Long Walk Home

by DiAnn Mills

  “If you’d done that, we wouldn’t have become such great friends.”

  “And under such pleasant circumstances too.”

  “Do you ever think about going back?” Paul understood he was treading on treacherous ground. How close could he get to Larson before she pulled back?

  She nibbled at her lip. “I don’t think I’m supposed to. Everything would be changed, spoiled. I’d rather keep it in my memories and visit there when I choose.”

  “And your parents?”

  “We don’t keep in touch. I get cards and letters at Christmas and my birthday.” She sighed. “We don’t have much in common.”

  CHAPTER 17

  Late that morning, Larson and Paul approached the remote village of Xokabuc. Larson attempted to put her thoughts in order. The freedom of talking about those old days had raised the curtain on her life, and for a brief moment, she’d become a girl again. For the past hour, she’d made a point not to say a word. Humiliation clung to every breath, and in the intense heat, chill bumps jogged up and down her arms. Paul hadn’t coerced her. It was her stupid mistake. She had not revealed this much to Rachel, and they’d been in constant company. Her careless accountings of home and childhood left her feeling somewhere along the spectrum between embarrassed and violated.

  What if she’d ventured too far? The thought frightened her. He had no right to learn about those things dear to her.

  Yet something about Paul calmed her. He managed to release the pain and stress of the clinic and its score of problems. How long had it been since she’d heard Granddaddy play the banjo and Daddy croon an old Hank Williams tune? How long since a kitten had brushed against her leg and she’d lost herself in the awe of silky fur? She remembered baby ducks on the front lawn, impersonating dandelions in spring. The aroma of Mom’s warm baked bread and freshly churned butter. Dozens of molasses ginger cookies frosted with sweet cream and sugar . . . all before she ruined it, before she destroyed everything that symbolized love and life.

  Larson couldn’t take back those moments she’d shared with Paul, but today she’d learned something. While the memories wrapped a comforter around her, they also held up a warning sign. Only in her private moments would she dare journey there again.

  The sound of the truck’s engine prompted a welcoming committee from the villagers. Women and children stood in the path waving. Larson’s visits were always like this, even when the villagers buried more of their number than survived.

  “This is it,” she said to Paul. “Are you prepared to work?” Is this the time I’ll contract a fatal disease and find my rest among a people not my own?

  “Yes, you just point the way.”

  His enthusiasm irritated her. “You think this past week was rough? Tell me how you feel tomorrow night.”

  “Larson.” The sound of his voice gripped her attention. “We’re friends. Thanks for sharing your childhood with me.”

  She glanced ahead and waved a greeting at a familiar face. “You frighten me, Paul.”

  * * *

  Ben lifted a canteen of cool, clear spring water to his lips. The village of Wulu had been alive with activity for two days. Southern economists, political figures, and SPLA members had met to discuss southern Sudan’s future. Usually these meetings gave him the strength to go on.

  He leaned back against a chair and closed his eyes. Last night he had managed to sleep long and hard, but today his body craved more rest.

  Age, no way of preventing it. He was forty-four years old, and the taxing hours of keeping pace with the younger men over rough terrain had sunk their claws into him. He shouldn’t feel exhaustion or the ache in his bones. His head throbbed.

  Some labeled this condition as depression, and why not? The one person who gave him joy and loved him despite his imperfections had been snatched away. His fault. His selfishness. His torment. Ben deserved whatever happened to him, but not Rachel.

  She’d been gone almost three months, and he could recall every grueling moment—the guilt, the regrets that compounded by the hour, the sleepless nights. And when he did catch a few moments of rest, nightmares exploded like bombs. He’d tried praying, but peace eluded him.

  The practice of slavery was centuries old. It filled pockets. It served as a means of exchange—the rich grew richer, and the poor were exploited. The British outlawed slavery during their rule, but when they granted Sudan its independence, slavery raised its venomous head again.

  He whisked away his thoughts. After all, he could do nothing more for his sister . . . or could he? If he knew where to look, he’d head north.

  “The meetings went well,” Solomon Thic said as he entered the hut and interrupted Ben’s thoughts. The man, a member of the southern banking and currency committee, was a trusted friend.

  Ben shook the respected man’s hand. “We now have a plan once the war is over.”

  Solomon eased into a chair. He looked older, grayer than Ben remembered from their last meeting six months ago. “It saddens me our country cannot rely on a common currency.”

  “Unless you count goats.”

  “Ben, I want so many things for our country, but using four-legged animals to do business is not one of them.”

  “We need our oil.”

  Solomon folded his hands in his lap. “Sometimes I feel like a fool dreaming about what we could have. Can you imagine hosting tourists, leading safaris, developing industry?”

  “Dreams keep men alive.” Ben paused. “And send good men to their death.”

  Solomon shifted in his chair. “For twenty years we’ve struggled. We’ve always struggled. I don’t know about you, but I’m tired. At first it was for my children, now my grandchildren. Makes me wonder if I’ll live to see peace and a good quality of life.”

  “Where is your hope?”

  “Perhaps I’ve turned into a cynic, my friend.” Solomon smiled.

  “Not you.” Ben shook his head and chuckled. “We won’t allow it.” He stood and walked to the door. Leaders of the southern movement were gathered outside in clumps, no doubt discussing the future.

  “As agreed upon this morning, southern Sudan must have an economic infrastructure before the war is over. We must fight and build at the same time. I don’t see any other way.”

  “I’d rather try than do nothing.” Ben released a labored sigh.

  Solomon studied Ben. “I heard about your sister. I’m sorry, my friend.”

  If I could only get her back. God, where are you? “I hope they don’t know who she is. I don’t want to think about what could happen.”

  “How old is she?”

  “Sixteen . . . beautiful . . . high-spirited.” Ben swallowed. “This is difficult. I made sure she knew the value of standing up for her beliefs. Now I’m afraid it may have gotten her killed.”

  “Slave traders turning up nothing?”

  Ben gazed away from Solomon’s piercing glare. “Not a thing.”

  “I’ll alert our people in Khartoum.”

  “Thanks. That’s the one place I don’t want her to be.”

  “No one will know about this but you and me—and the Weathered Gazelle.”

  * * *

  “Now I know why so many of these people are sick.” Larson stared at the well and kicked at the dirt. She knew from the number of patients something had happened. Xokabuc had always been a favorite, a respite from so many of the others.

  “Looks like the GOS thought they’d do themselves a favor and fill up the well,” Paul said.

  “Right. They didn’t have time to wipe out the village, so they ruined its water supply.”

  “And brought on the disease. Add malaria, and we have an empty village in no time at all.”

  Larson rubbed the back of her neck. “I could stay here a week and still not be through.”

  “Who dug the well?” Paul asked.

  “Living Water International.” She walked around it. “I remember when they brought in their drilling equipment.” She crossed her arms.
“After they’d ensured these people had safe drinking water, they gave classes on hygiene and nutrition and took care of medical needs.”

  “I’ve heard of them. Nonprofit?”

  “Based in Texas, I think.” She didn’t mention they were Christian. The old familiar anger swelled. “No matter, look at their effort now. Did you know every six seconds someone in the world dies because of contaminated water?”

  “That’s terrible. How deep is this pipe?”

  “About 120 feet. Why?”

  Paul bent and peered into the hole. “I’m going to pull up the water pipe and clean it out—if you can spare me.”

  She pointed to the sun directly overhead. “I know you’re no stranger here, but it’ll reach 120 degrees this afternoon.”

  “Before or after the rains?” He grinned and pointed to his T-shirt that read All Muscle.

  “Are you always this energetic?”

  “We’re a team, Dr. Kerr, like Batman and Robin.”

  “Please.”

  “The Lone Ranger and Tonto?”

  Larson huffed. “More like Laurel and Hardy. I give up. I’ll tend to my doctoring while you clean out the well.”

  * * *

  Later, after the rains had subsided enough for Paul to work, he tugged on the water pipe. Foot by foot, it emerged from the ground like a giant serpent. Children gathered around to watch, and a few of the men assisted. At least he could talk to the adults in English.

  Sweat streamed down his face. Memories of his life in Khartoum slipped in unbidden. Larson’s questions must have brought those days to the present. Back then, he wanted for nothing and asked for more. His home was a palace. The marble, gold, and luxurious fabrics now embarrassed him. He ate the finest foods and threw away more in a week than most Sudanese consumed in a month. His clothes sported the labels of the finest European clothiers. When the time came for him to drive, Paul’s father picked out a Ferrari. Then each year he received a new one. He was the oldest son of his father’s first wife, the most privileged of the privileged.

  The flip side of his lifestyle happened outside of his family’s wealth—the unspeakable things, the plaguing things, those atrocities committed under the umbrella of the Muslim faith. He’d studied the Qur’an and followed sharia. He adhered to the strict rules and practices of Islam. He moved against those who did not share the same beliefs and loved those who embraced his faith. While he enjoyed the good life, others in his country were persecuted for their beliefs.

  And Larson wanted to know about this? He assumed Larson knew his history. At the least, he thought Ben would have shared his lurid past in rich detail. Why Larson had displayed regret in relaying her idyllic childhood confused him.

  The media had taken Paul’s story and twisted it into a humiliation for the Muslim world and an act of heroism for the rest. Christian magazines had slapped his picture on the front of their publications as one of the century’s biggest converts, while the secular media had questioned his newfound faith. In any event, one’s view of Abdullah Farid depended on where one sat on the proverbial fence.

  Paul lingered a moment on Larson’s enthusiasm this morning in talking about rural life in Ohio. Her eyes had sparkled, and a lightheartedness had worked its way to the surface. She’d laughed. She’d teased. The lines in her face softened, and he’d seen a woman who embraced life. That was the Larson Kerr he had observed in those moments when children played at her door. And those characteristics pushed Paul to grow as close to her as she would allow.

  Back in California, he’d wanted to help her, but now he knew his purpose was to bring her back to Jesus. And maybe they could be more than friends. This past week had proved it. His heart had gotten involved. He’d seen something else in her eyes, the light of hope and a future. What did he have to offer such a woman anyway, except money? She’d scorn wealth rather than be captured by its lure. Larson Kerr’s person, perspective, and purpose all went deeper than materialism.

  This wasn’t the proper time for Paul to dwell on anything but Larson’s relationship with the Lord—and doing what he could for Sudan.

  Colonel Ben Alier would have Paul drawn and quartered if he knew his thoughts. In a way, Paul found the truth amusing. Here they were, two Sudanese natives caught up in their country’s civil war, with nothing more in common than a mutual love for the land and a shared interest in the welfare of an American woman.

  Paul worked until dusk. Some of the men stood around him with clubs in case lions were prowling the area. One man began to sing an old hymn in English, and the others joined in. The sound of worship spurred Paul to continue working, despite the ache in his arms and back. He listened until “What a Friend We Have in Jesus” filled the evening air, and then he sang too. When the group finished, he taught the men a few of his favorite praise songs.

  “I am Jacob. How did you come to know Jesus?” a toothless old man said.

  Paul didn’t hesitate to tell this part of his life. He understood the curiosity in light of his Arabic heritage. These men had every right to despise him.

  “I met an old man who was suffering for his faith in God. In fact, his hand had been chopped off for lifting it in worship. He told me about Jesus. He told me how God came into the world as a baby to save the world from sin. He told me how Jesus allowed evil men to nail Him to a cross and kill Him when He’d done nothing wrong but preach love to a hurting people. When the old man said Jesus rose from the dead after three days, I didn’t believe. I thought it was a child’s story. Then the old man looked at me, and I saw something in his eyes. My spirit cried out for this Jesus, and I became a Christian.”

  “Are your family believers too?” Jacob said.

  Paul shook his head at the one part of his life left unfinished. “No. I have twelve brothers and four sisters. I am the only member of my family who is not Muslim.”

  “They are trying to kill you,” Jacob said as though he knew Paul’s nightmares. “We will pray for your safety and that your family comes to know Jesus as Lord. You are a good man to help us.”

  “Thank you.” Paul peered into the old man’s dark eyes. “May God bless you and your village.”

  “Praise God,” another man said. “We pray one day the whole world will know Jesus.”

  “God sent you to fix our well, just as He sent the Living Water people to dig it,” Jacob said. “We will never forget you.”

  Paul fought the emotion rising in him. He stood from the mud and wiped his hands on the grass nearby. He embraced Jacob. The others lined up behind him, and Paul hugged each one of them. Just when Paul needed encouragement, God sent a messenger.

  In the distance, a lion roared.

  “The Lion of Judah is among us,” Paul said. “We have nothing to fear with Him in our hearts.”

  CHAPTER 18

  The well took an extra day to get back into working order, but Paul didn’t mind. He’d made new friends and intended to visit again. Larson treated the sick and left medicine for the others in capable hands. Exhaustion tugged at both of them, and the drive back seemed to take twice the time. Larson even let him drive the war-torn truck part of the way. In the late afternoon, they saw the familiar grass huts of Warkou.

  The moment Larson and Paul entered the village, excited villagers waved and shouted greetings. Glancing about, Paul expected to see Ben, but there was no sign of him or his men, only an inexpressible sensation leaving Paul breathless and unsure why.

  “Bishop Malou must be here,” Larson said. “I feel his presence.”

  Paul whipped his attention to her, taken aback by her statement. It confirmed his earlier beliefs that before Larson came to Sudan, she knew Jesus. Once the Lord had embraced His children, He pursued them relentlessly.

  She stopped the truck outside the clinic. Instantly Nyok appeared. Worry lines creased his young face. “Where have you been?”

  “I pulled up a 120-foot water pipe,” Paul said. “The GOS had filled it with dirt, and the people were without sanitary water. I�
�m sorry.”

  Nyok took a deep breath. Paul caught his belligerent stare, the stiffening of his shoulders.

  “I’m sorry. Many were sick, not only from malaria but from the dirty water.”

  The boy’s shoulders rose. “I . . . was worried.”

  “I don’t blame you.” Larson swung open the truck door with a loud creak and gave him a hug. “I’m usually better at keeping my word. Truth is, I could have stayed a lot longer.” She grabbed a tattered bag from the back of the truck. “Is Bishop Malou here?”

  “He arrived yesterday,” Nyok said as he took the bag. “He preached last night and held a service for the dead. He’s staying with Sarah.”

  “At least he’s not staying at the clinic.” Larson pressed her lips together. “Did you go?”

  Nyok shook his head. “I had patients to watch.”

  She stepped into the clinic. “Good.”

  Paul watched Larson’s demeanor change from the flirtatious woman who had challenged his wit two days ago to the hardened professional he’d known before their trip to Xokabuc. Even in treating the villagers over the past three days, she’d shown compassion and understanding. What happened to build this wall around her heart? She’d lived a pastoral life as a child and obviously treasured it. The change must have come later, perhaps from a professor who succeeded in convincing her science held all the answers, or maybe it was a lover who took priority over God. A family tragedy? A disappointment? He didn’t think losing the missionaries’ child had turned her away from God. Rather it must have been a series of events. He wondered if she remembered the story of the ninety-nine sheep and the one lost lamb. She might have gone halfway around the world to flee the Good Shepherd, but she still recognized God’s presence—and He still sought His wandering lamb.

  Once Paul had unloaded the truck, Nyok helped him camouflage it with brush. Then Paul looked for Bishop Malou. His reputation as a courageous, dedicated man of God was known at FTW. Meeting him would be a pleasure.