Sometimes the Darkness

by Will Campbell

  Hanley, keeping his eyes on the road, said, “I suppose that’s an answer. If I’m going to be of any help to you and the mission, if I’m to be any help at all, then I think we, you and I need to come to an agreement, an understanding of how we can work together. Okay?” Something crossed the road, an animal, he could tell, dark and large, a quarter of a mile or more away. He slowed the Land Rover, squinting to see better, his neck stretched over the steering wheel. “Did you see that?” he asked.

  “See what?”

  “Something crossed the road ahead. Looked large, like a cow. Are buffalo here?”

  “Yes, but they’re rare. It was a cow, I am sure. I want us to get along, is that right? To work together is, I agree, essential. Now that you’re here. But I will tell you, I did not want you coming. I told the diocese this, wrote a letter to Father Bertrand in which I stated my objections,” she said.

  “What were your objections?”

  She tried reopening the notebook, fumbled with it for a second and spread it on her lap. Thumbing through the pages, Sister Marie Claire moved forward and then back, searching, the white pages covered in blue and black ink, the words blurred as she flipped through them, finally stopping, she began tracking again with her finger. She began reading. She stopped and said, “I listed the reason here before I wrote the bishop. Really, I knew Sister Mary Kathleen liked you, quite a bit. She admired your determination to follow through with your plan, to pay back a debt she knew you believed you owed. She admired your belief that you should help others. And I will tell you that her opinion means much to me. But I didn’t understand; I still do not. If you needed the money, or wanted to establish yourself as a pilot to start a business, I would have understood that. I was afraid that your motive was not strong enough, you would not be committed to the mission, that you would either leave soon after arriving or stay and not do the work.” Looking up from the page, her expression concerned and weary, she said, “I know you want to discuss this with me, help you make sense of your need and decisions. I’m afraid I’m not the person to help you. I do not want to lead you on falsely and I do not want to disappoint you. I will tell you this. I believe the work is what can carry you through each day in a place like Sudan. The work and your commitment to it. Do the work; the answer will come to you.”

  Both his thumbs were pressed hard into the steering wheel. He wasn’t bothered by the revelation she opposed his coming to work at the mission. Hell, he’d been married and divorced; rejection was nothing new. What bothered him was the idea she might question his tenacity, which pissed him off. Letting the anger boil off, he said nothing.

  He turned away from her to watch the road. Don’t worry, he thought, I’ll do the work.

  ***

  Hanley sat in the old Land Rover, the morning sun now high overhead. Warm breezes blew in through the open windows. There was still a small crescent of mist in the upper corner of the windshield. Sister Marie Claire sat in an ancient Fiat, faded from red to rust, parked twenty feet away, talking to a man, his face obscured by the reflection of the sky on the windshield. She arranged for the meeting, she said, to pick up medicine. They were just outside the city of Juba.

  Watching the cloud patterns moving across the Fiat’s windshield, seeing the gray smoke pattern, reminded him of spring days in Indiana when the damp air was just warm, a breeze, heated, carried the smells of the newness. That moment, when he realized it was happening, the smells, the warmth, it would catch him, stop him for an instant and he would smile at the realization. He could smell the newness here, at this moment, felt it, knew it but without the smile. He thought he gained some ground with her, made his feelings known. It would be hard, dealing with the nun. He knew that.

  Hanley saw the nun’s hands moving, waving in animation, white birds fluttering about inside, between she and the man. She talked with her hands, he knew from their first conversation. Poor guy, Hanley said to himself. He wondered if the man had been through it before, dealing with her, perhaps talking about the children. That’s what this was all about he guessed; helping the children. He knew without being told, there had been many such meetings in the past, trips for medicine or supplies, meetings where more was exchanged than just water or aspirin. He wondered how many people were helping? There must be a fairly large network of those engaged, committed to the cause of these children. Who were they and how big is this group? Hanley realized he could spend all morning, guessing about Sister Marie Claire and her cause.

  The dull click of a door handle being raised brought Hanley’s head up. He could see her face, still talking to the man, her foot outside the car and on the ground, the toe of her dirty shoe dug into the dirt. As she exited, bent, her head still inside, a hand on the door bracing her, a small brown paper bag in the hand, she said, “merci”, got out and closed the door behind her, all done in one fluid motion. Lithe is the word, he thought watching her walk to the Land Rover.

  “Thank you for waiting,” she said, as she sat down, placing the small bag on the floor beneath her legs. Opening her notebook, Sister Marie Claire leafed back to the next available blank page and began writing in her small, neat script.

  “Are those illegal drugs? Because, if they are, I’d like to know. If I’m embarking on a new career path, I’d like to remember the moment,” Hanley said.

  “Yes, they are illegal in a way, but, sometimes it is necessary to apprehend drugs this way,” she explained.

  “I’d stay away from the word apprehend. Obtain drugs in what way? What, exactly, is in the bag? Who do I need to worry about? Is there a Juba drug unit? I’m telling you, if we’re caught, I’ll cut a deal and give you up in a slim minute,” Hanley said, more exasperation in his voice than worry. He stared at the nun until she stopped scribbling.

  “There are fifty, codeine-based pain pills in the bag. The man works at a medical clinic in Juba. He took them for me. No money is exchanged. It is done to help. Others at the clinic take medicine and sell it or take it themselves. He does not. If he did not, many people we treat will suffer. And anyway, if he did not take them, others would.” Closing the notebook, then twisting her body, she placed it on the back seat, turned back to look at Hanley for a moment. Her face darkened, making him think she was struggling with what she was about to say.

  “I am not certain of what you may be thinking. How could I be? What I do, what I am, what I have become are what I must live with. I made a decision some time ago, a difficult one. I may have put my soul at risk. It is so hard to tell, the lines are always blurry it seems. Finding a way to help these good people has become my calling. It may seem that is how it has always been but that is not so. The church is committed to saving souls and helping the poor along the way. Politics, especially the politics of Africa, make the church’s approach different. There is a different level of commitment in Africa. Frankly, it infuriates me. Doctrines of prejudice are not the doctrines of Christianity,” she said. Her face, now darker than before, her blue eyes wide, she sat completely erect, the rigidity an extension of her anger. Another moment, an exhalation and she relaxed, the back of her hand brushing the hair from her forehead.

  The man in the Fiat had driven off toward Juba. There were still wisps of acrid smoke from its exhaust hanging over the stones of the road.

  “Are you ready?” Hanley asked

  “Yes, we should go back now. Thank you,” she said. A gift, a small smile, was given to the American. It lasted a second and then she turned away to look at the cloud on the horizon.

  Starting the old truck, Hanley turned a broad turn across the road, off into the greening ground bordering the track and back on again. It will be a long ride back he thought.

  14

  Tearing the sheet of paper from his notebook, Jumma read the single paragraph it contained, smiled and folded the sheet over once, running his thumb along the edge to sharpen the crease, the paper pressed to his bare leg, the contrast of the paper and his skin a reminder of the differences in his life.

&nb
sp; The right engine of the Beech was spinning as Hanley prepared to depart for Kenya; Hanley and Jumma were returning a French doctor to Nairobi. The physician was strapped into the jump-seat behind Jumma. Working through the checklist, they paused as the engine warmed up, giving Jumma a chance to read the paragraph he wrote the night before. The note was a snippet of his short life, the words, written in the French language, as best he could, were remembrances, small pictures, he liked to think, allowing him to glimpse a past now glazed with time. Tucking the folded sheet into the notebook, Jumma placed it into the pocket on the wall of the cockpit beside his seat, finding his place on the checklist.

  “Why did you tear the sheet from your book?” Hanley asked.

  “I will send it to my father in Rumbek,” Jumma explained. “It is of something I remembered. We took a walk together, he and I, when I was small, very little. We held hands and I remember seeing a dog, an old dog, carrying a stuffed animal in its mouth. This was in our village, Uwayl, which is not a village, it was larger. Our home is near the edge, near a large field where vegetables and wheat grew. From there, it was the bush. The dog walked along the street, carrying the toy. When he came to the street he must cross, he stopped, put the toy down, looked for traffic, both ways he looked, then picked up the toy and crossed the street. My father’s laughter could be heard everywhere, everywhere. I remember that laugh always. My note will remind him of the dog that made him laugh.” Telling Hanley this while looking at the checklist, he smiled broadly, the sound of his father’s laughter in his head, a moment of contentment, a small pleasure he could hold, like a cool stone in his hand. Then they continued through the list, checking the various functions that came into the play of putting the plane into the air.

  Once airborne, and after many minutes of monitoring the plane’s condition, rechecking the charts and the weather, Hanley keyed the small red button on the yoke, asking Jumma, “Was the dog that made your father laugh your earliest memory?”

  “No, my earliest memory was being chased by a snake, a brown and red snake. That may have been a dream. It seems to be odd to think that a dream and a memory may be the same. What do we believe?” he asked.

  “Listen, I’ve known a lot of people who dream their way through life.”

  A small crack from his headphone announced an air traffic controller in Nairobi was contacting the Beech. Hanley responded, leaving Jumma to think. Turning to the window beside him, he watched the faded brown and green of southern Sudan pass slowly below them, the patterns irregular, natural, showing little influence on the land other than nature’s. The land where Jumma was borne was different, so brown and dry, his memories of the green plots of produce were among the clearest.

  These memories were a mix of comfort and torment. They led to daydreams of what might have been, which were worse than the memories themselves. He thought of his memories as a landscape; his yesterdays were his yard, his village, his youth the mountains in the distance. No matter how long he gazed at those mountains, he could not see them clearly, could not remember what he had hoped, only remembrances of little security and true peace. There were impressions of times of happiness with his family, their love, which he longed for again. There was something else he longed for; the feeling that the ground he stood on, the earth beneath his feet, that his country was a good and safe land, a land he could be proud of belonging to. He wanted a country that gave its people hope for a good life, a safe home. A country he would never think of leaving. When he looked at Hanley, he could not understand why he left America to come to Sudan.

  The snake was as surprised as the child. Asleep beneath the wood piled against the large hut, the snake, jagged scales, brown, red and round-headed was hidden, unnoticed by the boy. Neither were a danger to each other, but did not know it.

  The end of the stick is what caught Jumma’s eye. It was the color of butter, a favorite of his, when his parents had it. Pulling the stick from the pile brought the snake out, its nose against the end of the stick, the squatting child in its path. Before young Jumma could move, the fleeing serpent sawed his way through the dirt between the boy’s legs, fast enough to be past him before the child could move. So frightened was Jumma, he wet his shorts, spraying the ground beneath him, missing the quick snake. Frozen in place, bawling hard enough that he shook, Jumma remained there until his mother came running to find him squatting and crying. Seeing he was near the wood pile, she took him to a grassy area, stripped him of his tee shirt and shorts and checked him for bite marks. Seeing none, she carried him, still wailing, to a communal water pipe, rinsing her son and his clothes. Dressing him again in the wet shorts and tee shirt, Jumma’s mother then continued her work, the sobbing and wet boy trailing behind her, his hand out, wanting to be held. Jumma remembered all this like it was yesterday.

  His other childhood memories were not as clear. Those were jumbled, from between the day the snake taught him what fear was and the day when strangers continued the lessons. The one notable exception was the day the dog made his father laugh.

  When the troubles came to western Sudan, they spread rapidly throughout the region. Those nights were spent listening to his father explaining what he knew of the war, the various reasons and who was involved. The government in Khartoum and their support of the Baggara and Abbala tribesman who formed a group called the Janjaweed, murderers riding horses and camels. One night, while the family ate its evening meal, a mush of wheat and goat meat, some fruit and bread, all bathed in the yellow light of four candles, Jumma’s father began talking of the war, and what might happen. Jumma was ten years old. They would not leave their home, he told them. This war is the work of men who want what farmland and water there is in western Darfur, a fight among tribes, he said, as he chewed his food. “This will not come to visit this area,” he said. Jumma’s mother and two sisters listened, his mother’s head bowed low, her dark eyes closed, as she worked a string of beads through her fingers, red and black with tiny holes drilled through each, black thread, knotted on the side of each bead, holding them together, minutely spaced, someone’s prideful work. The beads were decorative and she was nervous.

  ***

  His father drank water from an old blue metal cup with white speckles, a cup Jumma had seen his grandmother drink from, then said, “I know I have said the troubles will not visit us here. But, this has changed. We must talk of how we can protect each other should the war make its way to this village. We will talk about it, we will practice it, like we practice your school lessons, for someday, you may need these lessons to help each other. We must not be afraid, but we must be smart. Do you understand?” his father asked. Jumma remembered nodding at the question. Drinking again, his father reached for him, rubbed his head and smiled. Jumma also remembered the warmth of his father’s hand, could still feel it, the recollection of the touch brought him joy, as he flew with the American to Kenya.

  The discussion and the lessons of his father continued in the days before the men on horseback arrived. The instructions, the lessons, were simple suggestions repeated each evening. If separated, they were to make their way to Rumbek, farther south, away from the fighting. Each family member was to say their father worked as a laborer for a company that constructed roads and dug wells. If caught, they were to say the family went to Abyei, the ancestral home.

  His father worked in a shop in Uwayl, making sandals, belts and pouches. The shop, like a cave, dark and deep, its walls were a faded stucco, his work table near the rear, kept the family fed. He did not talk of moving. Their home was sound, a good place for Jumma and his family. A small productive garden, some chickens and goats also helped keep them fed. It was a good life. Their good life may have continued, had the war not come to them. His mother called the war the loss of sunshine, or sometimes the darkness.

  Blinking rapidly, Jumma woke to a rattling sound in the distance. There were gaps in the sound, no rhythm to it. The duration of each packet of sound lasted but a few seconds, a thrumming, like rocks thrown aga
inst cement blocks. Listening, he heard the sounds of the house in between the rattles, the creaks and murmurs, the sound of breathing, his sisters and parents. Years later, he would remember the sounds of his family breathing, the last comforting sound before the darkness descended on his family.

  It was autumn in Sudan, not a season much noticed. Light gray smoke rose from the fires between the huts, the sun faded by the thin clouds hovering from dawn to dusk, a pale pink cast around the blunted sun. The gunfire, arrhythmic and ominous, came and went for two days, growing louder and then fading, marching around their village, hidden in the distant bush. The families of the village huddled together at various times, mothers and children mostly, worried looks cast toward the bush, consoling and planning, spreading intra-village rumors, the children frightened, reading the feeling of their parents, sensing their emotions as small children and dogs sometimes do.

  On the morning of the third day after the gunfire began, a man from Uwayl was found on the road to the village, shot repeatedly, his hands severed, set beside his head, sitting on end, steepled as they would be in prayer. For several hours, people passed the body and praying hands until a truck arrived, an old International pick-up carrying two men. Covering the body in a yellow blanket, they placed the dead man in the back. The oldest of the two men laid a towel next to the hands, kicked them onto the cloth, wrapped them quickly and placed them next to the body. The truck then turned back toward the town and drove off. A group of children witnessed the recovery, Jumma among them.

  An hour after the corpse was removed from the road, several men on horseback appeared in the distance, all clustered together. Beyond them were two men sitting on what appeared to be camels. Jumma stood on a chair he pulled from his hut, the additional height giving him a better vantage point. “Jumma, get down from there,” his mother shouted from inside their home. Two of his friends were there, all three boys the same age, old enough to be frightened, yet trying to show some bravery, as they expected young men should . Turning, Jumma looked into the hut to see his mother gesturing violently, pointing to the ground, her hand tracing ovals in the air, a blue cloth in her other hand, eyes wide and then growing wider as she looked past Jumma. Whirling back, he saw the horsemen separating into two groups, the larger moving to his right, the smaller coming straight toward the village. Dust, the color of the dried grasses, rose behind them, drifting away to the right, following the riders moving away from the village, a spectral dust dog following its master. Behind him, he heard air escaping from his mother, as if someone punched her hard in the gut, the exhalation blunt, as the two boys standing beside the chair twirled where they stood, spun by the hand of fear, running away to their own huts. Jumma jumped backwards from the chair without looking, his quick motion tipping the chair over in the direction of the riders. Landing on his feet, his momentum carried him back into the doorframe of the hut, hitting his head hard enough to stun him momentarily. Jumma started to fall, his right arm extended to catch himself when he felt a hand wrap itself high on his arm, jerking him up and into the hut. His mother pulled him back into the large room that served for the family’s communal time together and into another smaller room, the kitchen. Shoving her children under the table, Jumma’s mother returned to the door of the smaller room and lowered a rough burlap cloth that was its door. Arming herself with a large, dark metal knife, she waited near the opening, wiping the perspiration from her face with the blue cloth. Jumma watched her mother, listening to the heavy breathing all around him, a harmonic chugging, fear’s chorus, singing the praises of the fate about to fall on them.