by Mel Odom
“All the nurses are busy tending patients. And this doesn’t need a nurse.”
Curious, Bekah walked over to the medical tent and stepped through the flap. The tent was large enough that four examination beds had been set up. All of the beds were filled. Portable containers of medicines and supplies sat around the outer edge. Electric lamps, powered by generators mounted on the trucks, lit the interior.
Across the tent, Matthew stood talking earnestly to a young woman holding a baby to her chest. The woman was shaking her head and pushing Matthew away.
Bekah crossed over to Matthew. “Tyler said you wanted me.” She looked more closely at the woman and the baby.
The woman looked like she was all of sixteen or seventeen, not much more than a girl and at least ten pounds underweight. Tears streamed down her face as she continued to shake her head in denial. The baby was small, surely not much more than a newborn, and lay with its face against her breast.
Matthew spoke in a whisper. “I need to get her out of here.”
“What’s wrong?”
“I can’t do anything for her.”
“Yes, you can.” The young woman spoke in broken English. “Make my son well.”
Matthew looked at Bekah, and she saw the sadness in his eyes. “Her baby has passed. He’s been gone for a couple days. The other women tried to take him away from her as well, but she won’t let go.”
Bekah’s heart chilled, but she kept control of herself.
“I need the bed space. There are a lot of kids out there who need the help I can give.” Matthew shook his head. “I don’t want to sound coldhearted, God knows I don’t, but there’s nothing I can do for the baby.”
“Yes.” The woman struck Matthew with a balled-up fist. “You can make my son well.” As she leaned forward again, the baby’s head twisted and exposed his face. The tiny eyes were open and unseeing.
Bekah took a deep breath, but that only made things worse as the smells of alcohol, cleansers, and body odor filled her nose. She breathed more shallowly. She spoke to Matthew. “Does she not have any family here?”
Matthew shook his head. “I was told that she wandered in a few days ago. The baby had a fever. Some of the women tried to help her with the baby, but there was nothing they could do. She has no one.”
Bekah faced the woman, stepping in between Matthew and her. “Do you speak much English?”
The woman calmed somewhat. She cupped the back of her baby’s head and brought it back to her breast. “Yes. A little.”
“My name is Bekah. What’s your name?”
“Varisha.”
“Varisha, I wish I could have met you under better circumstances. I truly do.” Bekah thought desperately, searching for words to say, and tried to imagine what her granny would do. But she knew. Granny would tell the truth. In the end, that was all there was. Just the truth.
“Make him help.”
Bekah shook her head. “He can’t help.”
“He can. Make him.”
“Varisha, your baby is gone.”
“No, this is not true. He is just sick.”
Taking out her phone, Bekah brought up a picture of Travis. “I’m a momma too, Varisha. This is my boy. His name is Travis, and I love him with all my heart. I would not ever want to lose him. I can only imagine what you’re going through.”
“My baby is just sick. This man lies.”
“No.” Bekah put her phone away. “Your baby is gone, and you’re gonna have to let him go. You can’t hang on to him.” Despite her control, tears slipped down Bekah’s cheeks. She took hold of the girl’s elbow and pulled gently. “Please. Come with me.”
“No. I want this man to help my baby.” Varisha’s voice was hoarse.
“Varisha, look at me.” Bekah locked eyes with the woman. “There are other babies out there that need help. The doctor can help those babies. But he can’t help yours. You need to let him do what he can for those children so they don’t end up like your little one.”
The woman cried and shook as she held her dead child. “No. No.” Her words turned into a plaintive cry that tore at Bekah’s heart.
“You know this is true. You know your baby is gone. You need to be strong now. Let me help. We need to find a resting place for your son.” Quietly, gently, Bekah pulled the young woman and her dead child into her embrace. Reluctantly at first, the woman came to her, then finally clung to her fiercely. Slowly, Bekah led the grieving mother from the room.
On a small hillside under the moonlight, Bekah dug a tiny grave for the child while his mother sat on the ground and quietly rocked him. Bekah’s muscles ached from the labor, and her heart felt broken. She didn’t know how much longer she could go on, but the grave needed to be deep enough.
“Need a hand?”
Startled, Bekah brushed hair out of her face and looked up to find Heath Bridger holding a shovel.
He looked uncomfortable. “I was asking around for you when I saw you’d gone off without your team.”
Bekah nodded. “It’s my fault. Not theirs. I asked them to give me some privacy. Under the circumstances, they understood.”
Heath nodded. “So do I, but I also know you’re tired and worn out. And all this work can’t be doing that head wound any good.”
The pounding in Bekah’s forehead had been almost nonstop. She’d felt it with every bite the shovel took from the earth.
“If you don’t mind, maybe I could help out.”
Bekah looked at him gratefully. If he’d simply come along and tried to take over, she knew she would have gotten angry with him. But he had asked permission. He was her commanding officer and she’d disobeyed some of his direct orders, and he wasn’t reprimanding her for that either. He was there as a man.
“Yes sir. I would appreciate it.” Bekah climbed up from the grave and let him step into it.
Heath worked carefully and respectfully, taking time with the task and not just getting through it. He squared the sides of the grave better than Bekah had been doing, and he went deeper than she thought she’d have been able to manage on her own.
When he was finished, he climbed up from the grave without a word and stepped to one side. He leaned on the shovel, sweat gleaming on his face. He didn’t look like a lawyer then. He didn’t even truly look like a Marine. He looked like a man who was in over his head and was still trying to do the right thing. He waited silently, like he had all the time in the world when she knew he didn’t.
Quietly, Bekah coaxed Varisha into surrendering her dead son. Together they bundled the tiny body in one of the new blankets from the cargo that had been brought in the trucks. On their knees, they reached a long way into the grave to lay the body on the earth.
The woman wept on her knees, wiping tears helplessly with her hands as she shook and shivered. Gently as they could, Bekah and Heath shoveled the earth in on top of the baby. When they were finished, they packed the ground down tightly.
Putting the shovel aside, Bekah joined the woman on her knees and took one of her hands. Heath hesitated for just a moment, then dropped to his knees on Varisha’s other side and sat there in silence as well until Varisha began to speak.
The bereft mother prayed for a long time, and Bekah didn’t know how she could do such a thing. Yet the words flowed from her.
Touched by the raw emotion, Bekah silently gave thanks that her son was healthy and safe, and she asked that she be rejoined with him soon. And it surprised her how soothing that small prayer felt.
Back at the camp, Bekah found a group of women willing to take care of the grieving mother. They welcomed Varisha with open arms, and this time she went with them. Before she left, though, she gave Bekah a hug, then tried to speak, but couldn’t.
Bekah couldn’t speak either. She hugged the woman back and returned to the Marine group. Heath fell into step beside her.
“That was an amazing thing you did back there.” His voice was soft but sounded tired.
“Helping that woman put
her baby in the ground?” Bekah knew she sounded angry, but she couldn’t help herself. She was angry.
“Yes. The Marines don’t train you for something like that.”
“That’s because we’re supposed to be saving lives, not burying victims.”
“We are saving lives.” Heath took her by the elbow, stopping her in her tracks. Then he nodded out toward the camp. “Look at all those people. There are a lot of lives we’re saving out there today. We don’t get to save them all, Bekah. That’s just not in the cards. And the ones we don’t get to save? We’ll grieve over them and sometimes help bury them . . . and we’ll remember them. That’s all we can do, and if people stop doing that, then the world will fall apart.”
Bekah folded her arms over her chest. “I know.” She took a shuddering breath. His words mixed with Matthew Cline’s and her granny’s, and she knew they were all true. It felt as though pieces of her heart were locking into place and some of her worries and doubts were fading. Everyone had the same message. So why wasn’t she listening better? “I tell myself that nearly every day.”
“Have you eaten?”
She shook her head.
“Me neither.”
“After that, I don’t have much of an appetite.”
“Then eat because you need to, because you do need it. You’ll feel better once you’ve eaten. We’ve got a lot to do tomorrow, and it’s going to come early. Let’s go find dinner.”
Bekah knew that was something else her granny would have said, and it was good advice. So she nodded and trailed after Heath as he headed for one of the cook fires.
29
DAUD SAT HUNKERED at the campfire and watched the boy sleeping on a blanket on the ground beside him. Gently, Daud picked up a corner of the blanket and tossed it over the boy, covering him from the night’s chill.
Over the days since he had found the boy and brought him away from the tree where his campmates had been left hanging like grisly trophies, Kufow had never left Daud’s side. The boy did not speak except when spoken to, and his eyes remained haunted.
Daud thought maybe some of that trauma would one day leave the boy’s mind, but there would be scars. They just wouldn’t be as prominent as the burn scarring on Daud’s face. In a way, though, Daud’s scars were easier to carry. People saw them and recognized that something had happened and respected his desire to be left alone. The boy would not have that built-in defense and warning system.
Sometimes when Daud watched the boy, he thought of Ibrahim and felt guilty. The loss of his son pained him, and having Kufow there hurt even more. But there was a solace in having the boy with him. Caring for Kufow gave Daud something beyond plotting revenge and attacks. He had never thought he would feel anything like that again.
“How is he?” Afrah stood on the other side of the fire. The giant looked like he’d been carved from the night sky above him.
“He is sleeping.” Daud got up easily and walked a short distance from the fire so their voices would not disturb Kufow’s slumber. “He does not always sleep because there are too many nightmares.”
Afrah walked beside Daud. Around them, men lounged at their own fires and talked. Some of them slept under the cargo trucks and pickups. Others stood guard beyond them at perimeter posts. They had been traveling hard these past few days, and they had occasionally spotted some of Haroun’s outriders. Twice they had taken down scouting patrols and killed the men, then siphoned their petrol to use in their own vehicles. The whole time, the boy had watched in stone-faced silence.
They had never spoken of the incidents, and Daud didn’t know if the boy felt justified in the killings or if he was further horrified by the violence. He had no way of knowing.
“We all have our nightmares, my friend.” Afrah came to a stop beside Daud. “No one is safe from them in this place.”
“I know.”
“Have you thought about what you are going to do with the boy?”
Daud studied Afrah’s hard face and tried to figure out what was on the big man’s mind. “What do you mean?”
Afrah hesitated as if choosing his words carefully. “This thing that we are doing, it is very dangerous. We are hunted men, Rageh. Haroun and the al-Shabaab search for us, and we have no allies among the TFG or the Westerners. They, too, would kill us. Or lock us up. I am concerned about the boy.”
“As am I.”
Slowly, Afrah nodded. “Do you think, perhaps, we endanger him by bringing him with us?”
By we, Daud knew Afrah meant you. For a moment a spark of anger sizzled within him, and he almost let his temper soar. Then he realized he did not have the heart for it. “The boy is fine. While he is with us, we can feed him and see to his needs. No one else out here can do that.”
“Of course.” Afrah put his large hand on Daud’s shoulder. “I would only not wish to see you hurt again. We lead very dangerous lives. If we care too much, we will stumble. I prefer our way of seizing our lives from those who would take them from us or those who would put us in boxes and feed us whenever they wished. If they even continued to remember us. We have had enough of that. I prefer a full belly when I go to sleep at night.”
“Then we shall keep doing what we are doing.”
Afrah nodded. “I wish you good sleep. I will see you in the morning.”
Daud watched Afrah walk into the darkness away from the campfire and mostly disappear. Only a shadow among shadows remained. Daud did not like being questioned about the boy because he knew no one would care for Kufow the way he did. The boy was safer now than he had been his whole life. Daud refused to believe anything else.
He gazed up at the stars for a time and crowded his anger into the recesses of his mind where it would bother him no further. Then he returned to his campfire. As he watched the boy sleep, he thought of Ibrahim, of the way he had held and cherished his son, and of the way Ibrahim had grown into a tall and straight likeness of Rageh.
Although he tried to keep it at bay, Daud thought of the hard way his son had died too, and that pain ate through him like a cancer. Gently, he pulled the blanket higher over the sleeping boy and watched him breathe until those old memories finally lay at rest again.
Daud and his band arrived at the next camp early the following morning. They hoped to replace some of the men lost in the last confrontation with Haroun’s people. Every time they had stopped somewhere, they had gotten new recruits. Daud expected this stop would be no less successful. But something about the elder’s response put Daud’s senses on edge.
The camp elder was in his early sixties, a gnarled little man who depended on a shepherd’s crook to help him walk. The man’s pungent body odor was strong enough to make Daud breathe through his mouth.
Kufow stood at his customary place beside Daud and wore the bulletproof vest and helmet Daud had gotten from the UN cargo and forced the boy to wear. As usual, the boy didn’t speak, only watched with cold, hard eyes as the negotiations were made.
“I have medicines and food on these trucks.” Daud’s pitch was always the same, simple and direct.
The elder gazed at the trucks, but his attention snapped back to Daud. He spoke quietly, gingerly, and his voice sounded strained. “I see that you do, but we are poor and have nothing to trade.”
“I ask nothing in trade.” That was the deal Daud always made with the camps. Then he selected young men who were willing to come with him when he left. When he met up with black market dealers in various locations, he traded the goods for petrol. So far his group had managed to meet their needs. Men could be purchased so much more cheaply than fuel.
“Then you are most welcome.” The elder waved to the center of the camp. “Join us.”
Something about the old man’s behavior set Daud on edge. Usually the camps were not so willing to accept visits from outsiders even when they arrived in peacekeeping vehicles. Daud and his men were not Westerners and did not wear uniforms. The villagers’ first impression was always the truth: that they were bandits and
outcasts.
Daud looked over the village, trying to figure out what made him so ill at ease. Everything was still, and the camp dwellers stared nervously at the trucks. That wasn’t anything new. Strangers were always dangerous in Somalia.
Then the boy seized Daud’s hand and yanked, pointing to movement in the scraggly bushes behind one of the aqals. In that brief glimpse, Daud spotted a man carrying an assault rifle. He turned to his men.
“Get back on the trucks!”
Because most of them lacked training, many of Daud’s men hesitated a moment before moving. Bullets sprayed over them, taking some of them down immediately.
“Traitor!” Daud lifted his rifle and aimed at the elder.
The old man held his hands up before him. “No! Please! The al-Shabaab forced us to—”
The burst from Daud’s AK-47 silenced the man and punched him backward, sprawling his body across the ground. Turning, Daud caught the boy’s elbow and hurried him toward the pickup where Afrah was already sliding behind the wheel.
Just when Kufow had almost reached the pickup, he suddenly went down. Daud reached for the boy and grabbed his arm, thinking that a round had hit the Kevlar armor and knocked him down. Then he saw the bright blood streaming from the boy’s right side where the body armor had ridden up high.
“No!” Daud watched in horror as Kufow tried weakly to get to his feet, clawing as though trying to swim to the pickup.
Getting control of himself, aware of the bullets punching into the pickup and tearing craters into the ground, Daud slid his rifle over his shoulder and reached down for the boy, lifting him in his arms. He placed Kufow inside the truck, on the floorboard so the body of the vehicle would better protect him. Daud closed the door and leaped into the pickup’s bed.
One of his men on a machine gun poured a torrent of 7.62mm rounds over the camp. Gunmen as well as people who lived in the camp died or went down in a bloody wave.
Daud slammed the pickup cab with the flat of his hand. “Go! Go!” Then he braced himself as Afrah engaged the transmission and the rear wheels spun and grabbed traction. Daud lifted his AK-47 and added his fire to that of his men as they hosed the camp with high-velocity death.