The Atlas of Forgotten Places

by Jenny D. Williams

  Even in daylight it was difficult to get a sense of how many they were: they walked in a long line, one after the other, so Sabine mostly saw the captives around her—they were perhaps a dozen altogether, including a girl whom Rose seemed particularly protective toward—and various soldiers who passed periodically to keep an eye on them. The rebels spoke little and never smiled. Dressed in loose-fitting combinations of green- and camouflage-patterned fatigues and black and brown gumboots, they carried an array of weapons. Sabine recognized AK-47s and rocket-propelled grenade launchers, but others were mysterious to her, and therefore even more frightening. Some of the soldiers wore shoulder belts of glinting bullets. All handled their firearms expertly, even when the weapon was almost as big as the boy who wielded it.

  The way was hard going, and collectively they were slower than when it had just been the three of them following the river to Nagero. There were other differences, of course, too: then, she’d had the sense of moving toward something—refuge, shelter, answers. Now all that was behind them, and the way ahead was immeasurable and bleak. Even when the sky arced crisply above, a pure blue pebbled by shadows of trees or a flock of startled birds, Sabine saw the peril of brightness, and she swayed in the drowsiness of heat. She felt between worlds: presumed dead, probably, by Daniela and Linda and Rita and Steve, but alive enough to suffer. Every now and then she’d hear Christoph’s voice drift up softly, asking if she was all right; the question made no sense, she thought—how could anything be all right?—but still she murmured an affirmative, because his continued presence was the only comfort she had.

  She was too exhausted to be truly frightened, yet fear was the only thing that kept her lurching forward, step by fumbling step. In her half-awake, half-dreaming state, she sometimes thought she might wake up and be in her bed in Marburg, ready to take Bruno down to the frozen River Lahn, where she’d watch a man in black waders rescue a swan stuck in the ice. In this vague fantasy, the man—who became Christoph—waited afterward on the opposite shore, and they struck up a conversation, met the next day for coffee; they became lovers, and he showed her his grandfather’s handmade wooden chest and gave her a bird in a cage for her birthday. This gift, though, she couldn’t abide, so she fled to Uganda in the blurry way of daydreams, and from Uganda she was sucked into a current that pulled her west across the border, and with a rush she blinked and was here again, or here still: trudging onward through the tall grass and the undergrowth. Even her reveries always led back.

  The second night, they finally slept. Christoph flattened some grass and cleared small stones from the ground for the two of them, and Sabine collapsed into a dreamless sleep. In the morning the captives shared a pot of overcooked rice, and between the food and rest, Sabine felt almost superhumanly refreshed. She began to think with greater clarity. She knew they’d been half an instant away from death in the shack at Nagero, saved only by Rose’s quick words and the rebels’ grudging acquiescence. It was quite possible that whenever they got where they were going—wherever that was—the rebels would revert to their original intention. In the meantime, rescue was a profound improbability, and if the group came under fire by UPDF or FARDC, Sabine and Christoph and Rose were just as likely to be killed by indiscriminate bombing or shooting as they were to emerge unscathed. No: they would have to escape. That was the only way out.

  Yet this, too, was preposterous. Even if they managed to slip away unnoticed, untracked, where would they run? The wilderness around them was vast. They had nothing with which to communicate with the outside world, nor supplies of any kind, nor anything with which they might protect themselves against weather or injury or predators.

  The only choice was no choice: to keep on, to keep up. To lift, to carry, to bear. To relish in the briefest respite and hope for another minute’s rest before the march began again.

  * * *

  On the fourth dawn, Sabine was wary when, after the now-standard pot of rice, the rebels herded the captives into a small area under a copse of trees that was shaded from the sun and any military reconnaissance missions that might pass overhead. A single soldier was posted at their periphery. As concerned as she was for this change in routine, she was also grateful for the break, particularly because Christoph had fallen ill the evening before—fever and nausea—and Sabine suspected malaria. His breathing was shallow as he lay back and rested his head in Sabine’s lap. She stroked his forehead and noted the hair that stuck to his skin. Rose sat nearby with her legs folded to the side; her hand lay between her thighs, and her expression was vacant. The young girl, Nicia, sat a few feet away with her knees up against her chest and her face buried between them.

  It was the first time Sabine had been allowed so close to Rose since that first night. Joseph Kony’s wife. One of how many—fifty? Sixty? Sabine couldn’t remember the figure.

  “Rose, do you know why we stopped?” Sabine whispered.

  “I do not know.”

  Christoph managed to get up onto his elbows. “Will we camp here?”

  “I do not know.”

  The arrival of a new figure at the edge near the guard pulled Sabine’s attention away. The man was dressed like a rebel but looked significantly older than the boy soldiers she’d seen—he might be middle-aged, she thought—and instead of a gun, he carried a duffel bag in his right hand and wore a backpack. Sabine looked back at Rose and thought she saw a flicker of emotion cross the woman’s face.

  “Do you recognize him?”

  “He is a doctor.”

  The man caught sight of Rose and nodded subtly.

  “Is he a good man?” Sabine said under her breath.

  “He is a good man.” As he began in their direction, she added, “But he is one of them.”

  He squatted before Rose and took her hand, and they spoke quietly in Acholi, him looking down and she away. Sabine watched him closely, curious at the familiarity with which they spoke. No other rebels had addressed Rose directly since that first encounter. The soldiers had no problem prodding other captives with their rifles, but Rose they only watched vigilantly with chary eyes, maintaining a few meters’ distance at all times.

  Now the doctor brought his fingertips toward Rose’s scarred shoulder and they hovered just above the skin, as if absorbing its story through the air. After a few seconds he enclosed her hand in both of his, said a final word, and turned to Sabine.

  “I am Lieutenant Benson Ochola. I’m a medic with the Movement. I’m sorry I couldn’t check on you earlier. I’ve been busy with our injured soldiers.” His speech bore traces of a British accent, a surreal collapse of worlds. Sabine noted his use of the term Movement instead of LRA; she remembered that this was how the rebels sometimes referred to themselves, that they’d once been the Lord’s Resistance Movement rather than the Lord’s Resistance Army. He continued, “Are there any wounded among you?”

  “Not as far as I know,” Sabine said. “But”—she gestured to Christoph—“he’s got a bad fever and he shook all night with chills. I think it’s malaria.”

  Leaning forward, Benson reached for Christoph’s forehead, but Christoph jerked away, weak as he was. “Don’t touch me.”

  Benson took no offense. “As you like. I’m afraid I don’t have any antimalarial medication with me anyway.”

  “None at all?” Sabine asked. “Not even from Nagero?”

  “We didn’t make it as far as the clinic. Shame, because I’m nearly out of everything—bandages, antibiotics, ARVs … I do what I can, but with so few supplies, that usually means very little. Hopefully the other unit will have had better luck in Faradje.”

  “Other unit?” Christoph asked.

  “We’ll meet up with them tomorrow, I think.”

  “And then?”

  “I expect we’ll stay put for a little while. We’ll be across the border by then.”

  “In Sudan, you mean,” Sabine said.

  “Central African Republic.”

  His openness surprised her, and she decided to t
ake advantage of it. “Do you know anything about an American girl being taken captive?” she asked. “Lily Bennett is her name. Her journal was found in an abandoned LRA camp in Garamba last week. She’s my niece.”

  Benson shook his head. “I’m sorry, I haven’t heard. We’ve been scattered since the UPDF strike began. We’ve spoken with other units but only to learn where they are, how many casualties, where the enemy last attacked. We were spread out before the strike, too. The unit we’re meeting tomorrow—I haven’t seen them in six weeks.”

  “What will happen to us when we get there?” Christoph asked.

  He shook his head. “That, I do not have the answer to.” Gently, he added, “And perhaps it is better not to ask.”

  He moved on to the other captives, examining each in turn. The minutes stretched into a quarter hour, then a half, then Sabine couldn’t tell anymore. Christoph’s head was heavy in her lap, his skin hot to the touch. He began to doze. Tiny white and yellow butterflies rose and disappeared in the grass at the edge of the glade. Rose and Nicia napped side by side. After so much marching, it felt luxurious just to sit for a while in daylight. She watched Benson wrap a girl’s feet in banana leaves so that she would no longer have to walk barefoot.

  “Benson,” she said, “why has the group stopped?”

  He checked to make sure the leaves would hold, then came to sit beside Sabine, wiping his hands on a cloth. “The soldiers are hunting.”

  His words seemed ominous. “Hunting for what?”

  “Food.”

  “Nothing else?”

  Benson gave a pointed glance at the elephant tusks that lay in a haphazard pile at the base of one of the trees. “They may seek other objects of value as well.”

  “Is that why you attacked Nagero? For the ivory?”

  “Yes.”

  “There were weapons in that shed, too.”

  He nodded. “The Movement has financial backers, but the UPDF strike has created something of an urgent need.”

  “Aren’t you afraid of reprisals by the rangers?”

  “We destroyed their radio room, their towers, their communication equipment.”

  After a pause, she asked, “Why are you telling me all this?”

  “Why not?”

  “You’re not afraid of giving away military secrets?”

  He appraised her. “And who do you plan to tell?”

  They sat quietly. In the distance she heard the faint sound of gunfire, then a second burst, and a third. Then quiet again. The soldier standing watch scratched his chin with the butt of his rifle. Benson picked a blade of grass and rubbed it between his thumb and middle finger.

  Sabine looked down at Christoph’s face, his brow wrinkled and the muscles of his jaw tensed even in sleep. Beads of perspiration glistened at his temples. His fever was getting worse.

  “How much farther will we have to walk until we reach the other unit?” she asked.

  “Not far.”

  “I don’t know how much more he can take.”

  “I will try to find some fresh fruit for him to eat. That will help. And then, let us pray that the other unit has had success with medicine.” He called to the guard, who wiped his nose and spoke a few words in response. “He says there may be pineapple and passion fruit. I will find out. Unfortunately it is not the season for fruit.”

  The guard spoke again, and Benson smiled, this time with a trace of humor.

  “What did he say?” Sabine asked.

  “He said you’re a good wife, looking after your husband.”

  Sabine opened her mouth to object, but found herself hesitating; a warmth crept up her chest and she thought, What harm to let them believe?

  “Have you been with the rebels a long time?” she asked.

  “Thirteen years.”

  “You were abducted?”

  “From my ancestral home outside Gulu. I was only home for a short visit. I was in my third year studying medicine in London, on a scholarship. The commander who took me was quite pleased. There’s a shortage of doctors, you see.”

  She lowered her voice, flicked a glance at the guard. “You must have wanted to escape.”

  “At the beginning, of course. But I saw how much they needed me. There was … so much suffering.”

  “Surely you don’t support the cause—the things they’ve done to children, to innocent civilians.”

  The question seemed to trouble him, and he waited a long time before responding. “It is a privilege to heal,” he said at last. “Are the soldiers here less deserving than you? Than me? Most of them did not choose this life.” Softly he added, “We are all far from home.”

  The hunting party returned shortly thereafter, with fresh tusks thrown onto the pile, smeared with blood and clotted dirt. Some were so small she wondered if a larger piece had broken in two, but the shapes were whole, from hollow base to rounded point. Young elephants. Calves. Farther into the bush she caught a glimpse of two rebels carrying some kind of gazelle or antelope on poles between them. Her stomach rumbled at the thought of fresh meat.

  “I must return to sick bay,” Benson said, standing and reaching for his bags. “They’ll need me when they start to move the gurneys.” He paused just before he left. “I’ll check on him when we reach the camp tomorrow.”

  “Thank you.”

  Christoph and Rose roused, and the convoy was soon under way. Though he was clearly struggling, Christoph bore his share of the ivory without complaint. At sunset they stopped again, this time for the night, and Christoph passed directly into a fitful sleep. They had no blankets; Sabine wrapped her body around his to try to keep him warm. She thought of the night they’d spent together at Nagero, that incredible collision of passions, the sweat-slick skin, all that was unspoken. It had felt as though through this holy act they were staking a claim, planting a flag in the ground for aliveness, for hope. As she pressed herself against him now, feeling his body racked with chills through the fabric of their clothing, she thought: maybe that’s all we get. A single instance of fusion, a single collapse of two into one—and when they extracted themselves from one another afterward, something new was created between them that had not been there before. A thing in which each of them had left a part of themselves.

  This was what they meant, she realized. All of them. When they spoke of love.

  Amid the insect symphony that surrounded them, Sabine heard another, eerier call, lower and longer and rumbling across the savannah and into the trees: trumpeting.

  Some of the herd had survived.

  She fell asleep to the sounds of their grief.

  * * *

  A rustling woke her in the night. She lay still for several minutes, listening to the forest sounds, letting her eyes adjust. The dark was nearly total; starlight and the crescent moon provided only enough light to make out the shapes of a dozen slumbering bodies around the clearing and the start of brush at the edge. Christoph slept deeply beside her. Nothing moved. Nearby she could make out the outline of a rebel’s long rifle. The boy it belonged to breathed slowly and rhythmically. Even the seasoned soldiers had been pushed hard.

  She had a sudden need to relieve her bladder. Moving cautiously, she rose and treaded a little ways into the undergrowth, then undid her jeans and squatted to pee, a handful of soft leaves in her hand. Her senses became sharp and alert; who knew what lurked in wait? She’d heard stories of LRA captives getting picked off by lions on their marches through the bush. Just within her field of vision, the pile of stolen tusks gleamed against the dark foliage.

  The rustling came again—closer this time, and matched with a gentle kind of creaking. Charged with electric fear, Sabine fumbled with her jeans zipper as an enormous shape loomed out of the far shadows. She froze.

  The elephant didn’t seem to notice her as it approached the tusks. It must have smelled her, she thought, but perhaps to the elephant Sabine was simply part of the larger human element. She was mesmerized by how carefully the creature moved through the br
ush: astonishingly silent for its massive size, its heavy sway. Only the crack of sticks beneath its feet and the brush of leaves against its hide sounded its position.

  Sabine remained in a half crouch just a few meters away. She’d never been this close to an elephant before—not even when she watched the stampede from the Jeep all those years ago—and the thrill and danger rippled through her body. She was near enough to hear its heavy breathing punctuated by soft, chuffy snorts. The silhouette of its long, supple trunk lifted up and forward in a graceful S, probing the stack—feeling, searching. The elephant paused over the miniature tusk of a calf, and Sabine felt a world of sadness open up inside her.

  After another moment, the great creature turned and melted back into the blackness, and Sabine returned shakily to her place beside Christoph, hoping that when she closed her eyes, a different dream would come.