by Tim Merriman
“I hear water,” Masozi declared.
“Yes, Masozi. It is a spring. The sign reads, ‘Meditation Springs, a favorite place of contemplation for young Abraham Lincoln who would become president of the United States.’ Do you think that is possible? A man who became president of this big country once sat here as we do, thinking about what he should do next?”
“This must be a place of great power. If it inspired such a leader, perhaps it can inspire us. We have been walking a long time, and had only a quick snack for breakfast. Can we rest and eat a little bit here, while we wait for inspiration?” Masozi looked hopeful, as always when food was being discussed.
They sat on the bench and began digging food from their packs.
“The sign says the water is drinkable from the pipe, not the pool. We can refresh ourselves here,” Daudi explained. They sat and ate peanut butter and jam sandwiches the Witt brothers had prepared for them. “I am most pleased, Daudi. The food is good, the water is very cold and refreshing. A great leader once drank from this spring and sat here. You said Meditation Springs. We are in need of meditation. It is a good omen to be here.”
“We have been very lucky. I do not know how to explain it, but I know great fortune when I find it. I think it is a sign that we are on the right path. And speaking of the path, we must get back on it as quickly as possible.”
They finished lunch and picked up their trash, then followed the stream from the pool eastward. It grew larger and wandered among great tall trees through darkened woods until it plunged over a muddy embankment into a murky, brown river. It reminded Daudi of the Enchanted Forest, but he decided not to bring it up, since Ramla seemed bent on her mission to get them to the train tracks. She led them south along the riverbank, climbing over logs on mosaics of hard clay decorated by tender, green plants peeking out of the crevices.
Finally, Ramla smiled and looked upward at a train trestle above them. Her reckoning had been right. She had memorized the landscape they had seen from the great hill and led them along the waterway, a thoughtful plan.
“Ramla, I would follow you to Oz or New York or anywhere you lead. You are a great leopard spotter and tracker. You have found the railroad,” Daudi declared.
“I am ready to quit walking in this mushy ground. Let us get up on the tracks. I can follow that as I have in Kenya,” Masozi suggested.
They followed a circuitous path up the hill and then led Masozi carefully over the treacherous trestle that spanned the Kaskaskia River. Ramla and Daudi guided Masozi in stepping from timber to timber to avoid the gaps between them. It was slow going. One misstep would have them plunging through to the river below, but Masozi considered it a great game.
“I am so glad I cannot see what you describe. I might be frightened. I am thinking I only need to walk a very measured step the whole way to be safe. You must be more careful to find your footing. I have only to trust two friends.” He laughed as they finished the treacherous crossing. “Now it will be easy. You will see,” he promised.
As they trudged eastward along the railroad tracks, Masozi’s artificial leg caught on the timbers and spikes many times and tripped him. He fell on several occasions and Daudi and Ramla helped him up. Each time he made light of the situation, but they were all growing tired in the late afternoon heat.
“Daudi, stop. I have a problem,” Masozi admitted finally with exhaustion in his voice. “This time I am well and truly caught.”
Daudi and Ramla studied Masozi’s artificial leg and it was indeed firmly wedged in a place where the tracks branched to create a side spur. He had dragged it into the vee of the tracks and by pulling harder and harder to get it out, he had succeeded only in getting it more tightly stuck.
“This is very serious,” Daudi said, trying to maintain the light tone that Masozi had used to pass off the earlier incidents.
“Daudi, a train is coming and I am planted here like a tree,” Masozi explained with a little panic in his voice. “Please do something very soon.”
“I hear no train, Masozi. You are dreaming.”
Ramla pointed westward. In the distance Daudi could see a small winking light. A train was approaching. His smile gone, he and Ramla fell to tugging and pulling on Masozi’s leg with all their strength.
“I do not think we can move it. You must take it off right now and get out of the way.”
“I cannot, Daudi. It is my leg,” Masozi protested. “Would you cut off your leg and leave it behind?”
“There is no time. This leg is leather and steel only. It can be replaced but you cannot. The train is coming, Masozi. Do not be foolish. Remove the leg,” Daudi demanded.
Masozi sat down on the track and listened. “It is getting closer.” He looked frightened, but seemed unable to make himself take off the leg so he could escape.
They could see the train approaching from the west. Its whistle blasted through the quiet countryside, so close to them now that it pierced right through them with sound. Ramla threw her arms around Masozi while Daudi unstrapped the beloved artificial leg and together they dragged him away from the tracks, no more than seconds before the train crushed the artificial leg in a wrench of screeching metal. They held their hands over their ears and watched as the train lumbered over the artificial leg. It came to a stop just after the last car passed them.
Daudi walked over to the vee in the tracks and pulled the mangled remains of the leg from the crevice.
“It is gone, Masozi. I do not believe it can be fixed. I am sorry.” He handed the remaining bit of twisted metal to Masozi who cradled it like a child.
“I am sorry to lose you, old friend,” he said. He tossed the mess into the brush while tears streamed down his face.
Ramla wasted no time grieving for Masozi’s lost leg. She pulled both of them forward toward the train, realizing this opportunity could get them much further toward their destination without the risk of highway travel. They could see a ladder on the caboose leading up into the car. Ramla and Daudi climbed up, then pulled Masozi aboard. Just as Ramla reached for the door handle, the door opened as if by magic. Startled, they peered into the car to find an elderly man with white hair who looked African to their eyes. He had their same dark skin.
“Well, what have we here? The engineer says to me, Gus, there looks to be injured children lying right next to the tracks. I’m stopping this train to see if they need help. You check on them. So here I am checking and I find you boarding the train on your own. You don’t look injured and this ain’t no passenger train.”
Masozi was sullen and Ramla looked away from the brakeman. Daudi thought about what story he needed to spin now, but Mamere’s voice was in his head saying, “Just tell the truth, Daudi. It is always easier in the end.”
“Sir, we are Africans on our way to the United Nations in New York City. Our friend, Masozi, caught his steel leg in the tracks and we had to pull him away and see the leg be ruined. Now he has no way to walk easily. We would be most grateful for a ride as far as you can take us. We can pay if necessary. Or we can work for you in trade.”
Gus studied the kids. One tiny, very quiet girl. One obviously blind boy with only one leg. And one boy who stood as tall and proud as he could, but underweight, coughing, and with a look in his eyes that spoke of knowledge beyond his years. He’d seen runaways before, but this group didn’t fit the profile. Gus could tell this was going to be one interesting tale when he got the full details. He had to make a decision. He held Daudi’s gaze for just a few seconds before making it.
“Hmmm, you sure got yourselves a dilemma, alright. Well, let’s get this tin can back on schedule,” the brakeman said, pressing the button on his radio. “Johnny, give it some gas. Those kids are fine. They just wanted to see the train up close and they’ve done that. Over.”
“Roger that.” A voice squeaked out of the radio and the train began to ease forward, jerking the kids so that they sat down abruptly on the back deck of the caboose.
“Come on in here. Welco
me to Big Red, one of the last cabooses running on the Penn Central. You’re lucky. Usually the last car is just the last car and not much of a place to sit on a train. Here, sit down over here on this bunk so we can talk. You hungry by any chance?”
Daudi shook his head. For once, Masozi said nothing when offered food. He sat on the edge of the bunk, silently rubbing his chafed and bleeding stump as though he’d just discovered it for the first time. Daudi spoke on his behalf.
“My friend is probably as hungry as he always is, but he is very sad. His leg was made by a truck mechanic in Kenya and it gave him freedom to move around. Though it never fit very well, it was a part of him. And now we no longer have a walking stick or a leg, so it will be most difficult to travel.”
“That’s a shame for sure. Course, walking on a train track, you’re lucky a leg is all you lost. Y’all coulda been killed,” the old man said gruffly. “My name is Gus. Who would you be?”
“I am Daudi. This is Ramla. She does not speak. He is Masozi, and usually, I cannot get him to stop speaking.” Daudi smiled at his friend, but Masozi still seemed lost in his misery. Gus tipped his hat at Ramla, getting a shy grin in return, then looked at Masozi and decided he’d get better acquainted there later when Masozi had time to get over the shock a bit. He looked back to Daudi to continue the conversation.
“From Africa, you say? How’d you get here? This is a long way from Africa.”
“Yessir, we have seen much of your country already and we have been here for only a short time. We have walked many miles, but we have also traveled by bus, by car, and by truck when we could. It has been a long journey.” He stopped to give in to a deep, dry cough that rattled the bones in his chest.
“That don’t sound too good,” Gus said with concern. “Tell you what, I have some beef stew here I’m heating up. I’ll feed you and you tell me more.” Daudi started at the beginning. In the dim light of the caboose, rocked along in the rhythm of the train, he relaxed and held nothing back. Daudi’s weariness was evident to Gus and when Daudi revealed that he carried HIV, Gus understood completely. He wondered if Daudi was fully aware that he was beginning to show signs of the disease progressing.
Chapter Eleven
“Aunt Rosa. I can’t believe it. You’re not in Botswana or Mongolia or some other exotic place. You actually know the way home,” Nancy said, hugging her favorite aunt.
“You look terrific, Nancy. What are you up to?” Rosa asked.
“Chasing three pre-teens from one sport or club activity to another. It wears me out, so I go run and work out. I’m a nutcase. The more tired I get, the more I exercise, but it works. I eat everything in sight and weigh what I did, oh, two weeks ago,” she said, laughing. “I’m lots heavier than in high school, but I’m working on it. Come on in and have a soda.” She and Rosa headed to the kitchen. Nancy noted Rosa’s worried look as she poured the drinks. Something was definitely up. It was unusual for Rosa to drop in unannounced. They took the glasses out to the screened porch. Nancy wanted to wait for Rosa to start talking but decided to jump in and open the conversation as they settled into the wicker chairs.
“So what brings you here? Taking a break from the coolest job in the world?”
“Well, you may laugh at me, but I’ve finally found the family of children I’ve always wanted. I found them and lost them, and now I’ve almost found them again.” Nancy looked puzzled, but intrigued.
“It’s a little complicated. Let me start at the start. I met three children in Kenya in an orphanage who won my heart instantly on my last trip there. They were like the Three Musketeers, always together, helping each other. They would sit in a tree and read The Wonderful Wizard of Oz over and over. One of them, the boy who reads, is HIV-positive. The other boy is blind and missing a leg. And the little girl doesn’t speak since witnessing the murder of her family by guerrillas. They’re a mess, really.”
“My gosh, Aunt Rosa, that’s not just a mess, it’s a nightmare. And these are the kids you want? I know you have a good heart, but what are you thinking?”
“I don’t know, honestly. These kids are so completely unique. You never hear them complain about anything they don’t have. They’re grateful for what little they do have and they look to tomorrow with hope. They’re an inspiration.”
“My kids came unraveled because we wouldn’t buy them dirt bikes,” Nancy said with disgust. “So are you going back to see them soon?” Nancy asked.
“That’s just it. They’re here now, in the U.S. They got it into their heads to try to get to New York City and meet with Kamau Akama at the United Nations. And it turns out there’s actually a children’s conference there in a few days so it’s not as far-fetched as it might seem.”
“Okay, but how did they get here? Did you bring them?” Nancy was getting more confused as the story unfolded.
“Not exactly. They sort of conned me into going to the Nairobi airport. They ditched me there and somehow they ended up here. I’m still a little fuzzy on the details myself. They’ve been at my cabin.”
“Oh wonderful. Bring them on over. I want to meet them.”
“Not that simple. This has all gotten so complex. I haven’t spoken to them since they ran off at the airport in Nairobi and now they’re afraid of me. They think I’m going to send them back if I catch up with them. I was in touch with someone who helped them get to my cabin, but they must have taken off when they figured out I was on my way there to meet them. What they don’t realize is that I just want to help. Now I’m not sure what to do. I suspect they’re within a few miles of us most likely, and I have no idea how to find them.”
“I would love to help, Aunt Rosa. Not sure what to do. You must have photos of them. I know how you are. Can I see them?”
Rosa pulled her laptop computer from the small leather backpack she carried and popped it open to show her Kenya photo collection. She clicked on the orphanage slide show and set it up to run so Nancy could watch it.
“Oh my. Those are incredible shots. That’s the tree? They’re adorable kids, but so thin.”
“They’re my heroes. They’re on their way to this Children in Crisis conference at the U.N., but they aren’t invited and no one knows they’re coming. I’ve followed them from San Francisco International Airport through Nevada, Colorado, Kansas, Missouri, and now Illinois. They manage to stay one step ahead of me all the time. It’s amazing, really. Masozi hobbles around on a prosthetic leg made out of pieces of an old muffler or something. A garage mechanic made it, for Pete’s sake.” Rosa put her head in her hands, frustrated. Nancy reached out and rubbed her shoulder in sympathy.
“What will you do, Aunt Rosa?”
“I’m not sure. I’m trying to figure that out, but I just don’t know where to go from here.”
“Have you gotten this story out on the wire? Isn’t that what you techie reporters call it? The wire?” Nancy kidded.
“You're right, Nancy. I've chased them like following a tornado, thinking it would be easy to catch up, but they keep getting away before I can get to them. If I could get them to understand that I want to help without giving away their vulnerability to the authorities or people who might want to hurt them, maybe that would work. That's how I found them in Kansas, by using public TV. Maybe it's time for wider coverage. Ilan Cohen owes me big time at GP. I'll write a tight story with my best photos and see if he'll put it on the wire. I'll sell it for so little he'll have to buy it.”
“Why not give it to him if it means that much to you?”
“You don’t know these media guys. It has to have a price or they don’t value it. Free stuff is worth exactly that to them, nothing. Would you feed me lunch, my dear, so I can go bury myself in the cabin and write?”
“It would be my pleasure. Would you like leftover meat loaf or an egg sandwich or a batch of the morel mushrooms I froze for you?”
“You’re an angel. Morels, of course.”
* * *
Gus gathered the bowls from the children. He
noticed that Daudi’s bowl still had quite a bit of food in it. “What’s the matter? You don’t like Gus’s cooking?” Daudi smiled.
“I like it very much, Mr. Gus. I am just not very hungry right now. But thank you. You have been very kind to us.”
“I will take what is left. It is very good,” Masozi said. “It is most filling.” As soon as he had smelled the beef stew, Masozi began to show renewed interest in his surroundings and now seemed fully recovered.
“Hmph,” Gus said. “My daddy used to say I must have a hollow leg cause I ate so much. I know that ain’t your problem. Must just be a growing boy.” Masozi looked sheepish, but still took the bowl of unfinished stew.
“I’m wondering how to charge you for this train trip. We don’t haul passengers on this train. We haul freight.”
“But we are passengers,” Daudi said very sincerely. “And we can pay.”
Gus smiled, scratched his chin and ruffled his white mustache as he thought and said, “Well, sir. We get about $10 a ton to haul freight from St. Louis to Philly. You three must weigh about 200 pounds all added together, so that’s just 10% of a ton. Probably ought to cost about a dollar to transport you all on this train.”
Daudi dug into his pocket and pulled out one of the twenty-dollar bills the Witt brothers had given them.
“Here, Mr. Gus. We wish to pay and be legal freight.”
“Nope, that’s too much and they don’t allow me to make change. I’ll have to pay for you.” He grinned as he pulled out a dollar bill from his pocket and ceremoniously placed it in a cigar box on the table. “Now you’re all legal.”
“You are joking us, I think,” Masozi said with a sly smile. “Are you not, Mr. Gus?”
“Yes, Masozi. I am joking you,” he answered with a deep rolling laugh. “We aren’t allowed to haul people so you’ll just have to pretend you’re not here until we get where we’re going.” Gus studied Masozi as he talked. He pulled out his pocketknife and whittled on a small scrap of wood he kept handy.