Long Walk Home

by DiAnn Mills

  For a moment he thought he could taste ghee. His mother made it from the liquid remaining from churned butter. She cooked it until it looked like tiny lumps of brown sugar. Then she placed the ghee on top of porridge with milk and sugar. Nothing could replace the flavor, though it wasn’t the taste he missed but rather his mother’s love.

  He attended school in the village and started to learn Arabic and English. Math was taught by using sticks for numbers and marking in the dirt. And he always had Bible lessons. Nyok memorized countless verses and recited them for his family. In turn, his parents talked about Jesus and His love to all the villagers who would listen.

  Bile rose in Nyok’s throat. What had God done for his family?

  They were all dead, tortured . . . slaughtered.

  Nyok swallowed hard before glancing about to see if any of the women or other warriors had seen his emotion. He dared not defile his position as a warrior by shedding tears.

  Before the soldiers came to his village, his family had nothing to fear but wild animals. Sometimes he could still hear the birds singing and remember his younger brothers and sisters roaming about with no thought of terror.

  “Play with us, Nyok,” they would say until he gave in. “We’ll hide, and you find us.”

  The day, four years ago, inched unbidden into his mind. He didn’t want to relive the horror, but he couldn’t stop the demons from marching forward.

  Nyok had been in the fields tending his father’s cows when he heard thunder. He glanced into the cloudless sky and pondered the strange sound. Again the countryside echoed with more of the same sounds. He looked about him at his friends, who were just as confused as he was.

  Nyok ran toward his home. His heart pounded until he thought it would burst through his chest. Bloodcurdling screams followed by rapid cracks filled his ears—a woman’s high-pitched shriek and a child’s shrill cry.

  “Stop, Nyok,” one of his friends said. “Soldiers are killing the people.”

  Nyok refused to listen. He raced ahead. From behind his hut, he peered out. His mother’s and father’s bodies lay in a bloody heap. The horror left him paralyzed. His two sisters lay alongside their mother. The sight sickened him, yet he could not tear his eyes away. One of the soldiers threw his baby brother into the air and shot him before he hit the ground. The mujahideen laughed and continued their murdering and pillaging at other huts.

  Nyok crept to his family, believing one of them must still be alive. He held each one close and paid no attention to the blood covering his body. The voices of soldiers echoed over the muffled screams and the crackle of flames devouring homes. The enemy returned to Nyok’s hut. He slung a leg over his mother in hopes the soldiers would think he too was dead. For at least two more hours, the soldiers tortured and killed the innocent. They severed the arms and legs of some of the villagers and let them lie there unaided until they died from loss of blood. The soldiers celebrated and sang praises to Allah for bringing the infidels to their death.

  Even after the soldiers had left, Nyok could not move. He thought the day had been a nightmare. When he awoke and the nightmare continued, he thought he must be dead. Then dusk swept across the village, and the hyenas arrived and began to eat the bodies. The will to live spurred Nyok to his feet, and he ran through the forests. He would stop for only a breath, but the snarl of preying animals or the sound of searching soldiers behind him pushed him on. All night he thrashed through the darkness, crying, reliving the sight of murder and treachery.

  The following morning, Colonel Alier found him wandering through the forest. At first the guerrilla leader thought Nyok had been wounded, but only Nyok’s feet had been pierced and cut from the forest floor. Through his tears, Nyok told the colonel what had happened.

  “Every enemy soldier from Khartoum deserves to die for what they have done to your family and village.” Colonel Alier’s features were like rock, casting fear as vivid as the enemy. The big man then softened and placed a hand on Nyok’s shoulder. A comforting hand . . . like Nyok’s father’s.

  He urged Nyok to eat, but the images of the massacre choked any thought of food. Colonel Alier promised to take him to a village where a doctor would tend to his feet.

  “When you’re healed, come join us. My army needs soldiers.”

  “I will fight,” Nyok said. “Show me how to fire a gun, and I will kill every Muslim soldier I can find.”

  A few days later, Nyok met Dr. Kerr. He’d seen a white man once, a missionary who had visited his village. He had smiled a lot and talked about a God who loved them. Lies, all lies. Nyok wasn’t sure he wanted this woman to touch him, but in the end he allowed the kindly, fair-haired doctor to treat his infected feet. When he refused to eat, she fed him as though he were a child. Sometimes she held him, but he refused to cry. He was finished with childish ways, including the juvenile belief in God. He didn’t think Dr. Kerr believed in such stories because she never mentioned Him. The girl who lived with the doctor felt differently. Rachel believed strongly in God and encouraged Nyok to rekindle his faith.

  “God did not bring this evil,” Rachel said, her face peaceful and shining. “Those soldiers chose to murder your family. Would your parents want you to turn your heart against the God of their faith?”

  Nyok didn’t reply. He knew the truth, and Rachel had been deceived. Even now he wrestled with God and the anger swelling inside him.

  He believed he must have gone insane during those first few weeks following the massacre of his village. He slept constantly but was plagued by recurring nightmares, and he feared the waking hours because he was certain death awaited him.

  When Nyok’s feet had healed and his body had recovered its strength, Colonel Alier urged him to join the SPLA.

  “Boys your age are a great asset,” the colonel had said. “You can avenge your family by killing the enemy.”

  “I’m not trained,” Nyok said. “I need to know more than how to shoot a gun.”

  “I have men to instruct you. Don’t worry. There are others who require training too.”

  Dr. Kerr heard the conversation and grew angry. “How dare you take this child—or any other child—for your bloody purpose. They will be nothing but decoys. No, I won’t let you pull him into a death trap. He’s in my care now.”

  Colonel Alier and Dr. Kerr argued. Their voices had grown louder over the peaceful afternoon. Nyok feared one would kill the other.

  “If you take Nyok, I will never treat your soldiers again.” She jabbed a finger into the colonel’s chest.

  “You are bound by your oath to care for every person who needs it,” the colonel said. He looked fierce, but she showed no fear.

  “Please, Ben, leave him here with me.”

  “No,” Nyok shouted. All the hatred swelling inside him exploded at the thought of being left behind. “I can learn. I can fight and kill the enemy.”

  Dr. Kerr took him by the shoulders. “You have not gone through your manhood rites. How can you be a soldier in the SPLA? Stay here with me, and be my protector.”

  “I am ready for my rites.” Nyok shook off her hold.

  Dr. Kerr focused on Colonel Alier. “Rachel and I need a protector. If this boy is able to fight in your army, then he is able to watch over us.”

  The colonel peered into the doctor’s face. For the second time, Nyok saw the lines soften around his eyes. A long moment passed. Finally the colonel spoke. “The boy can stay with you and Rachel until after his manhood rites. Then he is mine.”

  Dr. Kerr raised her chin. “If the war still rages, he will choose whether to fight or remain with me.”

  “We will see,” the colonel said and walked away.

  Dr. Kerr postponed Nyok’s manhood rites until last year when he turned eleven, still young in some villagers’ eyes, but he was ready. Finally he had come of age, but Dr. Kerr possessed a certain power over the colonel. Eventually she had her way, no matter what the argument. Nyok used to wonder about this invisible hold, until he saw the truth
in Colonel Alier’s eyes.

  Ushering his thoughts back to the present, Nyok shifted his weight to view the surroundings. He had devised a plan. A boy in a neighboring village showed courage and a willingness to live with Dr. Kerr. He could be her protector, and Nyok could join the SPLA. He would kill ten men for every one of his family and friends who had been slaughtered.

  CHAPTER 9

  “It’s infected.”

  Paul suspected Larson’s diagnosis before she spoke the words. Despite the daily injections and antibiotics, the inflammation and pus around the wound had grown worse. She frowned all the time she dressed the wound.

  “So fix it,” Paul said.

  Larson pressed her lips together. “You don’t have to stay here. You have a way out. Call FTW and have someone pick you up.”

  “Are you saying you can’t treat it?”

  “Look at this.” She waved her arms around the hut. Her eyes blazed. “Does this look like a state-of-the-art medical facility to you? Infection here is as common as breathing. Are you ready to die in a third-world country?”

  Paul was ready to die anywhere, but it had to be God’s timing, not his.

  When he didn’t reply, Larson continued. “Get out of Sudan while you still have your leg and your life.”

  He wasn’t ready to leave, not until Rachel was found and he had answers to this strange attraction to Larson. But what good could he accomplish dead? “If I leave, I’m coming back.”

  She tilted her head. “With more supplies?”

  “Yes, and I want to do something here.”

  “What’s that? Get yourself killed? Die a martyr? I’m sure there are enough GOS around to take care of those aspirations.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “For that matter, Ben would oblige.”

  Paul studied her for a moment. How long before her smooth features hardened and the bleak outlook for tomorrow cemented her heart? “I want to do what I can to get Rachel back. Have you forgotten she was with me during the abduction?”

  “Chivalry died in the Victorian era, Paul. You took a bullet attempting to help her. Fly your missions. That’s more than most of the world would do.”

  A stab of pain caused him to grit his teeth. Larson snatched up his phone and handed it to him. “Make the call, or I will.”

  He punched in Tom’s number. He fumed all the while, but he realized she was right. His leg needed attention.

  “Tom, I need a favor.”

  “Sure. You name it.”

  “This leg of mine needs more medical treatment than Dr. Kerr can provide here.”

  “Okay. I’m on my way. And I’ll see if I can’t get Hank to come along. Your plane’s flyable, right?”

  “I think so. At least enough to get to an airport for repairs.”

  “Sounds like it’s in the same shape you are.”

  Paul lifted a brow. “Very funny.”

  * * *

  Larson heard the rumble of the FTW plane as it circled overhead checking out the landing strip. As soon as the plane made contact with the ground, the pilots would pick up Paul and transport him to Nairobi, Kenya, where he could receive proper medical attention. A feeling of incompetence snaked its way through her body. This wasn’t the first time she’d been unable to help a patient. She lived with the inability to heal all those who sought her out. If she admitted the truth, her fight against those feelings was what kept her among the Sudanese. Here, if someone died, all anyone had to do was look at what she had to work with, not at her credentials. Even so, she blamed her own lack of ability.

  “I admire your commitment to these people,” Paul said from his cot.

  “Don’t put me on a pedestal.” She flipped her ponytail over her shoulder. “You’ll be very disappointed.”

  “I don’t think so. You have no idea the respect and admiration that humanitarian organizations all over the world have for your work here.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I have the letters, plaques, and articles to prove it.” She wished he would change the subject.

  “You must love these people very much.”

  The statement yanked at her heart, and she turned away.

  “I didn’t mean to upset you.” Paul’s words were gentle, as though he spoke them to a lover and not to a doctor in the middle of a war zone. “I simply wanted to congratulate you, and for what it’s worth, I’m honored to have met you.”

  Maybe if I keep hoping, I’ll make a difference. “I’m sorry. I know you mean well, and I do appreciate what others say about my work, but I feel very inadequate.” She pointed to his leg. “Like now.”

  He smiled, not so much with his lips but with his eyes. “Thank you for all you’ve done for me.”

  “You’re welcome.” She glanced down and then back at him. “Would you write me about how you’re doing?” She paused. “Want to make sure my patient is doing okay.”

  “I’d like that, very much. When I’m in better shape, I’d like to return.”

  Her heart marched double time. “To bring more supplies?”

  “Whatever you need . . . and to see you.”

  Before she could respond, before she could question why he’d want to see her, before she could say how much his companionship over the past few days had meant to her, Nyok entered the clinic. “I came to help,” he said to Paul. “You need a shoulder to lean on.”

  “That I do. And thanks for helping this crippled old man get about. When I return, I’ll teach you all I can about the plane.”

  The boy grinned. “You’re coming back?”

  Paul nodded. “As soon as I can get this leg on the mend and my plane patched up.” He reached for Nyok’s hand and shook it. “You’re a fine young man, Nyok. I wish I had you protecting me. And thanks for helping me tape up the holes in my plane.”

  Nyok’s face brightened in the shadows of the clinic. Paul had a friend with this one. The boy didn’t warm up to many people. He had a difficult time trusting, but rightfully so. With an inward sigh, Larson scolded herself for referring to Nyok as a boy. He’d long since become a man—a very old man with a troubled mind.

  If she possessed the funds, she would send him somewhere to seek psychiatric help and then to get a fine education. A few times, she considered taking him to Kakuma, Kenya, where more than eighty thousand refugees from Sudan, Uganda, Somalia, Ethiopia, and other war-torn areas had fled to escape persecuting governments. Although the camp faced serious food shortages, and the authorities there fought to keep peace and offer the refugees some dignity, Nyok could receive counseling and a sound education. Every time she mentioned the possibility, he balked. If she didn’t need him to protect her, he said, he would join the SPLA.

  A few hours later, Larson watched both planes ascend into the African sky and fly south toward Nairobi. There a medical team would take her findings and administer treatment to Paul’s infected leg. His friend Tom had urged him to return to the States, but Paul refused to consider it. He wanted his leg taken care of and his plane repaired in Kenya. When the two were working normally again, he’d return to Warkou. The thought warmed and frightened her, and she didn’t fear many things.

  Larson scrubbed the clinic with Nyok’s assistance. Neither spoke. She was too absorbed in her own thoughts, and he appeared to be consumed with something. All around her, the work at the clinic mounted, and those requiring care continued to come. Friends and families knew no limits or boundaries when it came to seeking medical aid for their own. Many times they carried the sick and wounded from other villages in hopes she could heal their diseased and broken bodies. Their dedication made perfect sense to Larson. When one loses everything, precious life is all that remains.

  She sensed Paul understood why she stayed—the complex, often-ineffable reasons she kept her feet planted on Sudanese soil. Deep in his dark eyes, she saw the same longing and searching. It was more than a compelling compassion for Sudan, more than a dauntless sense of urgency, and by far more than mere humans could communicate in their finite ways. Larson believed
she understood this portion of Paul more than his friend Tom or any other humanitarian, who would shake their heads at his fearless dedication. In a brief moment, a man had touched her in a way she’d never imagined possible, and she might have touched him too.

  “Do you think he’ll be back?” Nyok said.

  She wanted to say no and not build up his hopes, but her heart echoed the truth. “He said so. He’s not like most men.”

  “Why, when he has everything he could ever want?” Nyok lifted a pan of boiling instruments from the single electric burner.

  “If you had the world in the palms of your hands, if you could buy anything and everyone at a mere whim, would you be satisfied?” She stared into his eyes. When had his shoulders broadened and his voice deepened?

  Nyok glanced away, his gaze beyond the edge of his world—his eyes fixed on the place where he refused to allow her inside. “No, neither would I be happy. Life has to mean more than wealth and power.”

  “Therein lies your answer,” she said. “Some say religion provides stability to the faltering spirit.”

  “But you don’t.”

  She shook her head. “Many believe science explains man’s role in the universe. I have no answers for you other than we are all on a quest. Perhaps we’ll find our peace before we die.”

  “You are in a strange mood today, Dr. Kerr.”

  She sighed and battled the heaviness in her heart. “I’m missing Rachel, and my mind races with fear for her.” She hesitated to say more about her bewildering thoughts. “I want to know her life has meant something in the realm of things.”

  “Her ways have helped me,” Nyok said. “There are many who come to the clinic who look for Rachel. She has made a difference.”

  “We have to hold on to that belief.”

  “You saw something different in Paul.” Nyok’s words were not spoken as a question, but rather as an answer to the day’s unrest. “I heard it in your voice when you talked to him.”

  Because Larson dared not audibly admit the truth, she hugged him close. “Without you, I am lost. Together we’ll carry on whatever needs to be done.”