Sometimes the Darkness

by Will Campbell

  “Yes, Father, I have learned just what ecclesiastical sleuthing really is after meeting the good sister and her friend Sister O’Brien back in Indiana. They are God’s CIA.”

  “Who?” Jumma asked.

  Hanley laughed, instantly realizing the rarity of the act, then surprised by it, by both the laughter and the realization. He said, “Jumma, you are why Sudan will someday be a great nation.”

  25

  October 5th

  Dear Elizabeth,

  It is Wednesday and it has been a slow day for me. On Monday, I flew a doctor in from Khartoum to perform surgery on a woman who had a difficult birth Saturday night. Had the doctor not been here, this woman would certainly have died from complications. I flew the doctor back to Khartoum yesterday. I’m tired, as I have been flying every week to Khartoum, Ethiopia or Nairobi. Supplies are now always short. The number of refugees has tripled in Mapuordit in the past six months. The raids on the villages in Darfur have increased substantially and the people are fleeing with what they can gather as they are forced from their lands, the lucky ones, that is. Most are going to Chad or the ROC, but some come here on their way to Ethiopia or Kenya. So many are killed, many are raped and brutalized. It’s insane here.

  The Sudanese government is more of a hindrance than a help. The church does what it can, but it’s in a bad spot. They have little protection and they know it. Muslim extremists are more involved in the politics of the country, at least that is what I’m told, although this is not a region of great importance to them, like Gaza or the Balkans. I suppose we are in as safe a region of Sudan as any, but we see the results of the persecution and it’s very ugly. I know this is an unpleasant subject, so let’s change it.

  So, how are you and Carrie? I’m still sorry about the marriage, but I believe it was the best thing you could have done. Time will tell whether Gary is a good father, but I think Carrie will be fine. She has too much of your mother in her to let this get on top of her. Don’t give up on instilling some compassion in her; it’s in there, it just needs some coaxing to come to the surface.

  The house is certainly big enough for the two of you and having Rocky next door is a great help, I’m sure. I know she’s happy. Her letters almost sing, she’s so happy. Weed can stay with her and visit you whenever you and he decide it’s okay.

  Rocky also told me about your mother showing up at her door and outlining what she believed was Rocky’s role in your life and Carrie’s in particular. I was mad at first, but if there is anyone on this earth that can handle your mother, it’s Rocky. She said Weed actually hid behind her couch in the den when he heard your mother’s voice.

  Next week, I’m going north with Sister Marie Claire to visit some displaced children. They’re everywhere in Sudan. Homeless and orphaned, they can be found in every refugee camp and group of people fleeing Darfur. Many have been taken in by relatives, aunts and uncles and older siblings, but too many are alone. The sister wants to help or at least try. So, we travel north to see what we can do.

  I want you to know how very much I love you and love Carrie; saying it is never enough. Words are so inadequate, you know. I love you and I’m proud of you, of the person you are and will be. Squeeze Carrie for me, do it every night. Tell her I love her too.

  When I see how bleak the future is for the people of Sudan and how they continue to strive, to try to live their lives somehow, every day, no matter what happens to them, it makes me realize how damned lucky I have been and how fortunate you and Carrie are. We take our futures for granted most of the time, like it comes with a guarantee. It doesn’t, you know. Anyway, I love you.

  I’ll write in a week or so and tell you about our trip. I miss you both.

  Love,

  Dad

  26

  Hanley had been rubbing the same spot on the side of the Beech for five minutes when Jumma said, “If I may, I believe the metal under your cloth cannot possibly shine more than it does now. Your beautiful airplane shows most of our country along its side. I think it is the biggest mirror in all Sudan.”

  “What? Oh, sorry, I was dreaming a bit, I guess, thinking of something and lost track of what I was doing.” He looked at his plane and said, “I know it’s as clean as can be, but I take some comfort in polishing this old metal. I’ve been doing it for years and it’s been therapeutic. Right now, I need as much therapy as I can get.”

  The morning had been spent cleaning the plane, wiping down its wings and tail, inspecting the controls surfaces, checking for problems. The day before, Hanley and Jumma worked the inside of the plane, Hanley in the cockpit and Jumma in the cargo area and the space behind the rear bulkhead. Hanley finished the day making a list of items he believed they would need to help secure the women and children they would be bringing to the mission; blankets, water and juice, bags for anyone experiencing airsickness and some toys if they could find any, which he doubted. The first-aid kit Hanley kept on the plane was sitting on the ground outside, waiting to be taken to the mission once they were through with today’s work. Hanley had a list of items he wanted added to the kit, a list Sister Marie Claire would be filling from the mission’s supplies. Fully aware the nun would change the list, if not discard it altogether and use one of her own, he made one anyway.

  Bending over to pick up the first-aid kit, Hanley wondered why he didn’t walk away from Sister Marie Claire and her plan to save these people. His doubts now seemed limitless. This is the definition of real recklessness, he told himself over and over. He was now afraid, really afraid. He now believed it was out of control. He carried apprehension and the feeling of not being in charge of his life as he would carry a fever. Hell, he had only known her for a little over nine months. Why had he committed to do something so stupid to someone he barely knew? Had she been waiting for someone to come along, someone like him, someone gullible or dumb enough to be manipulated as she had manipulated him? How long had she been waiting?

  Hanley picked up the first-aid kit and called to Jumma to gather his things, telling him they were going back to the mission. As Jumma retrieved his clipboard, pen and his water bottle, Hanley locked the plane’s rear door and strode to the Land Cruiser. He was now mad and wanted some answers. Jumma barely made it into the old vehicle before Hanley gunned the engine and drove off toward the mission, leaving a cloud of dust, which the wind carried to cover the nose of the plane Hanley had so patiently polished ten minutes earlier.

  The truck slid to a halt near the clinic, Hanley leaping from the truck before it was completely stopped. Seeing Sister Marie Claire reading something on a clipboard, he crossed the room and asked, “How did you know I would do what you wanted, to agree to fly to Kosti? Did you know? Well, did you?”

  Hanley was standing, close to the nun who turned her back to him as he questioned her. They were alone inside the clinic. The late afternoon sun was shining on the counter where a box of gauze sat warming in the sunlight, waiting to be placed in the first-aid kit from Hanley’s plane.

  “Yes, I knew. I had been praying that someone would come to help me. Before you came, the church relied on the UN and others to bring us supplies and doctors. Then word came that someone had volunteered to bring his plane to help us. I knew then that God had heard me. I knew then that I had a chance to do what no one else seemed willing to do. So, when you came, I started making plans. I was confident you would agree. Why else would God deliver you to me? God would not send you here and then tell you to refuse. I did not use you, God used you. God will use you to help these people.”

  Hanley’s anger was growing. He felt used and stupid. “Wasn’t it lucky that God sent you someone dumb enough to be led around by the nose?”

  “Luck was not involved. I do not believe in luck. There is only the will of God, nothing else. You are an instrument of the Lord’s will and plan. Accept your fate for it is a good one and a good cause. You are an angel with wings, only your wings are metal. They shine in the sun as well as any wings in heaven. Do not question t
he will of God. Remember, this has all happened for a reason. Be glad you have been chosen to be a part of it.” The nun turned toward the door and walked away. She stopped in the doorway, turned toward the American. Her right hand gripped the door frame and she swayed a bit as she looked at him. Her expression was a mix of weariness and determination. She said, “We have only a few days left before we go to Wad Madani. Please believe in this. It is important that you do. God will not let us fail; he would not do that.”

  “It’s not God I’m worried about,” Hanley said

  ***

  Two days after her talk with Hanley alone in the clinic, Sister Marie Claire rode in one of the mission’s large trucks to Rumbek. Driving was one of the doctors, a large Yugoslavian with dark red hair, a crooked nose and a large droopy mustache. Hanley said the doctor looked like an American cartoon character named Yosemite Sam. She did not know who that was.

  The truck cab was hot and the doctor was talking about football, a game the nun loved, but did not want to think about now. Trying to ignore the doctor, she suddenly thought about Sister O’Brien and her love of American football, a completely different game. What was the name of the team she loved so? She could not remember. Her mind was focused on the conversation she would be having after they arrived at the diocese to pick up mail and supplies for the mission’s church. She was scheduled to meet with the archbishop to brief him on the needs of the mission and then she scheduled some personal time, telling the diocese she would be visiting another nun who worked at the diocese and lived in Rumbek. In fact, she would be seeing the nun, but only briefly. The restaurant of Paul, the uncle of one of the young women she hoped would meet the plane in Kosti, was in between her friend’s apartment and the diocese. Stopping there would not be out of her way and, if seen, would not seem out of the ordinary-just a quick meal before returning to Mapuordit.

  As the truck pulled into the drive of the offices of the Catholic diocese in Rumbek, Sister Marie Claire saw a young woman walking behind two men as they moved along the sidewalk near the building. She carried two large, overstuffed briefcases and a large white plastic cylinder under her right arm. The men carried nothing, puffing cigars and talking loud enough to be heard from inside the truck. The girl was small and dark, with a long dress and sandals. She looked exhausted, more than exhausted, she looked as sad as any person the nun had ever seen, as if she was a witness to the tragedy that was her life. Now Sister Marie Claire was also a witness to it. She became short of breath and snatched some air. Turning his head sharply at the sound, the doctor asked, “Is something the matter?” Sister Marie Claire cleared her throat and said, “Nothing is wrong, I just thought of something I meant to bring with me today and forgot.”

  The doctor smiled and said he had done the same thing many times. He pulled on the door handle and when it opened, he rolled out and onto the graveled surface of the parking lot. Sister Marie Claire did not move. Watching the young woman struggle up the street, the nun’s jaw muscles bunched as she clenched her teeth and hissed, “Pigs” at the men walking and laughing before the girl, then said, “Forgive me Father.”

  ***

  Paul Abimaje brought two cups of coffee to the round table next to the door in the back of his small restaurant. Servers, Paul’s own children, passed close by as they moved in and out of the kitchen door next to the nun’s shoulder. A name had been carved into the wood of the table where she sat; the carving was poorly done. Sister Marie Claire tried to read the name as she waited for her friend to return. When he did, she smiled and took in the smell of the coffee. It was strong, its warm richness reminding her of the coffee her father made each morning, a smell from her childhood. She wished for a return of the feelings she had then; contentment, comfort, an excitement for what the day would bring. Now her days were filled with fear and misgivings, a longing for peace and safety, for comfort. She missed her father and his hugs. Phillip Audebourg would have been proud of his daughter and her plan. Claire had always made him proud, even when she failed, he would commend her for her efforts, no matter how small or great. He only cared that she always tried.

  Sister Marie Claire sipped the coffee while she looked around the restaurant. The room had only two other customers, old men sitting near the window to watch the street and its entertainment. They would grunt as something caught their attention, the loudest coming when young women would pass. Frowning as she watched, she said, “Hanley Martin gives this plan a real chance at succeeding. Without the plane, our ability to move that many children at once that distance would have been limited, if not impossible. If we can load them and depart in a small amount of time, the smallest possible, then we will be back to the mission before anyone can pursue us. Once there, I have arranged to disperse the children immediately, to scatter them across the countryside. Finding them will be difficult. Jumma has spent months locating relatives and devised a system for contacting them when we return. The relatives do not know of the plan. You are the only one.”

  The man looked up and raised a palm to the nun to silence her. “You have not told the other relatives? How can that be? What if they will not accept the child? What happens then?” As he began to speak, coffee spilled from his lower lip and onto the table, where it pooled in a small hole that had been drilled by countless diners over the years. He wiped it up with the side of his hand and looked back to the nun for an answer.

  “They will not refuse their own. Even if they do, the mission orphanage will take them, which is much better than the life they are living now, no? It was my decision not to tell the relatives. If only one told someone else and that person told someone else, in a week, too many people would know and the plan would have been compromised. No, it was the right thing to do. Jumma has worked to make certain we can contact these people quickly and move the children to safety. Some will be placed with people in the surrounding villages until they can be delivered to their families. We know that the plane will be recognized if seen. The American and I know the risks. We will deny that anyone else was involved. Jumma is to stay in the plane so he will not be seen. It is to be hoped that since we will arrive in Wad Madani just after dawn, there will not be anyone at the landing strip.”

  A child began crying somewhere outside the restaurant, a high-pitched scream that wound down to a long, pleading cry. The nun took a spoon from the saucer of her drink and began tapping the table, slowly but steadily. The man facing her turned to look out the storefront windows of his business to see the child. He turned back to the nun. “I have spoken to my contact in Wad Madani. He assures me all will be ready and he will meet you at the airstrip at dawn. The process will be more elaborate, more complicated than first thought. He believes the children can be acquired and moved safely as planned. One child is now sick and may be left behind. Unfortunate, but necessary. Too much is at stake. My niece will be of much help in this process. She is good with children, can comfort them. Her value in this matter will be obvious. I pray this will work.”

  Chairs scraping the floor interrupted the conversation. The two old men were leaving, making a loud production to signal their departure. One tossed a small coin to the tabletop while struggling to get into his jacket. The other watched and then, with a new grunt showing his exasperation, grabbed the elusive sleeve of the coat to assist. For another thirty seconds, they wrestled against each other and the sleeve of the jacket until both stopped. They left the restaurant with the arm of the man pinned to his side by the twisted coat. Once outside, they began again, both turning in a tight circle, pulling on the fabric, finally getting the arm through and the jacket on straight. Leaning against a light pole, they rested before ambling down the street, cursing each other and the coat.

  Normally, the nun would have found the scene amusing, but this afternoon, it only irritated her. She was not amused by men anymore, at least not now, not while she planned to save some children from enslavement by other men. These thoughts pained her. No matter how careful she was not to label all men as bad, she s
truggled with the urge. Too much misery came at the hands of men. She must be careful. Other men were helping her save these children.

  “It will work. Tell your friend the plane will stop at the end of the landing strip, turn and stop again. Have the children nearby and ready to board when the door opens. We want to have the children on the plane and take off in five minutes. The engines will be running and so there will be dust and noise. If the children know this ahead of time, they may not be as frightened and the loading will go smoothly. Do you understand? As I have said, I want Jumma to remain in the plane. I will be the one outside helping board the children. Your niece and the others must help with the loading. With only twelve children, we can load them quickly, don’t you think?” The man nodded. Paul Abimaje said, “I have told the man not to have any of the children wrapped in blankets so that they can walk if needed. The morning will be cold this time of year. Perhaps you can have blankets on the plane for the children.”

  “We will try,” the nun said.

  Pulling on his earlobe, the man said, “We risk much to do this. I am doing it for my brother and his wife, as they cannot. I understand why you do this; you are an instrument of God. It is your duty. But the American, I don’t understand. Why would he do this? I don’t trust him. I think he might change his mind and fly off with you and the boy and leave my niece and the others there. If they are caught, things will be worse for them than they are now. It is a risk, don’t you agree?”

  “No, I don’t agree. He will not change his mind. We will be there, this I know. We will be there, I promise.”

  27

  The small boy was shaken awake by a large rough hand that smelled of cigarettes and apples. The hand shook him by the shoulder and a man’s voice told him to wake up and stay quiet. The child had been dreaming of his mother as he always did. He ached for her. By now, he could not remember her face, exactly. He started to cry, but the man hushed him and he stopped. He often cried when he was first put to work in the shop where he pushed the cart with the linens on top and the broken wheel on the bottom. He learned to stop after the owner beat him when he cried. Now he could stop whenever he was told.