Long Walk Home

by DiAnn Mills

  Sudan’s government didn’t have the money to invest in drilling for oil, so it had contracted with international oil companies to do the work, allowing them to take the majority of the profits. China, Malaysia, the Netherlands, and Canada were among the worst offenders, having constructed a thousand-mile crude oil pipeline from the south to Port Sudan on the Red Sea. Sudan National Petroleum Corporation (Sudapet), the government-controlled oil company, held only 5 percent of the oil shares.

  Look what the government is doing with it. To blazes with them all. Oh, for the day when the southern Sudanese seize control of what is rightfully theirs.

  Rifle fire sounded to the right of Ben. Fully alert, deserting all thoughts but the war storming around him, he spun into action. After years of combat in the wilds of southern Sudan, his every nerve and muscle were ready to respond without hesitation.

  A grenade exploded near one of the trucks, followed by the screams of the injured. Ben signaled for a band of men to follow him into the brush. Up ahead he saw GOS soldiers, some on foot and some on horseback. Ben was determined that Khartoum forces would meet another bad day at the hands of the rebels.

  When all else disappeared, when all else around him collapsed, this was what Ben lived for.

  CHAPTER 7

  The second night after the GOS attack on the village found Paul unable to sleep. His leg cried out every time his heart beat, and the pain seemed to grow worse instead of better. The thought of infection once more crossed his mind, but he refused to dwell on it. He had the best doctor in the area. Tonight he’d turned down Tylenol with codeine despite Larson’s insistence. The sacrifice wasn’t much, but to Paul, the small dose of pain reliever might help a suffering man, woman, or child.

  In the blackness of night, his thoughts played back over the years spent in Khartoum when he agreed with those who hunted down the “infidels.” Although Paul never signed any death warrants, he supported the government that murdered many innocent civilians and forced hundreds of others into camps where no water, food, medical assistance, sanitation, or housing existed. Their “crimes” were their faith, either Christianity or one of the tribal religions. More atrocities than Paul cared to remember stemmed from Muslim beliefs, and he had been in the middle of it all. He hated himself for those actions and values. Nighttime traumas plagued him.

  Paul knew the Truth. He’d told himself repeatedly he’d been washed clean in the blood of Jesus. Still, guilt whispered accusations that he would never be good enough. His sin seemed too great for the Creator of the universe to pardon.

  Fly over the enemy 24-7. Drop food and medical supplies until Sudan soil is littered with them. Give away all your money. But you are still an animal. Nothing will ever change what you did.

  At times, Paul shoved the haunting aside. But on nights like this one, combined with the agony in his leg, the voice magnified until he thought his head might explode.

  But then there came a different voice: Pray, My son. I am here for you.

  Sweat streamed down Paul’s face, not from his physical pain but from the inner war threatening to obliterate his faith. Staring into the blackness, he reached into the coils of time and remembered the man who showed him the Way. Are you with Jesus, Abraham? Must I wait until heaven to see you again?

  Abraham would be in his sixties by now, and Paul doubted the man still lived. The GOS had cut off one of his hands when he lifted it to praise God. The barbarity hadn’t stopped the utterances from Abraham’s lips and heart. The man found more strength to endure beatings and deprivation of the necessities of life.

  “See what you can find out from the dog,” Paul’s father had said. “Then dispose of him.”

  Paul was prepared to follow through with the commands, but when the time came, he discovered he couldn’t do it. The look Abraham gave him and the love generating from his eyes stopped Paul from inflicting any harm. Instead he nursed Abraham the best he could and found a way for him to escape.

  Abraham refused to leave the prison compound until he’d shared the gospel with Paul. After listening to what had been done for him in the name of love, Paul accepted Jesus Christ as Savior and Master of his life, and he hadn’t been the same since.

  Now, lying there in the confines of the clinic, he whispered prayers until dawn burst over the horizon. Exhausted, yet encouraged in faith, he renewed his commitment to make a difference in Sudan. His nightmares always ended the same way—with a rejuvenation of his commitment to God’s plan for his life. He prayed for Rachel and her family and friends. He prayed for Ben Alier and the guerrilla bands seeking to free Sudan. Many times captured Muslim soldiers heard the gospel and accepted Christ as their Savior. Paul didn’t know if they did so out of fear for their lives or because the Holy Spirit had actually spoken to them. He prayed it was the latter reason. After all, God had found him. He prayed for those kept in bondage for their faith. He prayed for the free world to finally see the suffering in southern Sudan and take action.

  “Did you sleep well?” Larson said when she entered the hut with the breakfast basket. How she managed a smile with the schedule she kept baffled him. Her eyes were red and swollen, and a sense of guilt pierced him again.

  “As compared to what?”

  She raised a brow. “If you’d taken the pain medication, you’d have slept like a baby.”

  “But someone’s baby might have needed it.”

  She studied him, tilting her head as if trying to look beyond the exterior to the inside of the man entrusted to her care. “You’re a strange one,” she said, and he caught the tone of appreciation in her voice. “And a good one.”

  Humbled, he shook his head. “It’s my purpose.”

  She set the basket aside, taking out a mango for him and placing it beside the coffeepot. “I want to take a look at your thigh. Knowing you, the idea of running back to the States for more supplies has entered your mind.”

  He forced a chuckle. For a moment he thought someone had lit a match to his leg. “All I want to do is check on the damage to my plane. I must maneuver from this hut and find out what’s ailing it.”

  “So you’re a plane doctor too?”

  Paul flipped back the thin blanket for her to examine his leg. “I’m an apprentice mechanic, nothing more. If my aircraft has extensive damage, I’m at your mercy.”

  She tossed him a feigned sympathetic look. “I could always train you in the fine art of assisting the doctor.”

  “Then what would I do?” Nyok said from the doorway. “I’m doing a good job for both Rachel and myself.”

  Larson kissed the boy’s cheek, despite his scowl. “Of course you are.”

  While Larson redressed Paul’s thigh, he observed the wound. To him, it looked redder than it should. “Is infection setting in?” he said.

  “I’m applying an antibiotic ointment, and you’re taking antibiotics orally.”

  She hadn’t addressed his question, which gave him the answer he sought. Paul had to trust Larson and get on with what he needed to do. He seized the opportunity to speak with Nyok. “Are you free later on this morning to help a cripple?”

  “As soon as I finish some chores for Dr. Kerr,” Nyok said. “I need to store the extra medical supplies in the bomb shelter—the food too.”

  “Good. I need a walking stick and help to check out my plane.”

  “It has holes in the side.” Nyok leaned against the doorway of the hut.

  “I remember.” He hesitated. “My fear is whether the fuel tanks or the engines are destroyed. If they are, you may have a new resident.”

  Nyok shrugged. “Sudan is not so bad, but it will be better when the SPLA frees the South.”

  If only peace in Sudan could be won that easily.

  The hours after breakfast sped by as Paul watched Larson examine and treat patients. She had a special bedside manner he admired and appreciated. Woven with her beauty, it caused him to move beyond a flower image to an angel. Each patient was her most important one, and her touch was gen
tle, loving. No wonder the villagers were so loyal to her.

  At midmorning, Nyok entered the clinic with a long, thick stick. Just right for a crutch.

  “I took a look at your plane,” the boy said.

  “What did you see?”

  “Fuel is spilled on the ground beneath the wings.”

  Paul cringed and reached for the makeshift crutch. Nyok eased up beside him and slipped Paul’s arm around his shoulder as he had done when he was first injured. The slightest pressure sent liquid hot coals up and down Paul’s leg.

  “You choose,” Nyok said. “Stay here and heal, or hurt like crazy while taking a look at your plane.”

  Gritting his teeth, Paul took a step. “You have my answer.”

  Once outside, Paul blinked in the bright sunlight. The villagers were going about their business as though nothing had occurred two days earlier. Children danced around him wanting attention. One accidentally bumped against his leg, causing excruciating pain that stung his eyes. Nyok shouted at them in Dinka, and they scattered. From the sound of Nyok’s voice, it seemed evident the children would not be bothering him soon. Paul regretted sending them away. He would make it up to them as soon as he felt better.

  “We’re almost there,” Nyok said as though reading Paul’s thoughts. “Just a little farther.”

  Paul nodded. If not for his stubbornness, he would have turned around and headed back inside the clinic. Every step sent perspiration streaming down his face. He craved water but refused to ask for a drink. Glancing in the near distance, he saw the plane emerge like a fixture on the plains.

  “Am I going to have to carry you back?” The boy’s teasing tone bordered on a hint of alarm.

  “Nah, I’ll race you.” Paul moistened his lips. “Do I have my phone in my hip pocket?”

  Nyok glanced down. “You do.”

  Paul expelled a labored sigh. “I hated the thought of going back for it.”

  As they neared the twin-engine aircraft, Paul focused on the bullet holes.

  “Is it bad?” Nyok said.

  “Not sure yet. Help me take a look.”

  Nyok helped him limp to the back, where bullet holes riddled the tail. Paul wasn’t surprised. He expected the GOS to hit the biggest target on the plane. A good amount of rudder damage captured his attention, but metal patching would take care of that. Further inspection showed damage in the fuselage.

  “What about the holes there?” Nyok said as Paul scrutinized the cabin.

  He sighed. “Some metal patching will stop any leaks, so pressurizing the cabin won’t be a problem.” Paul glanced up at the wingtips, then down to the ground where a puddle of fuel had accumulated below the wings. “Looks like there are a few holes in the tip tanks.”

  “Some of what you say I don’t understand,” Nyok said, his voice iced with a hint of irritation.

  Paul patted him on the shoulder. “I’ll have time to explain some of this to you.” He reached inside the cabin and pulled out his backpack containing his Bible and journal.

  “So is the plane destroyed?”

  “Not at all. In fact, I have a roll of 300-knot tape that will patch it just fine and get me out of here,” Paul said. He examined a bullet hole in the cabin. “I’ve got a lot of miles from this plane, and I’ll get a lot more.” He reached for his cell phone. “Guess I’d better report in to FTW.” His friend Tom answered on the second ring.

  “Hey, how is sunny California?” Paul asked with more enthusiasm than he felt.

  “You sound better.”

  Good disguise. “I’m working on it. Right now I’m standing beneath the wing of my plane.”

  “How bad is it?”

  Paul recapped his assessment. “The plane can still fly, but not too high or fast. I can patch a few places with tape and get out of here in about three days.”

  “Why don’t you let me send in some help?”

  Paul didn’t know why he wasn’t ready for FTW to risk another pilot and plane, except danger lurked in the shadows, and he suspected the GOS might drop more bombs. “Let’s wait a day or so. I don’t feel comfortable about losing another plane.”

  “What else is going on, Paul? Something with Dr. Kerr?”

  Paul hesitated, uncertain how to answer Tom’s questions. The immediate attraction to her had him confused and at times feeling unworthy. “I just feel I’m supposed to be here.”

  “Are you in a hostage situation?”

  Paul glanced at Nyok, who appeared to be memorizing every inch of the plane. “Not exactly. These people are wonderful. You know that.”

  “Just checking.”

  “I need some time to let my leg heal a bit more, and I want to see if there is anything else FTW can do to assist these civilians, other than what we’re already doing.”

  “Now I get it,” Tom said, obviously exasperated. “Guilt has you over there. I thought you’d settled it. Those nasty feelings rearing their venomous heads come from Satan, not God.”

  How could he make Tom understand when Paul himself didn’t fully comprehend the power of God’s love? “Tom,” Paul said, “I can’t expect you to see things the same way as I do. For some reason, I need to stay. God will tell me why in His time.”

  “I don’t want you killed,” Tom said. “Be careful.”

  * * *

  Larson crossed her arms and stared at Nyok and Paul. Even from where she stood, she could see how the man struggled with every move. She recognized his commitment to FTW. Like hers, she knew that only death would cease his dedication. But she recognized a longing whenever she was around him—hope, a future that still held abandoned dreams. She shook her head to will the thought away.

  Raw memories from the day preyed on her heart. Paul and his plane should have flown away after the provisions were delivered. Rachel should be beside her, speaking words of encouragement, shining love to those around her.

  Where are you, my precious daughter? What have they done to you?

  Ben would find her. Larson had to believe in him. Aside from his crude mannerisms and sometimes-savage treatment of others, he had good intentions and a passion for Sudan and its future. That future held his dreams for Rachel. The plight of the southern Sudanese kept him awake at night and moved him on to the next battle. He planned and schemed, cleverly outthinking the enemy. For certain, Ben cast fear into the hearts of the GOS. Larson disapproved of many of his methods, but she agreed with his purpose. The war had to end before millions more died.

  Larson massaged her shoulders. She would give her soul to have Rachel returned unharmed.

  If she had a soul.

  CHAPTER 8

  Nyok watched the women scoop up buckets of water from the stream amid the cattle and goats. Some laughed. Others merely went through the motions of living. After the bombing, he had committed himself not only to protect Dr. Kerr, but also to spend every spare moment keeping guard on the village with the other warriors. With the added responsibility, he had little time for serious thought.

  He pledged that no enemy soldier would kill their few cattle or seize their women. Colonel Alier had given him a rifle and taught him how to fire it. Nyok would not hesitate to use the weapon. He welcomed the opportunity to kill the mujahideen—the so-called holy warriors. He would never forget what the GOS had done. The memories rained terror on him—the screams woke him at night, and the gruesome sights would horrify the worst of evil spirits. Nyok shivered, his face dripping with sweat. He longed to join the SPLA and avenge his village’s murders, but always Dr. Kerr interfered and Colonel Alier stopped Nyok.

  “Dr. Kerr and Rachel need you as their warrior and protector,” the colonel had said. “Don’t let any harm come to them. You are a soldier, Nyok. They are your charges. Soon we will talk of other things. Remember, this is your training ground.”

  The words still weighed on his mind, as though a giant accuser stood over him. He’d failed with Rachel and blamed himself for her abduction. If he forced himself to admit the truth, he should have bee
n the one the colonel attacked, not Paul Farid.

  Nyok understood the SPLA leader all too well. If Nyok hadn’t been at the plane with Paul and Rachel and seen the pilot’s bravery, he would have held the man down while the colonel wrapped his fingers around his throat and choked him to death. Nyok clenched his jaw. So many things to consider, and he had no answers. Farid was a Christian, like Rachel, always ready to help anyone in need—almost to the point of foolishness.

  Confusion about God pricked at Nyok’s mind. He wondered if God had given him light and strength when he faced the lion. At times he didn’t want to believe it, that some mystical, ancestral deity had shown him the way. At moments like this, his faith trickled away, and the hate welled inside him until he thought he couldn’t stand it a moment longer, until he ached to abandon his pledge to Dr. Kerr. Maybe he believed his single act of bravery was insignificant because he had never been given the opportunity to seek revenge. Even killing the lion hadn’t fulfilled the deep craving that roared in his soul, clawed at this throat, and thirsted for blood.

  In the next breath, Nyok slipped back in time to a peaceful village. He was one of six children, and he remembered laughter and love. Even now he could hear his mother calling him. She had a sweet voice and a lingering smile. Nyok didn’t have a hungry belly then. No one wanted for anything. The garden he tended held plenty of vegetables, and the forests provided an abundance of fruits and nuts. Back then, Nyok inwardly grumbled about pulling weeds, because childhood chores lessened his play hours. His father had many cows, and this wealth brought respect among the villagers. Nyok smiled, remembering his greatest happiness came when he tended his father’s herd.