Sometimes the Darkness

by Will Campbell

  “Not well, I’m afraid. I’m Hanley Martin. You must be Father Laslo?” Hanley offered his hand to the priest. The young man nodded.

  Hanley smiled and said, “How are you? You weren’t expected until Friday.”

  “Yes, I’ve been with the bishop for a few days. I flew into Rumbek from Khartoum and rode over with your men bringing back supplies,” the priest explained.

  “Sorry about the plane, but lately, talking to it has become a habit,” Hanley said.

  “Don’t apologize. I have a statue of a cat in my apartment in Budapest that I tell jokes to. She never finds them humorous. Metal cats are especially humorless, even more than real ones, I expect. By the way, please call me Jon. It’s really Janos but I like Jon.” He smiled and Hanley was struck by the ease with which the young priest made him feel comfortable, like old friends.

  “Sister Marie Claire has been excited about your arrival for weeks; she’s even more intense than usual, which I didn’t believe possible. Do you really think God’s sent us as many angels as we need? It’s an optimistic thought, even for a priest, isn’t it?” Father Robineau had been gone exactly one week and the young priest from Hungary was here already. Well, the church certainly doesn’t waste time, Hanley thought.

  “I was told you were at the airstrip. Jumma was good enough to bring me. This is a beautiful old airplane you have. I was told you flew it here all the way from America. How amazing. Was the trip difficult?”

  “The food in Iceland was a bit tricky and the customs people on Port Sudan never write anymore, but no, other than the length of the trip, it was not a problem. This model Beech has been flying safely for over sixty years. It’s a workhorse and, modified, has some length to its range. The ocean crossings were better than I expected, particularly the weather. I was lucky. Until I arrived in Sudan, it was a good experience, if you like to fly.” Hanley smiled slightly and turned to the plane. He put his hand on the nose again and said, “When I was a kid, I saw one of these fly over my uncle’s farm at a very low altitude. I heard it coming long before it cleared the trees over a low hill. It was painted a sky-blue with white trim. It was one of those clear, dry, warm summer days that seem like a dream even when you’re living it. The sky was a dark blue and everything seemed to glow with an unnatural clarity, you know? My uncle’s dog went crazy, barking and chased it after it flew overhead, running across the field as if it was a migrating monster bird flying north. Two of his cows trotted the other way, to get away from the noise, I suppose. Anyway, I fell in love instantly and bought this one when I could afford it. I spent several years restoring it. It handled the trip well.”

  The young priest said, “Sometimes God sends us messages in ways we never recognize. It is something even the most gifted of us cannot fathom. The time and signs we are given by God never stop, not even in Sudan. Einstein thought he found the right way by looking at time and space. I believe time and thought are more interesting, perhaps a more correct combination. I have just read that scientists are looking at ‘dark matter’, an invisible element which they believe makes up most of the universe. I have an interest in this. What if dark matter is God’s thought or God’s spirit enveloping us? Instead of time and space, maybe it is really time and spirit. It would explain much that physicists can’t. They are looking for physical rather than spiritual proof. That may also explain why physicists have, of late, become such creative speculators, would it not?”

  “You are way past me at this point, Father. I can’t program a clock radio properly. That’s how well I manage time. Programming the clock of the universe is up to God, not me. Right now, I’m worried about how I’ll manage getting this plane a tune-up before the end of the year.”

  “Don’t worry; I believe you will find a way. You seem to have found your way very well so far, isn’t that true, Jumma?” Jumma walked up behind Hanley from the back of the plane. He smiled and said, “I’m sorry, Father, I did not hear what you said.”

  “I said I believe God has helped Mr Martin find his way to us and to Sudan.”

  “Yes, we have been blessed to have Mr Martin and his plane here with us. Sister Marie Claire says he is an answer to a prayer she has been saying for a long time. He is her winged angel, she said.”

  “She’s full of … sorry, she overstates things at times. She can’t help it, she’s French,” Hanley said. He felt his face go red. He knew what Jumma was really referencing. Sister Marie Claire seemed to know he would fly the rescue mission before he did and he resented it. She obviously confided her belief to Jumma and Hanley wished she hadn’t. He didn’t believe she would tell anyone else; still, he wished they talked before she had spoken with Jumma.

  Father Laslo smiled. He began to examine the plane, walking slowly around, starting at the nose and moving to the left wing. On the way past, he touched the propeller for a second, his finger running along the edge and then trailing across the plane of the dull, black blade. He continued around, occasionally touching metal as he passed, as if he was blind and getting to know an object by feeling it. Watching him, Hanley had the impression the priest was trying to learn something from the plane, some history, perhaps something Hanley didn’t know. Maybe a flight that had some particular meaning or event attached to it, something. Who knew, Hanley thought.

  When he reached the tail section, the priest stopped and bowed his head. After a brief moment, he resumed his inspection of the plane. The brief stop at the tail spooked Hanley for some reason. When the priest rounded the right wing, Hanley asked, “Does everything look all right to you?”

  Father Laslo stopped, looked at the airplane for another moment and said, “Yes, yes, it will do just fine.” He turned and walked back toward the Land Rover, parked out of sight. Jumma ran after him.

  Hanley, watching them go, blinked hard twice and said, “Well, shit.”

  24

  “Have I heard what? I’ve heard nothing. Has my schedule changed?” Hanley asked.

  “I was in Rumbek this morning. There was a news report on the radio in the cafe. I stopped for coffee and a roll. Something happened in America. Terrorists. Apparently, they hijacked airplanes, passenger planes and flew them into buildings in New York and maybe Washington. I am not clear about all this; the reports were a bit confusing. I do not think the reporters had good information,” the young French doctor said. He was new, had replaced Dr O’Connell, who returned to Ireland, much to the relief of his family, Hanley supposed. The new doctor’s name was Courtier.

  “Just New York and Washington? Are you sure?” Hanley pushed himself up from the old lawn chair, thinking terrorists would not be interested in Kokomo, Indiana. His fear made his mind race; would Elizabeth have a reason to be in New York? Rocky’s twin sons lived in New York. She must be frantic. What was the best way to reach his family?

  “Excuse me, will you? I need to use a phone,” Hanley said, walking off toward the mission office.

  ***

  Making s-shapes and their reverse, a centipede-like bug swam fiercely through the warm broth to the inside wall of the white bowl, wedged two of its tarsi into small spider-web cracks in the glazing and hoisted itself out of the soup and headed for the rim, unnoticed by the nun, whose soup the bug had just dog-paddled through. Once over the rim, it made an inverted beeline down the side of the bowl for the tabletop, hit the wood at a dead run, scurried for the edge of the table and was smashed flat only one inch from its goal by Jumma. A bug’s existence in Sudan was only marginally better than a human’s, Hanley thought as he watched all this.

  Jumma scraped the bug’s guts from his hand on the table’s edge. Hanley checked his soup for swimmers while listening to the nun as she discussed the proposed flight to Kosti. Hanley asked many questions over the last half hour, none of them pleasant.

  “Have you heard from your family?” Sister Marie Claire asked Hanley, momentarily changing the subject.

  Hanley, his head cupped in his left hand, elbow on the table, pushed a spoon around the rim of an
old white bowl, making a rough hum as it bumped along the uneven, cracked edge, said, “Yes, I spoke to my daughter and my, her neighbor. Everyone’s fine. Rocky, the neighbor, has twin sons living in New York. They’re also fine. The entire country’s shaken, mad, you know. This must be like what my parents felt when Pearl Harbor was attacked. I’m afraid all hell will soon break loose. Someone will pay, it’s just a matter of who. I wouldn’t want to be a Mid-Eastern country right now. Thanks for asking.”

  Beneath the shade of a trellis attached to the mission’s dining hall and kitchen, the three sat at a picnic table. They sacrificed what comfort the inside provided from the heat of the day and the bugs for some privacy. As they talked, hushed tones rose in intensity as the discussion grew heated. The nun stood up to Hanley’s persistent questioning of the plan’s details, his concerns about the reliability of her co-conspirators and the safety of everyone involved, especially the children to be rescued. Finally, he wanted to know what the nun expected would be the Catholic Church’s reaction to the mission, should they return safely or not.

  “I expect the church will deny any knowledge or involvement in the plan and its execution. They will be telling the truth, as they are not aware of it. At least I do not know that they are aware of the plan,” she said.

  Hanley stared at her, his mouth open slightly, a black fly buzzing, interested in his ear. “Yeah, well, ask Father Laslo what he knows. What will they do to you when they find out? How bad will the repercussions be?” he asked.

  “I believe the church will transfer me immediately, probably back to France. After that, I expect I will be asked to leave the order. Hopefully, I will be allowed to stay here to continue to help, but I expect that will not happen. Khartoum will want to punish someone and will pressure the church. If I’m out of the country, the church can more easily refuse to cooperate. I am putting the church in a difficult position, but they have been there before,” she explained.

  “What’s the chance they don’t hear of this, they don’t find out?”

  “Very little, I am afraid,” she said.

  “Yeah, I understand the church has been there before, but not with Muslim extremists. The rules don’t apply to them. Their rules are no rules at all. If we didn’t believe that before, we should now. We will be putting the church and others in a bad position.”

  “Is not the church already in a bad position?” Jumma asked. “I’m sorry for interrupting Sister, but the persecution of my people will continue, no matter, will it not? We are at least doing something,” he said.

  Hanley looked at Jumma for a moment. His expression softened a bit and he smiled slightly. He said, “You aren’t interrupting. This is your life and your country. If anyone has the right to speak, it’s you. God, what would ever make you think you can’t? You have more at stake here than anyone. We need to know what we will do if we make it back. This is your home, you will have to stay and accept the consequences.”

  Jumma’s expression demanded an explanation.

  Hanley said, “It means if you stay, and your involvement is suspected by the government, you may be the one they will try to punish. The sister will probably be made to leave Sudan and I, I will probably be forced to leave also, immediately, I expect. If I have enough fuel, I will fly to Nairobi as soon as I deliver the children and the two of you. You see, I have virtually no standing here. I have obtained a work permit through the church as a contract employee. The church can offer me no protection and won’t. Under the circumstances, I wouldn’t. Once back on the ground, the plane is vulnerable, a sitting aluminum duck. If I lose the plane, I’m already a prisoner. An old white American is easily spotted in Sudan. Probably as easily hated, I expect. That fact, and the fact that I have little resources available to me mean that I would not make it out of the country. I’d eventually be caught maybe killed. The plane is my salvation. If I lose the plane, I lose my freedom. We must know what we will be facing and have a plan ready for what is to come, if we get back at all.” Hanley looked at the nun and then off into the bush, staring at nothing, feeling again that he was in a dream, unable to control what was happening to him, helpless and stupid, hating the feeling. Hanley’s head snapped up and he said, “Unless you come with me. Jumma, you could wait it out in Kenya, wait until the uproar dies down, then return. You could do that. Think about it,” Hanley suggested.

  “Things will never die down in Sudan,” the young African said.

  Dust swirled across the Savannah, its swirl broken only as it passed behind a bush or one of the sparse trees that dotted the barren earth around them. It was the dry season, and an especially dry one it was. Hanley wondered for an instant if the dust meant more than just the wind moving the parched earth or was it the dust kicked up by the feet of people fleeing the madness that was what was left of their lives. At that moment, an image of Carrie came to him, bundled in her pink winter coat and pants. She was wearing her Belinda Hanley expression, the same mixture of exasperation and impatience she shared with her grandmother when both were tired of having to deal with him. He loved his granddaughter so. Now, all he wanted was to see Elizabeth and Carrie again.

  “Will you have enough fuel to fly to Kenya?” Sister Marie Claire asked him. The question brought Hanley back to the picnic table.

  “That depends on how much time we spend on the ground at Kosit. We will fly in at dawn, with the sun just above the horizon and behind us. We want it to be in the eyes of anyone looking our way. We will fly out into the morning sun,” Hanley explained.

  Jumma looked up and smiled. “God comes with the morning sun, does he not? He will be with us that morning. He will come out of the morning sun to help us rescue these children.”

  Hanley looked at Jumma and smiled, saying, “I’ll keep the engines running as we load the children. I will stay in my seat while you and Jumma get them onboard. Just before we land, you will switch from the second seat to the open jump-seat next to Jumma. When I tell you, both of you will move to the rear hatch, drop the door and load the children. When they are onboard, I will move out and take off. You will need to make certain all the children are sitting down once they are onboard. Put their backs against the wall of the plane, trying to balance them by number along each side. Two things are absolutely essential, I believe. First, the children must be waiting as near to where I will stop the plane as possible. Second, there can be no hesitation when it comes to the loading. Once that door drops, the children must board as fast as possible. The Beech makes an awfully easy target. If there are soldiers nearby, we will have more trouble than we can handle.”

  “I will speak with my contact about this when I can. Maybe in a day or two,” she said.

  “Good. Okay. I have thought about when the best time will be to do this. All things considered, I believe that early morning, just after daybreak, will be the best. Moving the children through the night will provide some cover for the truck, especially if it can travel sparsely traveled routes. The children can sleep while traveling and be awake when the plane lands. Tell your people to have something sweet for them to eat when they wake up. We want them up and moving fast when they need to be.”

  “What about guns? Should we take them?” Jumma asked.

  “Do you have guns?” Hanley asked in return, a bit startled by the question.

  “No, but I think we can find them if we need them. I know a man in Rumbek who may help us. He knows many people, including people who help the rebels,” Jumma said; he seemed forlorn to Hanley.

  Hanley looked at the nun and said, “No guns. I know enough about them to be afraid of using them. I can fly a plane, but I can’t hit the broadside of a barn with a gun; no guns, okay?”

  Sister Marie Claire nodded. A smile spread across her face as she watched Father Laslo leaving the dining hall door and walk toward them. She rose as he neared the table, but sat back down when he motioned her to remain seated. The young priest stopped behind Hanley, placed a hand upon the American’s left shoulder and said, “I see we
are enjoying the fresh air of Sudan, is that right, Jumma?”

  Jumma smiled and nodded, saying, “Yes, Father, we thought we would take our meal outside today.”

  The hand squeezed Hanley’s shoulder a little. “Mr Martin, were you a pilot in the US military?” Father Laslo asked.

  “No, I was never in the military. I was in college when Viet Nam ended and not required to serve. My draft number was a little above one hundred and I was not called. I was licensed pilot when I left school and went right to work,” he explained.

  “I’m sure your experience will serve God’s purpose well. Sister Marie Claire believes you can fly your silver plane to the moon if you wished to, isn’t that true, sister?”

  The nun blushed a bit and turned to Hanley. “You would think the seminary would have removed all the evils from a man before making him a priest, but as you can see, some small amount still hides inside them. The seminaries should do a better job of cleansing these undeserving young priests before turning them out into the world. I must write the bishop and suggest they examine their methods before we are all taken down by these small devils they leave inside them.” Hanley saw her blush even more, as she watched the priest’s delight in what she said.

  “Perhaps you are right. I will leave you to pray and ask God to remove the small devils I still shelter. They are well hidden and only appear when provoked by nuns who believe it is their duty to search out all the evil in men and bring it to God’s attention. Nuns are God’s detectives, did you know that, Mr Martin?”