Amber realized the difficulty of Ruth’s choice. Returning to the place where her life had been so cruelly changed would take great courage.
Patrick said, “I told her we will do whatever she wishes. I only want her to be happy. If you come, Boyce, we can go together as health care workers. Therefore, the visas into Rwanda will be easier to acquire. There is no danger in going there now, but it will take away your time from the irrigation project. We would be gone at least seven days. Four days for traveling, three at the village.”
Boyce looked at his foreman. “The project is in good hands. I could spare a week.” He turned back to Ruth. “The decision is yours. We’ll both do whatever you want.”
Tears made Ruth’s eyes shimmer in the light. “In my heart, I want to go. It is foolish for me to be afraid of what happened years ago. I have not seen my family in a long time. There would be such a time of rejoicing for us to be together again . . . and for such a happy event as a double wedding.” She slid her hand into Patrick’s. “And once we are married, we can begin God’s work in earnest. Yes,” she whispered. “If you will come, Boyce, I will go.”
“We’ll go to Kampala and get our visas this week. The sooner the better.”
An excited buzz circulated through the group, and laughter leaped from person to person as plans solidified. Amber stepped out of the shadows and cleared her throat. “Um— excuse me.” All eyes turned toward her. She took a deep breath. “I—I’d like to come with you. Can I come to your wedding? Please?”
12
“Are you sure your mother approves of this trip, Amber?” Jodene stood at the foot of Amber’s bed while Amber stuffed clothing into a duffel bag.
“I talked to her when we were in Kampala getting our visas. She was perfectly all right about my visiting Rwanda for a few days.” Amber had played down the excursion to her mother, saying that it was a wedding party with a group going to a nearby African village. Was it Amber’s fault that her mother automatically assumed Jodene was also going? “Ruth needs company on the trip,” Amber told Jodene. “She shouldn’t go alone with Patrick and Boyce. Besides, I’d love to take pictures of the wedding for Heather.”
“Any word on your sister?”
“Not yet.”
“I worried about Heather when she took off to Sudan to rescue Alice,” Jodene said with a sigh. “Now I guess I’ll have to worry about you, too.”
“But things are different for me. There was shooting going on in Sudan.”
“Don’t ever assume Africa will remain peaceful. You never know when trouble will boil over—”
“No gloom and doom, please,” Amber insisted with a radiant smile. “We’re going to a wedding. Ruth’s wearing a traditional Ugandan dress, but she’s asking me for details about weddings in the States. Don’t you see, Jodene? At last I have something to share with people. I mean, if Amber Barlow doesn’t know fashion and trends, who does?”
Jodene laughed. “You are irrepressible. Very different from your sister.”
“Is that a bad thing?”
Jodene considered Amber thoughtfully. “No. Heather was very dedicated, but also very idealistic. Maybe too idealistic for this kind of life. You’re more practical, which will serve you better in the long run, I think.”
Amber felt flattered. She hadn’t wanted to be compared to Heather and found wanting. “Well, life around here is different, all right, and personally, I don’t know how you do it. My father always told me that I’d better marry a rich man because I have such expensive tastes.”
“First you have to fall in love with a rich man, don’t you?”
“A small detail.” No matter how much she loved a guy, Amber realized she couldn’t make the kind of sacrifice it took to live in a foreign country without the comforts and modern conveniences she’d enjoyed all her life.
“Well, there are few rich men in the mission field,” Jodene added. “At least, they’re not rich in the conventional sense.”
“No problem,” Amber said, wondering if Jodene’s comment was her way of warning her not to fall for Boyce. “I’m sticking to my game plan. A long and happy life in close vicinity to a mall.”
Jodene cocked her head. “We’ll see,” she said breezily. “Sometimes God has a way of changing our plans whether we’re willing or not.”
The next morning Boyce and Patrick packed the Jeep. Amber sat up front with Boyce while Patrick and Ruth wedged into the back with baggage and sleeping bags, content to snuggle for the two-day ride to the Rwandan village of Ruth’s uncle. They spent the first night in a small hotel in Kabale that had a long balcony stretching around the second floor, overlooking the street. Amber and Ruth settled into their room, then met Patrick and Boyce on the balcony, where they sipped colas and watched the sun set over the mountains.
The rich green rain forest hugged rising peaks covered with misty clouds, and the voices of rain frogs and crickets sang a song of welcome to the approaching night. As twilight deepened, the street filled with people, and small charcoal fires flared to life. Grilled food perfumed the air with savory scents.
Boyce dug out a map and flattened it on the table. “The village should be about here,” he said, making a circle with his finger.
“Don’t you know for sure?” Amber asked. The map was blank in that space.
“Old map,” Patrick said. “As we get closer, people along the way will tell us. All we need do is ask for the house of Edward Kaumahome. He is the wealthiest man in the area, with the best farmland and the most cows. Three cows will be given as part of Ann’s dowry. It will be a good start for her and her husband.”
Heather had told Amber that Ugandans in the bush measured wealth by the number of cows they owned, but still it was odd to hear Patrick say it.
“You do not give cows away at weddings in America?” Ruth asked.
“If someone says the word cow at a wedding in our country, it’s usually to describe an oversized bridesmaid,” Amber joked.
Boyce chuckled, but Patrick and Ruth gave her blank stares.
“You do not own a cow, Amber?” Ruth asked.
“No way. We have city ordinances against keeping livestock in our garages.”
Ruth’s incredulous expression turned to one of bewilderment. “But—But how can this be? You are a rich American. Where do you get your milk?”
It occurred to Amber suddenly that Ruth had asked her questions in complete innocence— she had absolutely no knowledge of dairy farms, grocery stores, refrigerated trains and trucks, or interstate highways. Amber cleared her throat and answered thoughtfully and gently, “Back home, milk comes in big plastic jugs. And the jugs are kept in special stores. I don’t own a cow, Ruth, but I own a car that I drive to the store to buy the milk.”
Ruth’s eyes grew wide, and a lovely smile broke over her face. “Ahh! A car . . . you are a very rich American indeed.”
With a lump in her throat, Amber said, “Yes, Ruth, I guess I am.”
When Boyce and Patrick said good night, Amber and Ruth went to their room, a small cubicle with unpainted walls and two beds. The mattresses sagged pitifully, but the sheets were clean and smelled like sunshine. A wooden nightstand held a beat-up metal pitcher and bowl, which Ruth filled with water from the communal bathroom at the end of the hall. Amber remembered the bathroom at home that she shared with Heather—luxurious as a queen’s by comparison. She washed her face, brushed her teeth with bottled water, and crept cautiously between the sheets.
Ruth clicked off the light, a bare bulb hanging from the center of the ceiling. Moonlight poured through the lone window, bathing the room in silver. The air felt warm, but not sticky or humid, and the scent of lemongrass drifted on every faint breeze.
“Are you excited about getting married?” Amber asked. They were to be in the Jeep by six in the morning, but she wasn’t the least bit sleepy.
“I am anxious,” Ruth said, her voice sounding hesitant in the dark. “I know there is much more to being a wife than the wedding c
eremony.”
“Boyce told me what happened to you when you were twelve. I—I’m very sorry.”
“I have talked to many women who have been defiled by rape. I know all the things to say, to help victims with their pain.” Ruth took a ragged breath. “But still, I wonder if I can be a proper wife to Patrick. He tells me he will be gentle with me. That he loves me. But still, sometimes in my bad dreams, I remember. In the dark places of my soul, I feel those men’s hands. I remember how they held me down, tore my clothes. I remember how they hurt me.” Her voice broke. “I cried for my mama. . . .”
Amber slipped out of bed and sat on the edge of Ruth’s mattress. She took Ruth’s hand clumsily, at a loss for words, not knowing how to help Ruth deal with her grief. Her experience extended only as far as listening to a girlfriend weep when some boyfriend had dumped her. Amber’s response had consisted of trashing the guy and telling her friend she was truly cool and that the breakup had been the guy’s loss.
Her only experience with real grief had come in fifth grade. A girl named Lisa had lost her mother in a car wreck. Amber recalled wanting to stay clear of her, as if Lisa’s tragedy might somehow rub off on her if she got too close. As if Lisa’s sadness might suck the class members under, like the vortex of water that gobbles a sinking ship. And so, with Amber’s help, Lisa had been carefully ostracized, cut out of the circle of normal girls by the fear of contamination, until she had gone away. Now Amber was ashamed of the way she had acted. Ashamed and sad. She wanted so much to soothe Ruth, to protect the terrified child Ruth had been that night from the terrible thing that had happened to her. Yet it was as if she’d been struck dumb.
“It hurts my heart,” Ruth whispered. “They took from me the treasure I wished to save for my husband. I know I must forgive them for what they did to me. There is no other way to leave the memories behind. And yet, tonight, I am sad inside. I am sorry for what was taken from me. What have I to give my husband now?”
Forgiveness? Amber could hardly comprehend it. Those men didn’t deserve forgiveness. They deserved to die! “You have plenty to give him.” Amber found her voice. “You have your heart to give him. You have your love, only for him. Those men stole your virginity, but not your love. That has always been yours to give away. Now you’ve given it to Patrick. And”— she paused, sensing that Ruth was listening— “you’ll give him babies, too. A boy. A girl. Much better than many cows.”
Ruth let out a tiny laugh. “We shall have cows, for we have no magic jugs filled with milk, only the udders of the cows to feed us.”
“Just remember,” Amber said, “Patrick loves you. Isn’t that why you’re going to your uncle’s village? To pledge your love to each other forever?”
“Yes. Before my countrymen. Before God.”
“You’ll be a good wife, Ruth. You and Patrick will be happy. I know this because . . . well . . . just because I know these things.”
The room fell silent. Amber watched the moonlight move across the floor until it became a pale white sliver. Thoughts swirled in her head . . . thoughts of her parents, working side by side all their lives to build a place of safety and comfort for their daughters. Of Dylan, whom she’d liked but never truly loved. She was glad she’d always told him no when he’d pressured her for sex. And she thought of Boyce, too. Wondered if he thought her the silliest and most frivolous of girls. She had all but invited herself on this trip. Perhaps he thought her pushy. She’d hate having him think that.
“Thank you for listening to my heart’s worries, Amber. It has helped to say them aloud,” Ruth said, breaking the stillness. “I—I was afraid to say anything.”
“Why?”
“You have no reason to listen to the thoughts of a girl such as I.”
“I sure do! We’re girlfriends,” Amber insisted fiercely. “Girlfriends can say anything to each other. Repeat after me: ‘Hey, girlfriend.’ ”
Ruth imitated Amber’s intonation, then giggled. “Rafiki, that is ‘friend’ in Swahili.”
“Rafiki,” Amber repeated. “I’ll remember it.”
Darkness closed around the room as the moon slipped away from the window. Amber listened to the serenade of night creatures, felt her eyelids growing heavy.
“Goodnight, girlfriend,” Ruth whispered.
“Goodnight, rafiki,” Amber whispered back.
She returned to her bed and fell asleep to dream of a great white ship drifting on a bright blue sea, and of a man standing on the deck, shielded by shadows. She strained to see his face but couldn’t. And no matter how hard she tried, no matter how close she came, his face would not come into focus.
13
Early the next morning, Amber and her friends drove off in a ground fog that rapidly dissipated as the sun rose over the African bush country. Midmorning, their Jeep was stopped at the Rwandan border for a check of their visas by an intimidating trio of border police wearing dark blue uniforms. Pistols hung from belts around their waists, and they balanced Uzi automatic weapons expertly in their hands.
Patrick spoke to them amiably in Swahili, offering permits and documents, making a great show of the Red Cross armbands the four of them had put on that morning. The police insisted on taking a look at Amber’s passport, which Amber wore in a pouch around her neck, and Boyce’s too. Finally the police returned all the documents, had a few more words with Patrick, and waved them through.
“Not a very friendly group,” Amber said once they were well on their way.
“They are keeping out undesirables,” Patrick said.
“And that’s us?” She was insulted.
“It is their job to be suspicious.”
“What did they say at the last?” Boyce asked, his face set like stone. “I caught some of it, but not all.”
“They said to be careful. Bandits and marauders have been in the area. They reminded us that only a year ago, a group of French and British tourists were attacked and two were killed.”
Amber felt a sick sensation. She turned, and the look on Ruth’s face was one of fear. Amber’s heart went out to her.
The roads in Rwanda weren’t any better than the roads in Uganda and worsened when Boyce turned onto a dirt trail that zigzagged through the countryside. Amber had tucked her hair under a safari hat, wrapped a wet neckerchief around her throat, and slathered herself with sunscreen, but there was no protection from the dust. She took small, frequent sips from her water bottle; the inside of her mouth felt gritty.
She was surprised at the number of huts she saw as the Jeep bounced over the hard ground. The dwellings showed no sense of order, no sense of community, sitting alone on the plain as if dropped at random. Women tilled parched gardens, babies strapped to their waists. Children wearing frayed shorts and torn T-shirts herded clusters of goats under trees and fanned flies off grazing cattle. The few men Amber saw sat under trees, smoking and talking together. “Don’t the men help out?” Amber asked.
“No, farming is women’s work,” Patrick explained.
“So what do the men do?”
“They marry,” he said with a laugh. But Amber didn’t think it was funny. She’d met too many women at the hospital clinic who were exhausted and worn out from hard work and childbearing before they were thirty.
Boyce stopped around noon, and the four of them ate a lunch of fruit and cold boiled rice. “There’ll be a feast in the village after the wedding,” Boyce assured Amber.
“Chicken?” she asked with a sinking sensation.
“Probably roasted goat,” Patrick said. “Very delicious.”
“Yum,” Amber said while her stomach rebelled.
In the afternoon Boyce turned north and the scenery became greener, the land more hilly. About three o’clock Boyce pointed to a cluster of thatched-roof huts in the distance.
“My uncle’s village!” Ruth cried. She stood, held on to the roll bar, and began to wave.
The Jeep halted in the center of the village amid a cloud of dust. People poured out of huts, sm
iling, chattering, surrounding the Jeep. Ruth leaped down and ran to a man and a woman who enveloped her with welcoming hugs. Amber found herself caught up in the joy of the moment, even though she couldn’t understand a word that was being said. “They’re glad to see us,” Boyce told her with a broad smile.
Ruth introduced her parents and the members of her extended family. Amber’s head swam with a deluge of names she would never remember.
“You are just in time for afternoon tea,” Ruth’s mother, Winnie, said in perfect English. “And we will discuss all the plans for the wedding.”
She led them into the largest hut in the village, where a small table was set with a beautiful porcelain tea service. Amber found the contrast between the delicate cups, saucers, and teapot and the rough mud walls and packed earthen floor poignant—the old British custom seemingly archaic and quaint so far from its moorings of polite English society. Ruth and her cousin Ann held hands, and talk of the wedding bounced between two languages. Amber picked up only fragments of the conversation.
Finally she and Ruth were shown to their quarters, a hut divided into two areas by a colorful bolt of cloth hanging from a wooden beam that supported the thatched roof. Shoes were left by the front door. Woven straw mats and rugs covered the earth floor. On the other side of the curtain lay straw pallets. Amber dropped her backpack with a thud. “Our beds?” All at once she wished for the sagging, lumpy mattresses from the hotel.
“Yes,” Ruth said. “The village is honored to have Americans for visitors, so a family has moved out in order for us to have their home during our visit.”
“You grew up in a village like this?” Amber glanced around. One small window cut out of the hardened clayey mud allowed light and air into the room. The only other furniture consisted of a single chair and a small wooden table.
“Not one nearly so large and fine. Our home was much smaller, but I was happy there. Until the rebels came.” Water had been placed in a basin, and Ruth indicated that Amber should wash her hands. As Amber knelt over the basin, Ruth said, “My uncle’s village is successful because it has a steady supply of fresh water. In the bush, water is a most precious asset. That is why Boyce’s work in irrigation is so important. Better access to water means not having to move away when the supply runs out.”
Angel of Hope Page 8