a safe account. How convenient. Now Farid had access to all the humanitarian organizations in the world committed to aiding the innocent victims of Sudan. His actions looked like sophisticated terrorism to Ben. One day those poor, duped idiots would learn the truth and wish they had listened to Ben Alier.

  Farid’s wound yesterday was only an accident—or perhaps intentional, staged to prove the Arab’s credibility. Even Larson believed the pilot’s story.

  A dormant emotion tugged at Ben’s senses, one he often denied except in the early hours of dawn. Bracing his shoulders, he shoved the inclination aside. No one knew. No one would ever learn the depth of his feelings for Larson.

  Ben had sent word about Rachel yesterday and again early this morning to every slave trader he knew. The message, delivered by a villager, was simple. A young woman from a village near Warkou had been taken in a government raid, and the family wanted her back. No one would suspect the missing young woman had a notorious brother. Perhaps the message would get through to the government, and Rachel would be returned safely and without having endured too much suffering. Yet in this war it was always the innocent who suffered—the defenseless ones.

  Up ahead three trucks with mounted machine guns ground across the rutted road, paving a way for the Rhino division. Reports revealed GOS forces had bombed a second village yesterday and seized five women. Ben intended to make sure no enemies were lurking in the brush. He also needed to obtain a full report from the villagers. Maybe Khartoum had followed a pattern.

  Khartoum spent a million dollars a day on this civil war, the same amount it earned from the oil reserves. One of the larger international humanitarian organizations spent about that much a day on relief aid to the southern Sudanese. Innocent blood was being spilled for the sake of the rich reserves of oil situated under the southern soil. Ben cursed just thinking about the genocide in his beloved country. The GOS bombed villages in the oil-rich regions, while helicopter snipers killed many of the people and chased the remaining few from the area. As a result, widespread famine attacked the displaced people. Even if the refugees wanted to return home, their villages were destroyed and their fields burned. Khartoum’s scorched-earth policy continued, while the free world seemingly displayed its indifference.