After the Rains

by Deborah Raney

  She reached for the small flashlight that she kept beside her bed. Fumbling in the dim light it provided, she got up again and lit the lantern on the table.

  Rubbing her eyes to rid them of the grit of sleep, she reached for the plastic folder where she kept her e-mails. For the few months she’d been here, she had collected a surprisingly thick sheaf of letters. Many of them were printed on the backs of David’s old word lists or on the blank side of discarded documents from the library in San José. Nothing was wasted here.

  She sat down at the table and began to sort through the pile of papers. Pulling out Evan’s most recent post, she read it again, not sure why it suddenly seemed so important to do so.

  Dear Natalie,

  Hi from Kansas. Hope everything is going good for you there. I got six e-mails from you today, so I’m going to go through them all and try to hit the high points and answer as much as I can before I fall asleep.

  Am I still working? Yep. Same boring job at the gas station. At least I haven’t had to work the late shift the past couple of months.

  Do I ever see Jon or Nicole? I ran into Jon at a game a couple weeks ago, but Nikki was home studying. Jon said she has a pretty heavy class load this semester, but you probably already knew that. We didn’t talk very long, but it seems like they’re doing great. Jon’s put on some weight. Nikki must be a good cook.

  My folks are fine. Dad’s talking about retiring, but Mom’s not crazy about the idea, so I’m not looking for it to happen anytime soon. I think he just likes to get her riled.

  You asked about classes. Candace Shaw (remember the redhead I told you about—from our Bible study?) is tutoring me in speech. You know how I’ve dreaded that class, but Candace has really helped me not to be so nervous about getting up in front of people. Anyway, things are going pretty good, but I’m ready to be out of here.

  Yes, Evan, I remember Candace Shaw. He’d only mentioned her half a dozen times in the last few e-mails. She felt a twinge of jealousy and wondered just how close Evan and Candace were getting to be. They’d made no promises to each other, she reminded herself.

  Tears came to her eyes as she thought of what she and Evan had had together. He had come into her life at a time when she desperately needed a friend, a friend who understood what she had gone through with Sara’s death. What they’d had was special. Yet Evan seemed no closer to sharing her interest in Timoné than he’d been when she left Kansas. Still, she was confident that she had been right to come to Timoné. Timoné offered her hope of redeeming her past—a hope that Evan could not offer.

  A blanket of oppression came over her as all her guilt paraded by in a bleak procession. That day in the courtroom when she’d been declared guilty. Her days in jail. Daddy. Evan. Sara. Always, everything came back to Sara’s death. She tried to brush the disturbing memories away, but the accusing images came at her like darts, and each one hit its mark, stinging as it pierced her spirit. She grabbed her head and tried to stop the flow of thoughts. Help me, Father.

  She rose from the chair, blew out the lantern, and went again to the window. What had caused her to be so agitated tonight? Lord, help me to put these thoughts away. Help me to dwell on things that are true and lovely, she prayed, remembering a worship chorus they had sung in their open-air sanctuary yesterday. To her surprise, the words in her thoughts as she prayed were the Timoné words. Quemaso dumé possu, quemaso dumé beleu. Whatsoever things are true, whatsoever things are lovely.

  She had found ready teachers in the children of the village. Tommi’s young twins, especially, had taken her under their ornery wings. As they followed her through the village, they delighted in labeling everything for her—the birds, the plants, the parts of the uttas. The trained linguist in David might laugh at her, studying under seven-year-olds, but the vocabulary of her tutors was at a close enough level to her own that she understood them well.

  And, too, it had helped that she’d begun to spend more time with the village women. She was discovering that Timoné was a very expressive language. Hand motions and facial expressions almost seemed to be part and parcel of the dialect. Their innate sign language made it easier for her to get the gist of what the women were saying. She wondered how David intended to incorporate that into his alphabet.

  Yet only a few weeks ago she had almost despaired of ever being able to communicate, and now here she was—thinking, praying in the Timoné tongue. Granted, she had a long way to go, but she couldn’t wait to tell David. She smiled wryly into the darkness. She almost hated to give him the satisfaction. But perhaps he had been right to force her to use the language. She was learning. Finally.

  She lay back down on her sleeping mat and closed her eyes, practicing how she would tell David—in Timoné. There were a few words she would have to fill in with her own sign language, but he would allow her that. She couldn’t wait to see the expression on his face when she told him.

  A stab of guilt pierced her at the thought. What about Evan? The physical distance that separated them seemed to reflect a distancing in her heart from him. In truth, she suspected that Evan was experiencing some of the same feelings. Candace Shaw’s name, appearing with regularity in his e-mails, wasn’t the only hint she’d had. More and more, Evan’s letters were filled with talk about his future in the field of physical therapy, the clinic he would set up, the impressive salary he would earn. And though Natalie couldn’t deny feeling a twinge of jealousy each time she read about something he’d done with Candace, or another mention of Evan’s future that didn’t include her, in a way, it was a relief that Evan was not pining away for her. For the longer Natalie was in Timoné, the more she realized that Evan would never be a part of her life here.

  That’s because David is here. The words came as clearly as if someone had spoken them aloud. It startled Natalie. But she knew it was true. She and David still had their moments when they snipped at each other, moments when he acted so strangely she wondered what was wrong with him. But yesterday when he had played Poohsticks with her and the children on the bridge, she had seen a side of him that filled her with delight—and with something else that she could not name. To her great surprise, she was finding that making David Chambers smile had become one of her greatest pleasures. She drifted back to sleep, wondering how, exactly, to deal with that fact.

  Thirty–Five

  Nathan Camfield’s heart went out to the young boy who sat on the examination table, trying hard to be brave but grimacing in pain. Luis and some older boys had attempted to turn a lard-coated branch into a torch with the fire in the fogoriomo, but the hot grease had dripped down the branch and burned his hands.

  They were second degree. If Nathan could keep out infection, the boy would probably heal with minor scarring. As Nate dressed the wound, he recalled the searing pain he’d experienced when he had been dreadfully burned over twenty years ago. Now he noticed the scars and striations on his own hands as though he were seeing them anew.

  Nate touched the boy’s arm and was trying to reassure him when David Chambers burst into the clinic. The man’s face was red, his forehead adorned with huge beads of perspiration.

  “Nate, we’ve got trouble.” He was speaking English.

  “What’s happened?” he asked, his hand still resting on the shoulder of his patient. As David explained, Nate continued to bandage the boy’s wounds.

  “I was making routine radio checks. I wasn’t getting a response from Conzalez. Finally Meghan came on and said that two small planes had landed on the airstrip there this morning, and there are about a dozen soldiers—Meghan called them guerrillas—milling around the village. They haven’t made any demands other than forbidding them to use the airstrip and the radio, but—”

  “How did Meg get through then?”

  “I’m not sure, but she was obviously in a hurry to get off the air.”

  Nate covered the boy’s dressing with a bandage and gave him brief instructions about keeping it dry, then he prayed for him. “And stay away from
the fire,” he scolded, as he sent the lad on his way. “Did Hank and Meghan want us to try to get to Conzalez?” he asked David when the door had closed behind Luis.

  “She didn’t say so. She said something about overhearing something that made her think the guerrillas were waiting for more planes and that we might somehow be involved.”

  Nate looked at David. “In Timoné? She didn’t explain?”

  David shook his head. “Like I said, it was apparent she was using the radio against their directive.”

  “Did you radio Bogotá?”

  “Yes, the mission. It was Randall Sanderson I talked to. He thinks we ought to get out at the first chance.”

  “I assume that wasn’t an order?” He and Dave had talked many times about their reluctance to abandon Timoné in the event of a paramilitary takeover.

  “No,” David said. “And I didn’t speak with anyone higher up. I wanted to talk to you first.”

  Nate nodded, thinking. He didn’t like the sound of this. It wasn’t unusual for paramilitary groups to “borrow” a mission airstrip. It had happened once or twice before at Conzalez, and it happened quite frequently at San José del Guaviare—usually without incident, though two mission pilots had been shot and killed at San José a few years ago. Sometimes it was lone rangers posing as paramilitary in order to move drugs. It was hard to know whom to trust. But this had a different feel to it, and it set off an alarm for Nate. Perhaps he was just more sensitive to it all because he had Natalie to think of.

  He rubbed his temples, deliberating.

  Natalie. Dear Lord, if anything happens to her, I’ll never forgive myself. He shut off the thoughts that tried to make inroads into his mind now. He needed a clear head. He needed wisdom from above. He turned off the generator and took out the keys that locked the storage closet. “Do you know where Natalie is?” he asked David.

  “She was in the chapel with Tommi’s kids when I left the office … something about a language lesson.”

  “Okay. Well, let’s go hang out at the office. We can try to get through to Meghan again and see if we can find out what’s going on. Maybe Bogotá will get back with something. Meghan didn’t say why she thought they might be headed here?” he asked again.

  Again David shook his head. “Just that she overheard them talking and that they mentioned Timoné.”

  “I don’t know what they’d want here,” Nate said, thinking aloud. “You haven’t gotten any vibes from the villagers that there’s something afoot here, have you?”

  “No. Plenty of bad vibes in San José though. I told you about that. But nothing here.”

  The radio was squawking when they walked into the office. “Get that, would you, Dave? I’m going to get Natalie.”

  While David hurried to the radio and picked up the hand-held microphone, Nate flew down the office steps and jogged to the chapel.

  Natalie was sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of the twins—Tommi’s sons. The two little boys sat side by side on their haunches, their copper-colored knees lined up like four peas in a pod. At first he thought Natalie was teaching them English, but it soon became clear that she was the student, they the teachers.

  She pointed to her eyes and asked, “Qué vocca topi?” How do you say that?

  Paku provided the word, and Natalie repeated it back to him. Nate watched for a while, hating his reason for interrupting, amazed at Natalie’s diligence in getting the pronunciations just right.

  An irrational fury took hold of Nate: If this incident ended up sending Natalie home, taking her away from him again, or worse … it would devastate him. Please, Lord. It was all he could manage to pray. God knew what he meant. He shook off the thoughts and turned his attention back to the language lesson.

  Natalie pointed to her knee. “Qué topi?” What’s this?

  “Benotigua,” Daric filled in.

  Natalie tried to repeat the word, but instead, she used the word benotiqué, which meant to spit. The boys rolled on the floor, laughing hysterically.

  “Qué?” Natalie whined, a quizzical smile on her face. “Qué mi vocca?”

  What did I say?

  They only laughed harder, then began pantomiming a very convincing spitting contest, which was, indeed, a popular pastime for the village boys.

  Almost forgetting the message he’d come to deliver, Nate laughed along with them.

  Natalie glanced up from her roost on the floor. “Hollio, Dad,” she chirped. “Que ésta ce?” She must have read the concern on his face because she took one look at him and reverted to English. “Something’s happened. What’s wrong?”

  “Well, I hope it’s nothing. But David just talked to Meghan Middleton, and something’s going on in Conzalez.” Speaking English, he explained what they knew.

  “Are Hank and Meg okay?” She couldn’t hide the tremor in her voice.

  “As far as we know. But it sounds pretty tenuous. If things heat up over this, Natalie, I don’t want you here.”

  “Dad, no! I’ll be fine.” She jumped to her feet.

  He held up a warning hand. “It may come to nothing. You know we get similar reports all the time. But this one is pretty close to home.” He didn’t tell her that Meghan seemed to think that Timoné might be a target.

  “I want to stay, Dad,” Natalie pled. She spoke quietly to the twins, dismissing them in Timoné.

  “Natalie, I don’t even have time to discuss it right now. Dave and I are going to camp out by the radio. He’s trying to get through to Meghan again.”

  “I’ll go with you.”

  He let her lead the way. David was on the radio when they walked in, his voice tight.

  He covered the mike with a large hand and filled them in. “I’m on with somebody in Conzalez. I’m asking for Meg or Hank, and I don’t seem to be getting anywhere.”

  He’d no sooner said the words than Hank Middleton’s voice came over the waves. “Nate? Dave? ¿Qué pasa?” He spoke an Anglicized Spanish, which told Nate that he was being monitored.

  David slid from the chair and motioned for Nate to do the talking.

  He sat down and pulled the mike close. “Hank? ¿Qué pasa? Is everything okay there?”

  “Hi, Nate. We’ve got some guests. I guess we’re going to loan out the airstrip for a bit. Nothing long term, I don’t think.”

  Nate could tell by the strain in Hank’s voice that his friend wasn’t alone. He listened intently, choosing his own words with equal care. “You don’t want us to come then?”

  “Oh no. No need, I don’t think. Had any company up your way?”

  “No. No … not lately. Should I get the guesthouse ready?”

  “Oh, it might not hurt. Some of these fellows headed your—”

  “¡Cállate!”

  Nate, David, and Natalie exchanged worried looks as a stranger’s harsh bark came over the air, interrupting Hank.

  “I guess I need to sign off now,” the young missionary told them. “Meghan sends her love.”

  “Okay. God be with you, Hank.”

  “Thanks, buddy. You, too.”

  Nate signed off, and the three of them paced the room, discussing what their next action should be.

  “It sounds like we could have visitors,” David said.

  “Yes.” Nate scratched his head, deep in thought. “And I have no idea what they might want.”

  “Do you think they’re looking for ransom?” David ventured. He glanced at Natalie, and then at Nate, as though wondering how much he should say.

  Natalie apparently read his question. “Please don’t keep anything from me,” she said. “If there’s trouble, I need to know what’s going on.”

  “She’s right, Dave,” Nate said. “Please speak freely.”

  “Well, we sure don’t have an airport or a drug stash to offer, so—

  “What about the clinic?” Natalie asked. “Could they have heard there are drugs there?”

  Nate shook his head. “I doubt it. We don’t have the quantity—or r
eally even anything attractive.”

  “So, you think they might be planning to kidnap someone?” Natalie looked from Nate to David. Nate could see that she was trying hard to be brave.

  He shook his head, still thinking aloud. “They know Gospel Vision won’t pay ransom. Unless they think they can get something from a family or a government … You have some millionaire relatives you haven’t told me about, Dave?” he said.

  David laughed, but his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I think we need to lift Meg and Hank up in prayer.”

  “Of course,” Nate agreed, feeling guilty that he hadn’t done so already. He dipped his head in deference to his colleague. “Would you do that, Dave?”

  “Sure.” David stretched his long arms out, inviting them to join hands.

  Nate and Natalie went to either side of David, and Nate took his daughter’s other hand, closing the circle.

  “Jehovah, Jesu, ceju na, kopaku,” David prayed, beginning in Timoné.

  But then he switched to English—for Natalie’s sake, Nate suspected.

  “Be with Hank and Meg, Father God. Cover them with your loving protection. Give them courage, Lord, and wisdom to know what they should do. Grant them strength to endure whatever you might ask of them, and bring them safely through this day and the days to come. We ask it all in your precious name, Jesus. Amen.”

  Love and respect for the younger man welled up in Nate’s spirit as David prayed. Beside him, Natalie squeezed his hand. It wasn’t fear he felt in her grasp, but strength and support.

  Whatever might happen, he was in good company.

  Thirty–Six

  The sun was beginning its descent into the western sky—its afternoon sojourn always fleeting here on the fringe of the rain forest canopy. They’d been in the mission office—Natalie, her father, and David Chambers—waiting by the radio for over four hours now. They’d spoken with Gospel Vision in Bogotá and with the American embassy there, but though they’d tried numerous times to reach Conzalez, they’d had no further contact with the neighboring village mission since Hank Middleton’s call.