The young boy wondered about why he could feel the sounds of the horses hooves but not hear them. It is a strange thing, Jumma thought, hunched beneath the table with his two sisters. There is no storm coming, no thunder. Feeling the pounding of the horse’s hooves as much as hearing them, Jumma listened as his sisters’ breathing turned to sobbing, they clutched each other, their heads pressed hard together. Had he known it would be the last time he would see one of them, he would have studied her face, touched her hand, held her close in his arms. He wished he had done all of that and more. Her face was now lost to him. Trying as hard as he could, he could not remember his sister’s features. He tried drawing them, but couldn’t. Jumma carried his failure every day, a blister, raised and filled with remorse.
The first screams he heard were from a child. He tried to tell who it was, the shrillness masking the identity, it lasted but a few seconds, then stopped abruptly. For another second, there seemed to be a perfect silence, then gunfire, savage and large, hammering everything around them. Now there were screams everywhere. Jumma clamped his hands over his ears, squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out the terror growing around him. He thought someone threw stones through the walls of the kitchen, then knew it was bullets hitting the floor and spraying dirt over his bare legs. The screams of his sisters loud in his ears, he opened his eyes to see his mother pulling the girls from beneath the table. Jumma scrambled after them, his hands clawing at the dirt, legs pumping, he seemed to go nowhere, the air thick, a crystal gel he could not move through. As his mother pushed her daughters through the burlap door, two men entered the hut, rifles held against their sides, pointed straight ahead of them, the bore of the barrel looking surprisingly small to Jumma. They were dressed in tan military fatigues and traditional headdress, the scarf wrapped over their faces, showing only heavy brows over large black eyes. Instantly, the men began shouting, ordering them to fall to the floor, spittle arching, cascading to the floor before them. Crossing the large room, one man grabbed Jumma’s mother, throwing her to the floor, while the second man went for his sisters. Jumma, standing in front of his sisters, was knocked to the ground by the second man, short and stocky, who smelled of cattle. As he was hit, Jumma closed his eyes, hitting the floor on his side and did not see the man’s boot coming for his head, felt the pain of the impact and then knew nothing else.
Jumma lay on a hilltop above a village he had never seen, the hill higher than any he knew of in Sudan, the village below bathed in a dull light, maybe early evening, he did not know. Lying on his side, his head resting on his arm, he studied the village; it was not his. The ground beneath him began to shake, immediately violent, rolling him over. His head hurt and he felt as if he might vomit, his stomach aching, his chest beginning to burn. “Wake up, you little shit,” a voice above him said. “Wake up, we’re going to talk.”
The smell of cattle was strong in his nostrils. Jumma opened his eyes to a dark ceiling, covering a small room with dirty white walls, a short squat table and an old brass oil lamp, dented with no glass to brighten the flame. Three men stared at him. Jumma tried to sit up, was pushed back down by pain shooting across his forehead. Rolling to his right side, he managed to push himself into a sitting position, leaning back against the wall for support. He was too frightened to speak. Looking again at the men, he realized one was a boy, perhaps fifteen years old, not much more, he thought.
“Where is your father?” one of the men asked. Dressed in a khaki green uniform, he wore a holster on his belt, a black handle visible beneath a flap, also black. Two pens protruded from a shirt pocket, the pens apparently leaking, as there was a large stain beneath the pocket. Several other stains covered the front of his shirt. Jumma looked harder, seeing the stains were not black or blue, but brown. Blood. The boy’s clothes were clean, a tan camouflage, looking new. The second man’s uniform was covered in brown spots, in sizes from tiny to one large one at his armpit.
“Get him up,” the man with the pens said, ordering the other two into action. The boy moved first, crossing the space quickly, bending to take Jumma by an arm, his grip strong like Jumma’s father, pulling him to his feet. Jumma stumbled and was caught by the second man. Lifted from the floor, they carried him to the third man, now seen as the leader by Jumma. Holding him off the floor, they stopped before the leader, who asked, “Where is your father?” Jumma looked dumbly at the man who made a fist and hit him hard, the blow landing squarely in the middle of Jumma’s forehead, knocking him unconscious.
When he woke, the pain in his head was unbearable, causing him to cry, the fright and pain so disorienting, he stopped thinking. Shock was setting into Jumma, a shield thrown around his mind to protect itself. With his arm over his eyes, he wept loudly, his chest heaving, gasping for air. “Momma,” he cried out.
“Shut him up and bring him here,” the man with the pens said, his exasperation clearly showing in his voice. Jumma was pulled from the floor and carried across the room, then slammed down on a chair. He screamed “Please” as a hand grasped his wrist, pulling his arm up, then pinning it to the table. Two other hands held him by the shoulders, the thick fingers digging in, the pain as bad as the pain in his head.
“Boy, where is your father?” he was asked. Jumma cried, tears and snot flowing down his young face. “One more time, where is your father?”
The room was silent except for Jumma’s sobs. A hammer wielded by the younger bandit smashed the third finger of Jumma’s left hand as flat as a cracker, blood spewing from the tip as it burst from the pressure, the nail splintered, the small bits and pieces pushed into the pulped flesh. Mercifully, Jumma passed out again.
***
The French priest and the nurse saw the body by the road, just southeast of Uwayl. It was mid-afternoon, a hot day, the sky clear and bright. They were returning to their mission post in Mapuordit from the small town, part of a delegation from the Diocese of Rumbek to minister aid to the people of the area, victims of the attack by the Janjaweed a week before. Stopping thirty meters from the body, the priest scanned the bush for others, people waiting near the road, the body simply a diversion. After a few minutes, the priest inched the vehicle forward, his head swiveling from side to side, checking as he drove. The nurse gasped, opening the door and jumped out, the old truck still rolling. “Wait,” the priest said, grabbing for the nurse and missing.
Jumma lay on his back, wearing only a pair of faded orange shorts, his dark skin carrying a red sub-tone, the sun burning his skin. Lips puffed by dehydration and the sun were framed by a battered face, large contusions on the side and front of his head. His left hand, wrapped in a blood-soaked white shirt, lay out straight from the boy’s body. It was covered in ants.
“Bring water, Father, quickly please,” Sister Marie Claire said. Father Robineau, carrying a jug of water, walked to where Jumma lay, still searching the bush for trouble. Pulling the nun up by the arm, the priest knelt, scooped the boy from the dust to carry him to the truck.
***
Jumma shivered, the chill of the cockpit always a surprise to him. The Beech had reached an altitude of eight thousand feet, where Hanley would cruise on their trip to Nairobi. The chill may have been a product of his memories, he could not be sure. Looking at his left hand, he could not recall having all four fingers. He didn’t miss it.
15
“Honey, leave that poor dog alone. He’s not feeling well and he doesn’t really know you. Come over here and sit by me,” Elizabeth said.
Hanley’s granddaughter launched an old tennis ball which struck Weed on the nose and rolled under the couch in Rocky’s den. Weed blinked hard and squeezed his eyes shut, hoping the little girl would go away. The sound of Elizabeth’s voice was reassuring, but Weed would not relax until the child was somewhere else.
“Carrie, come over here and let me see your new outfit. Your momma says today’s the first day you’ve worn it. I’d love to see it,” Rocky said, patting the couch beside where she sat, smiling at Hanley’s gr
anddaughter. Carrie ignored her.
Rocky was trying to rescue Weed. Hanley’s absence had been difficult for both of them but harder, it seemed, on the dog. Weed stuck to his rug most of the time and did not have an interest in much else. The usual enthusiasm for walks was dwindling. Weed’s internal clock had told him that the normal cycle of Hanley’s absence had passed some time ago. He missed his best friend and waited each minute for the sound of his truck to announce the cycle was complete for a while. He was lonely and even Rocky could not help.
Hanley had been in Africa for just over four months. From his letters, Elizabeth knew he was safe and into a routine of flying doctors and supplies to and from the mission.
Carrie huffed in exasperation at the old dog’s unwillingness to take an interest in her. Playing was not what she sought. That was too inclusive. When Weed could not be motivated as she hoped, Carrie turned to her mother and Rocky for attention. Not before she nailed the dog’s nose with the ball.
“Have you heard from your father this week?” Rocky asked.
“Yes, he called from Khartoum just before returning to the mission. He was about to meet a doctor from Germany and take him to Mapuordit. He seems glad the trips and his routine have fallen into a cycle of sorts. Dad asked if I’d talked to you. I told him we talked once or twice a week. He didn’t have much time to talk. He did say he would try to call from Mapuordit when he could find a way to do that. God, I already hate that name. Did he call you?”
“He called from Kenya two weeks ago. He did sound tired. I can imagine why. The stress of these trips and just knowing where you’re going would be enough. He will handle it. You can imagine how he misses everyone. Sitting in that plane for hours alone has given him enough time to think about this decision and what he’s facing. He’s there now and we can only count the days. I think Weed has already started.” A visit to her mother had given Elizabeth the opportunity to drive north to Kokomo on her way back to Ohio and see Rocky. It also afforded her the chance to look at her father’s house.
The thought of leaving her husband grew in her mind each day. She knew there would be no return to any sort of normal relationship. After her father had left for Africa, her husband Gary had gone to the West Coast. He returned after a few days and then left immediately for New York. Since his return, they had hardly spoken; only brief, harsh exchanges in passing. For the most part, her husband stayed away. She knew it was only a matter of time before they would start the discussion she was dreading. None of it would be easy, not now. Something was substantially different. It had the feel of permanence.
“I’m sorry you’re the one left taking care of Dad’s stuff after he decided to fly off to that godforsaken hole. You know, if he had decided to stay, it would have been because of you and not me or Carrie. I wish he had. The only time I’ve seen him happy for years has been just in the last year or two. You were the reason.” Elizabeth said.
“No, sweetheart, that’s not really right. If your father had stayed it would have been for you. Not me. Maybe Carrie or his parents. I think Weed may have been third or fourth. You were first. You’ve always been first. That’s been the case since I’ve known you and always will be.” Rocky said.
“Did you know that Mr Weekley sold Dad’s truck and sent me the money? Why would he do that? I mean, is he not coming back? When the check came in the mail last week with a note attached, it scared me to death. I called Mr Weekley. He said that it was his idea. That it wasn’t right for the truck just to sit there, that Dad could certainly afford a new one when he returned. Dad agreed and he sold the truck two weeks ago.”
The dog began to snore and both women stopped talking. Carrie had also fallen asleep between them, her face, now angelic, was all rosy cheeks and long eyelashes. Rocky knew that if Hanley were here, he would melt. Despite behaving much like her grandmother at times, he still adored Carrie.
“I’ll make some lunch, after that we’ll look at your father’s house. Stay with me tonight and I’ll send you off early in the morning. We can talk things over if you like. Oh, don’t shake your head just yet. I’d love it. Weed would too. Just stay and tomorrow you’ll be fresh and ready for the drive. Besides, my seed catalogues came this week. It will be fun.” Rocky said.
“All right, but I’ll need to call mother and tell her. I’ll leave a message on Gary’s service. I’d like to stay. I’ve been thinking about Dad’s offer. I probably should look at the house. Tomorrow being Monday, I can talk to Dad’s attorney if I have questions. We’ll stay.”
“Good,” Rocky said.
***
The mail was late, as always. The afternoon sun through the window of the dining room warmed her arms, crossed in impatience. Why is he always late, she wondered. He drinks, at least he looks as if he drinks, she thought. A typical, low-level French bureaucrat.
Movement brought her eyes to the wall surrounding her house, a hat, the top of which appeared and then disappeared, as the head it covered bobbed and wobbled, the mailman, owner of the head, finally on the street bordering her home. Stopping before the iron gate, he fumbled with the latch, his lips moving in back and forth motions, pink waves rolling across his fat red face. She could see from a distance he was sweating profusely. He paused to wipe his neck with a bare hand, scratched a spot behind his ear, squinting, even though the sun was behind him. Appearing to talk to himself, he marched up the brick walk to the front door. He is hungover, she thought. Yes, a French mail carrier would be drunk in the afternoon.
April in Saint-Nazaire was never hot. This week was an exception. Sophie Campbell noticed her mailman’s sack was nearly full as he approached her front door. Hoping he would not fall and hurt himself, she turned from the window, walking to the main hallway of her house.
Struggling to push the letters and thick brochures through the weathered brass mail slot, the mailman belched, then pushed the last letter through. The pile of mail, slid a short distance and stopped, alone in the middle of the hall.
When she picked it up, Sophie recognized the battered condition of the letter, a sign it was from her uncle in Sudan. He would tell her again, as he did in almost every letter, that the trip through the Sudanese postal system was haphazard and a dangerous one for a poor letter and she should give these letters much care, for they have met with great disrespect along the way.
Sophie would need a cup of coffee while reading her uncle’s letter. Hanley Martin would have been there for over four months when this letter was written. There was information in this letter she wanted to know, but feared; what an odd combination was fear and want, she thought as she spooned coffee into the glass press. It was only a few months, she thought; what could happen in so short a time? Then there was the why. Why was she worried about a man she hardly knew; a friend of her husband, a man who left his family behind to live in a place that was not kind to its own, much less a stranger? Why did she care? She would not think about it now. Perhaps she was not meant to know why. Sadly, she now had two people in Africa to worry about. She would pray for a million others, but worry about only two.
A smudge covered part of the envelope’s flap. The flap itself had a wavy look to it, as though it had been wet. Steamed, she thought. She hoped that opening this letter had been difficult for them and that they were disappointed with what they read. It opened easily. The letter was handwritten on white notebook paper, torn from a spiral binder, her uncle’s usual stationary. It was not smooth, but had the look of having been handled frequently during the writing, probably over several days’ time. As she unfolded the letter, she noticed a stain that appeared to be in the shape of a winged bug of sorts near the top edge of the first page. Mostly brown with a slight edge of yellow on the right side, the mark was as if her uncle had chosen an odd and ugly stamp with which to personalize this letter. She was sure the bug had not volunteered its services. This priest uncle of hers was a hunter and would not have hesitated to swat the bug when it landed on the page. Did he kill the bug before he started or a
fter? She began to read.
Sometimes the Darkness Page 14