Long Walk Home

by DiAnn Mills

  Paul stood, his face pale, startling her. If she hadn’t been so irate, she would have asked him what was wrong.

  “Where are you going?” Larson said, her heart hammering against her chest.

  Paul brushed past her. “Anywhere but here.”

  * * *

  Ben tramped along the narrow pathway into Warab Province. The familiar sounds of birds and chattering monkeys normally soothed him, but not this time. Four of his men had left a day earlier to scout out a report of the GOS controlling a previously held SPLA village.

  His mind turned to Larson. She’d finally agreed to his way of thinking, but it didn’t bring the satisfaction he believed it would. This wasn’t the way he wanted to have her—as an exchange for Nyok. She’d concede if Ben brought the boy back to her. Nothing of the emotions tearing through him for years had persuaded her, only her concern for the boy. No, that’s not how he wanted Larson. His pride—or rather his love—demanded more. He’d cared for her for a long time. She’d taught him patience in a world where few possessed such a trait.

  Right now, he didn’t know whether to yank Nyok from his men or allow him to stay. The boy had more hate and revenge than most, a trait Ben needed in his soldiers, and Nyok had intelligence and cunning. His excellent vision and the expedient manner in which he used a rifle made him an asset to any army.

  Ben watched a snake wiggle across the path in front of him. The SPLA searched for those of that caliber, but not a twelve-year-old boy. So what was really best for Nyok?

  The noble part of Ben said he’d retrieve Nyok, return him to Larson, and never ask for a single thing. The base, more significant part of him, said he should take what he could get. After all, he deserved a diversion from this war. But what good was forcing Larson into his arms? Ben needed her to want a relationship with him as much as he wanted one with her. Without those mutual feelings, he wondered if it all was worth it.

  His father’s warnings bolted across his mind. “Remember your calling, your duty, and your responsibilities to southern Sudan. Anything else will cause you to lose your focus. Anything you put above God will destroy your purpose.”

  Ben pressed his lips together. Must all of life be a test or a temptation? A few weeks ago, the GOS had sent word of a lucrative offer—if Ben would switch his allegiance from the South to the North. At the time, he’d thought Farid had something to do with it. After all, Ben’s absence would leave Larson open to Farid’s attention and the South minus one more colonel. Then the two men had spent time in Khartoum, and Ben’s prejudice waned. He’d seen another side of the Arab, a man who carefully planned every maneuver, a man who walked with respect and honor, a man who possessed a profound faith. Unless Farid had desired Ben to note those attributes in order to deceive him.

  The forest sounds increased. More monkeys screamed and scampered about. Ben halted his men and listened. A larger animal might be disrupting the smaller ones. A clearing to the left of them normally held elephants, giraffes, rhinos, zebras, and a variety of deer and gazelles. A lion or jackal might be on the prowl, or the GOS might be waiting behind the thick-leafed foliage and trees.

  * * *

  Nyok heard the sharp pop of rifles without warning. How many years had it been since he had sensed fear and loneliness without the comfort of Dr. Kerr? The memories of a young boy fleeing his village jarred his mind, but this time was different. This time he had a weapon. He wanted this, didn’t he? A confrontation with the enemy? An opportunity to take revenge? Why did he suddenly wish he’d stayed with her? After this time it will be easier, he told himself.

  His right hand wrapped around the rife, and his left fingers were poised and ready. Ahead of him were soldiers. They crouched low and sought cover. Nyok did the same. Colonel Alier had instructed him well in the art of guerrilla warfare. Nyok could remain motionless for as long as necessary. He could do this. He could do this well.

  “Life is but a breath before eternity,” Bishop Malou had said. “This isn’t our home, but a door into forever.”

  Was death painful? Would he feel his lifeblood flow from his body? Would Jesus hold his hand and make it easier? Nyok fought hard not to tremble. Tribal beliefs of a wonderful hereafter mixed with his knowledge of God, whirling inside him. He knew he should have faith in one, not many. God had taken care of him before. He had little choice but to place his trust in Him now.

  A rifle cracked behind him. Nyok held his breath. They must be trapped. He wondered how many GOS surrounded them. Of course it really didn’t matter. It only took one bullet to pierce his flesh and end his young life.

  Dr. Kerr wanted him to study medicine, to become a doctor. Although he’d refused to admit his interest, now he wished he had agreed. The many times he’d been rude to her brought guilt upon his conscience. Now he feared he would never be able to make things right between them.

  God, help me. I don’t want to die. I refuse to make You promises I can’t keep, but can I please have another chance?

  * * *

  Larson grabbed Paul’s backpack by the shoulder straps. He would soon remember he’d left it, when he regained his senses after leaving the clinic. As she lifted the backpack, his thick journal fell to the floor with a dull thud. Her fingers brushed across the soft brown suede when she bent to retrieve it. Many times she’d wondered what he wrote in the book. Some days he wrote endlessly, and other days nothing. Without thinking, she let her fingers slip between the pages, opening it.

  Her gaze trailed down the page. He wrote in small distinct letters, and she squinted to read. The book was nearly full. It must hold years of journaling.

  So much I have left behind, but I consider it nothing except for the race before me.

  Larson knew the line was a paraphrase from one of the apostle Paul’s letters to the early Christians. She flipped back several pages.

  I can’t live in this fear any longer. I have true freedom in Christ. He has set me free, and this desire to hide does not come from my Lord.

  Curiosity moved her to turn to the first page. She sat on a chair with the thought of reading only a bit. She knew so little about Paul. He avoided her questions, and she had so many.

  I’ve been a Christian for six months. Now that I’m on my way to the United States, I feel my story must be written. Someday these words may help an unbeliever find the way home. My Christian name is Paul. I chose it because of my life before knowing Jesus Christ. The apostle Paul and I have much in common. My Sudanese name is Abdullah Farid. I am the eldest son of the first wife of the royal family of Sudan.

  Larson gasped. Her gaze darted about the clinic. She’d heard something about this some years ago, but her mind wasn’t clear on the details. She knew the last name. She should have asked questions. No wonder Ben hated him. She turned back to the tiny letters and strained to read every word.

  When I consider the wasted days in Khartoum and how I wanted for nothing, I am ashamed. I believed in the religion of my family. I questioned nothing. My abominable practices and my agreement to the persecution of non-Muslims were and are detestable.

  Praise God, I have been made holy through the blood of the Lamb. The man who brought me to the Light was a southern Sudanese prisoner named Abraham. He’d been tortured for his Christian faith. Even his hand had been chopped off because he raised it to God in praise. I went to see this man because my father felt I should be a part of the infidel’s punishment. Curiosity had me wondering why these Christians refused to renounce their faith. I was told to order his death, and I was prepared to do so.

  The first time I saw Abraham, I was immediately taken aback by a certain light in his eyes. I shivered. I turned away, but the hypnotic gaze drew me back. The light held both love and compassion, as though I were the prisoner and he the free man. Abraham frightened me, but when he spoke, his words were gentle, reminding me of soft music. I ordered the guards to leave me alone with him. Then I noticed his age. Years had weathered his skin. Lack of food had left his body a mass of bones. His severed
wrist, covered with a dirty cloth, needed medical attention. All that could have been taken care of by a single word—embracing Islam.

  “Listen to your jailers,” I said. “I promise you food will be given you and a doctor will tend to you if you only turn to Allah.” His unwashed body and the smell of raw sewage offended me.

  The old man smiled. “I cannot turn my back on the one and only God—who is Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. He loves me—and He also loves you.” The strange light glistened in his eyes. Indeed I feared the dying man.

  “Me?” I was irate, yet I shook. “I serve Allah.”

  “And I serve the true God who gave His only Son to die for my sins. This Son, Jesus Christ, bled and died in my place so that I might one day live in heaven with God. This Jesus rose from the dead on the third day and sits at the right hand of God the Father. His Spirit lives inside me. I am a child of the King. I am of the royal family of God.”

  “Do you know to whom you are talking? I am of the royal family!”

  Abraham smiled again. “I dreamed you would be sent here to see me. You are my purpose for being held captive. God wants you to know Him. He wants you to know He loves you and has a purpose for your life.”

  My heart pounded. I should have struck him down, but I was paralyzed by the words of an old man who was lower than the insects running about the floor and crawling on his body. I couldn’t stop myself. I felt as though I wrestled with two worlds, as if a war waged in my spirit. At last I managed to speak.

  “Tell me about your Jesus.”

  Larson read on. Her heart turned to Paul’s words. She read how he became a Christian and helped Abraham escape. A suspicion rose in her mind, engulfing her senses. Tears streamed down her face at the realization. On she continued, learning how he transferred his wealth out of the country and fled Sudan at the threat of death. She discovered his love for the southern Sudanese and his country, his devotion to FTW. He yearned to find Abraham’s family and prayed God would one day reveal them. Paul thought the man must be dead by now, and it grieved him. Above all, he loved God and would never cease telling others about Him and what He had done for Abdullah Farid.

  She couldn’t stop the flow of tears. Repeatedly she swallowed, and still they poured from her very soul. So much she understood—the confusing conversations between Paul and Ben, Paul’s heroic commitment to find Rachel, the reason he blamed himself for his friend’s death, and why he’d flown from California to help her persuade Nyok.

  “I know why you are here,” she whispered.

  “What are you doing?”

  Larson’s attention flew to the door of the clinic, where Paul stood, his face stiff, his eyes cold.

  “I . . . I wasn’t snooping. It fell from your backpack, and—”

  “You thought you’d do a little reading?” His tone was flat, angry. She’d never seen him like this.

  “Please, Paul. Don’t be angry. I just . . .” She captured his attention. “Why didn’t you tell me who you are? What you’ve done with your life is noble, outstanding. I’m humbled to know you.” She bit back the emotion. “To think you’ve given of your time to help find Rachel, do trivial chores for me—”

  “Larson, stop. I’m nothing. Didn’t you read my beginnings?”

  “Yes. Your story is what fills the rest of us with inspiration and hope for the future.”

  “Why?” His voice lowered, and the lines around his eyes softened. “I am a murderer. I persecuted the innocent. Only by the grace of God am I able to do anything at all for the Lord.”

  She nodded. A part of her, the old Larson, understood exactly what he said. A myriad of voices from the past—Granddaddy, Grandma, Daddy, Mama, Nathan—all echoed with the miracles of God. She’d believed back then.

  “Paul, there is something I have to tell you. I think it may be the reason you are here in this part of Sudan.” Her voice quivered.

  “What, Larson? You’re pale. Are you ill?”

  She took a deep breath and stood from the chair. Slipping the journal back into his backpack, she turned to him. “I know where to find Abraham.”

  CHAPTER 29

  Nyok huddled in the thick brush. Where were the other three soldiers? Rifle shots split the air. He wanted to fire but feared revealing his position to the enemy or shooting one of his comrades. Instead he prayed for guidance. From the depths of his memory came the Scripture he’d learned as a child. The words washed over him like cleansing rain. Peace swelled and filled his very being. Death would only usher him into the presence of God. Nyok longed to be reunited with his mother, father, and dear brothers and sisters in a place far removed from persecution and death. No more tears.

  The cry of a wounded man focused his attention on the present. Nyok didn’t know whether the man was friend or enemy, but he prayed for him nevertheless. The moans of thousands of persecuted Sudanese sounded in his mind, all begging for justice and release. The voices became a deafening roar, thundering about him and crying for deliverance.

  Your will be done, O Lord. Do with me as You desire. My life, no matter how long or short, is Yours.

  The mystical cries stopped. In their place were the sounds of the forest. A spider scampered across his bare foot. The raindrops filtering through the treetops trickled on his head and shoulders. God had shown Himself faithful, just as He’d done when Nyok was facing the lion. If he only lived another second or until age wrinkled his skin and weakened his body, he’d never forget this moment.

  A rifle barrel touched the back of his neck.

  * * *

  “You know Abraham?” Paul asked, stepping closer to Larson. His utterance came more as a prayer than a question. His heart hammered against his chest. His ears tuned out everything but expectation.

  “It has to be him. I can think of no other reason for all of this than your purpose to find the old man, Abraham.” Her eyes pooled.

  “Tell me. Where is he?”

  “He is Bishop Malou’s father. He lives about two and a half hours from here.” She swallowed hard.

  “Slow down, Larson. It’s all right. I’ve waited almost eleven years. I can wait a while longer.”

  “Abraham spent time in a Khartoum jail—in a ghost house. His right hand was severed for praising God. Everyone thought he’d died, until he returned to his village with the miraculous story about the man who rescued him, a member of the royal family named Abdullah.”

  Heat consumed Paul, rising from his inner being to his face. His knees weakened. His mind raced.

  “Take my truck,” she said. “I’ll tell you how to get there. Better yet, I’ll send someone to show you the way.” She grasped his shoulders. “Abraham is alive.”

  He felt a smile spread over his face, and he laughed. “I can’t believe it, after all these years. And you are lending me your truck?”

  She laughed too. “Absolutely. That alone is a miracle.”

  Perhaps this is another step in your return to God.

  Within an hour Paul was heading toward a village the name of which he’d forgotten to ask. He had been in too big a hurry to remember, even if Larson had told him. Sweet, sweet Larson. He would be forever indebted to her. Sarah rode beside him. She had a daughter who lived there, and she welcomed the opportunity to see her again.

  Excitement tingled in every nerve as though he’d consumed a gallon of coffee. In his mind he wanted to be cautious in case Abraham was not the right man, but in his heart he knew better. God had led him to Warkou for this purpose. Paul sobered. If he’d chosen to stay in California to help Jackie or even taken FTW’s offer to head up the African directorship, he would have missed this blessing. His heart soared, and in his next breath he began to sing “Amazing Grace.” Sarah joined him. Somehow in his jumbled words, he’d relayed to her his mission.

  “God is so very good.” She laughed. “He remembers us with His special acts of love.”

  “I want to tell you the story of how I came to know Jesus,” he said, “and how I acquired my Christian n
ame of Paul . . .” When he finished, he waited for Sarah to respond.

  “I don’t understand why Bishop Malou never offered the information,” she said, laying a veined hand on his shoulder. “After all, you two were together for those weeks.”

  Paul shrugged. “We never discussed it. My story is not one I readily offer here in Sudan.”

  “Oh, my brother. Those of us who love you would have seen how God has worked in your life. None of us is without sin.”

  He stole a glance her way and saw the compassion in her round face. “Thank you, Sarah.”

  “Now I understand why Colonel Alier does not trust you,” she said. “He must know the truth.”

  Paul nodded. Regret and guilt tried to seize control, but he shoved the accusations away. When God forgave him, He cast his past and his sins into a sea of forgetfulness. Satan would not triumph over this moment.

  “I can’t blame the colonel. He has a responsibility to the people of southern Sudan. I can only hope and pray someday he will see me as a new man in Christ.”

  Sarah’s hand remained on his shoulder. “He may never call you friend, but we can pray he chooses to see Paul Farid as an ambassador for Christ.”

  “That’s one reason I refuse to leave Sudan until Rachel is found. I’d gladly trade my life for hers.”

  “And I’ll pray it never comes to that.”

  They rode awhile in silence until Paul sought answers to the questions welling inside him. “What can you tell me about Abraham? What has he done these years?”

  “He is still raising his arms to God and telling everyone about Jesus. He’s never stopped. Your acceptance of the Savior moved him to tell more and more people. Many have come to know the love of God. His faith is what moved his son to preach.”

  The miles could not pass fast enough for Paul.