Where Tomorrow Leads

by DiAnn Mills

  Her back aching, Larson straightened and glanced at the line of patients who stood in the pouring rain outside the tukul that housed her temporary clinic. The rain hammered the thatched roof and splattered onto the ground, intensifying her awareness that her bladder was about to burst. Famine had spread throughout Bahr al-Ghazal province, and the rain was a blessing. She’d urged as many people as possible to crowd inside. All were filled with hope that she possessed healing powers for them or for someone they loved.

  She had no magic cure for those who desperately needed medical care beyond her ability, nor did she have an answer to the problem of her unexpected pregnancy. God had given her and Paul a child for a reason. If only He’d tell her why.

  She pushed aside all the worrisome thoughts as the urgency inside her increased. She’d see one more patient and then excuse herself.

  A middle-aged man stepped forward, the back of his left ear and neck swollen to the size of a grapefruit. Untreated ear infection. Larson wondered how he was managing the pain.

  “Good morning, sir,” she said in Dinka. “What is the extent of your pain?”

  The man stared at her.

  “Sir, it would help me if I knew how badly you hurt.”

  The man took a deep breath.

  Larson clapped her hands next to the ear that was not swollen. Nothing. She might be able to cure the infection raging through his ear, but she could not restore his hearing.

  Frustration ushered in tearful emotion. Before her pregnancy, she had masked the serious conditions of her patients with a kind word and professionalism. Now she wept. Larson blinked and breathed in deeply. If she’d been able to treat this man sooner, he might still have his hearing. The little she did for these people often left her wondering why she continued to work so hard. But for those she could help, her efforts made a difference. Other international medical teams who made personal sacrifices to bring assistance to Sudan surely felt the same way.

  A familiar arm slipped around her waist. “How are you?”

  Pregnant and worried. “Good. I need a potty break as soon as I finish with this patient.”

  Paul grinned. “You must be getting old. I’ve seen you go eight hours without so much as a wiggle. And here you are needing one in less than half that time.”

  She slid him a frown. “I’m still younger than you and easily riled. You’d better mind your manners since I have all these tools of torture at my fingertips.”

  He laughed.

  “How’s your morning?” she said.

  “Better than expected. I feared the chief and the villagers would be disillusioned about their faith after the attack, but instead they believe Jesus is the only answer to their problems.”

  “Good. So good. I know you feared they’d blame God or you.”

  “They might not blame me, but I—”

  “Paul—”

  “You’d better take your break so I can get back to work. The GOS dumped dirt into the village’s well again, and I need to help pull up the pipe and clean it out. I asked the chief if you could meet with the women tonight. I told him you wanted to teach them how to fight the sickness in the water.”

  “Thanks.” She picked up a clean rag and wiped the perspiration from her forehead. How could her dark-haired husband always look so unaffected by the heat? The temperature had to be near 120 degrees. “I love you.” She planted a kiss on his lips. “No man should look as handsome as you do out here in the middle of nowhere.”

  “Even with all these naked men around us?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Just wait till I get you back to Warkou.”

  * * *

  Four days had passed since Larson and Paul had returned to Warkou, and neither Ben nor his doctor had called back. She’d left messages repeatedly for both of them, with no results.

  “Colonel Alier is resting.”

  “The doctor is not available at this time. Please check back later.”

  “I’m ready to go to Nairobi.” Larson paced the dirt floor of their tukul. “I treated Ben first, and he hasn’t the decency to call and say, ‘Hello’ or ‘I survived.’”

  Paul glanced up from his list of what to take to Darfur. Ammunition lay piled on the ground beside him. “Do you want me to try to find out what’s going on?”

  She shook her head. “If his doctor won’t return my calls and Ben refuses to talk to me, I doubt there’s anything you can do. My guess is he’s mad about being there and blaming me for not patching him up at the clinic.”

  “He lives for his men and for the next firefight. His priorities and methods are often difficult for me to understand.”

  “It’s Ben—the invincible, stubborn Colonel Alier, who believes he has to single-handedly lead southern Sudan in its fight against the injustices of the government. No matter that there’s a signed peace treaty.”

  He touched her arm. “He’ll show up here one day and be his old self.”

  “I suppose so. Can you imagine the trouble he’s giving those doctors and nurses?”

  Paul laughed. “He reminds me of an old lion.”

  “Better yet, he reminds me of a bull my granddaddy used to have on his farm.”

  “Have I heard this story?”

  “Probably, but you can listen again. Granddaddy had this bull that wouldn’t bother anyone unless you got within fifty feet of him. I mean, this bull must have mapped out a circle fifty feet wide, and if you stepped over the line, you’d better hope you could outrun him.”

  “Did you?”

  Her eyes widened. “You know the scar on the inside of my right leg? That was from crawling under a barbed-wire fence trying to get away.”

  “So Ben is as mean as that bull?”

  “Not mean, just territorial. He has this boundary line around him that no one had better cross.”

  “I did a few times, and I paid for it.”

  She frowned. “I remember. Who would have ever thought the three of us might one day be friends—or you and I married?” For a moment, she allowed her mind to drift back to the day Paul had first landed outside Warkou with a plane full of food and medical supplies from FTW.

  She hadn’t trusted the famed Arab Christian, despite the free world’s claims of his benevolence. He’d been a part of a wealthy family in Khartoum who took pride in torturing and killing “infidels.” When Paul’s father had sent him to kill an old man who refused to convert to Islam, Paul couldn’t do it. Something in the old man’s eyes had reached deep within Paul’s soul. After a few more visits, he’d become a Christian and freed the old man. Shortly thereafter, Paul had transferred his wealth to the States and fled the country. His family had been after him ever since.

  Relentless.

  “What are you thinking?” Paul grinned.

  “You and me in the beginning.”

  “Yeah, I didn’t know who was going to shoot me first—you or Ben.”

  He paused, and she realized he was remembering the GOS attack shortly after he’d landed. The soldiers had nearly killed him in their effort to abduct Ben’s younger sister.

  “But you found Rachel, and Ben will be forever indebted to you.”

  Paul chuckled. “I’ll remind him of that the next time we’re arguing about peacemaking methods for Sudan or how to negotiate the situation in Darfur.”

  Before she could reply, his phone rang. He smiled at her and answered on the second ring.

  “How are you doing, Ben? We were ready to take the next luxury liner to Nairobi. Are the nurses keeping you so occupied that you’ve forgotten your friends?” Paul laughed. “Why am I not surprised? A few days? Are you sure? What did the doctor say?” He held the phone away from his ear, and Larson could hear Ben’s choice words for Nairobi’s hospital and medical personnel. “I agree with them. Why don’t you stay there and allow that arm to heal?” Paul shook his head at Larson. “Do you want to talk to Larson for her medical expertise?”

  “I’ll give him a piece of my mind.” She offered her best
scowl.

  “He heard you,” Paul said. “He says a good woman listens to a man’s misery.”

  “Tell him to stay in the hospital and put on a few pounds.” He’d looked extremely thin the last time she saw him.

  Paul said nothing while he listened. “I understand you’re anxious to check in with your men, but can’t you do that by phone? I see . . . Well, I’m heading into Darfur in the morning, so I’ll see you when I get back.” He collapsed the antenna and dropped the phone into his pocket.

  Larson laughed. “Nothing’s changed?”

  “Apparently not. He plans to leave Nairobi in a few days and head here.”

  “Wonderful. I’ll get to enjoy his bad mood.”

  “He wants a good meal. Obviously hospital life is not to his liking.”

  She could imagine Ben’s roaring about how he’d been mistreated. “As if sleeping on the hard ground for days in the jungle, without decent food, were any better. How long does he plan to stay here?”

  “Not more than a day. He wants to join up with his battalion as soon as possible.”

  “That’s not wise.” Irritation nipped at her mind. Ben had been wounded badly, and he needed rest, not another firefight.

  “I’ll let you tell him that.”

  “I will.” She lifted her chin. “But I want to go with you into Darfur. Sarah can handle Ben.”

  “It’s too dangerous, especially for a doctor who is needed here.”

  “I’m a good shot, and those people need medical attention too. What’s the problem? I’ve been there with you before. Other medical teams are getting into Darfur.”

  “True. But I want you to think about the increased danger.”

  “It’s not that bad.”

  “Then explain why Kofi Annan’s interpreter was harassed by authorities after he translated an interview with women who had been raped. The conditions there are so bad that Annan asked if the international community was going to let Darfur become another Rwanda.” Paul leaned over and kissed the tip of her nose. “No. You cannot go with me in the morning. A team of doctors is already on the ground in Kibum. Conversation ended.”

  Larson churned with frustration. She’d risked her life plenty of times before becoming Larson Farid, and she didn’t appreciate anyone making decisions for her. “So you can risk your life, but I can’t?” As if to punctuate her words, a sudden burst of rain splattered outside the hut. “My skills are needed. You might as well admit it, and besides, we’ve gone together before.” She crossed her arms. “Are you flying a drop or landing?”

  “Landing, with plenty of supplies. You saw the latest UN reports. More than half of the population needs food.” Paul hoisted a bag of ammo.

  “And they need medical attention in mammoth proportions.”

  He stiffened. A rarity for Paul to let her see she was getting to him. “When it’s safer, we’ll go back together.”

  “Promise?” She laid a hand on her abdomen, remembering too late that she should avoid such telltale gestures.

  “Sure. Are you ill? Stomach problems?”

  If he knew, their conversation would immediately turn to where she’d spend the next seven months. “No, sir. I’m great. But don’t forget I want to help those in Darfur.” She kissed him, not just to hush his uncomfortable questioning but because she loved him.

  * * *

  Paul’s concern for Larson mounted throughout the day and into the night. She slept more than he could ever recall, and her pale face alarmed him. Still, she insisted that her health was fine.

  The following morning he hesitated to bring up the subject. He knew his strong-willed wife. Instead, he would continue to observe her and give his concerns to God—and Sarah.

  “Something’s wrong,” he told the wrinkled woman while they swept out the clinic. “I’ve never seen her so tired, and she’s not eating. Another thing that bothers me is that she’s sleeping in the middle of the day. And even though she denies it, yesterday she vomited.”

  “Give it time.” Sarah patted his arm. “She’ll be all right, and I’ll make sure she rests while you’re gone.”

  “Thanks. My sweet wife will listen to you before she does me.”

  “Ah, stubborn should be her name.” Sarah laughed. “And yours. When are you planning to leave for Darfur?”

  “In about an hour. Urgent needs require my attention.”

  “For Feed the World?”

  Feed the World only wanted him to fly food and medical supplies into the Kibum refugee camp and leave the ravaged area, but he felt the familiar tug to be on the ground and helping—and seeing his brother. The news reports of the continued atrocities in Darfur were only growing worse, and Khartoum was blatantly glossing over the ugly truth. The situation nudged him night and day to do more. Always do more to help.

  “Why don’t you drop the food and come back to us?” Sarah asked.

  He eyed her curiously. “Why?”

  “I fear for you, just as your wife does. Your spirit wants you to stay in Darfur, and that means taking dangerous chances. I know your heart for those persecuted people . . . my people.”

  “Odd that you call them your people, considering—”

  “That they were a part of the jihad that attempted to destroy all of us in southern Sudan?” Not a hint of malice crossed her face. “I forgive like Jesus says. Some cannot. But I remember how we suffered and are still suffering. I wish that for no one. Women are treated bad. Makes me cry.” She shook her head. “My memories are nightmares. I want to forget and believe each day will be better.”

  “We all want the same things, Sarah. That’s why we must keep praying.”

  “But you fly over areas where the GOS threaten to shoot you down, and it frightens Larson.”

  He chuckled. “That’s who I am.”

  “You already know what I think about that.”

  A martyr syndrome. He’d heard it from more than one person. “You’d miss my teasing.”

  A wide, toothless grin spread across her face. “I suppose so. But be careful. Larson will grieve for a long time if you are killed.”

  “She understood my commitment to Sudan when we married, just like I understand hers. That’s why we’re a good team.”

  Sarah pressed her lips together and turned her attention to a black snake slithering across the concrete floor. She swept the venomous creature outside.

  “Don’t come back,” she said.

  Paul caught sight of the snake and made his way toward the door to kill it. Sarah tugged on her right ear as he passed—a sure sign that she had something on her mind.

  “Are you holding back information from me?” He stopped in the doorway. “Has my wife asked you not to tell me something?”

  Sarah carefully rolled up Larson’s instruments inside a clean cloth. “Men are always demanding answers and think they know things they don’t.”

  He started to ask what she meant, but she whirled around and left the clinic without another word. Making Sarah angry solved nothing, and he loved her too much to press the matter. Larson did work hard. Maybe she simply needed extra rest while he was there to help out. As soon as the workload for FTW calmed down a bit, he’d take her back to the States to visit her folks. That should bring back the color to her cheeks.

  CHAPTER 7

  Ben stared out the window of the Mitsubishi MU-2, the same model of twin-engine turboprop that Paul flew for FTW. Paul had lost two of his planes when the GOS had gotten lucky, but he’d replaced them with the same model.

  Sometimes Ben wondered how much money Paul had pulled out of Khartoum when he’d escaped the clutches of his Muslim family. He had to have millions stashed away in the States, most of which he used to purchase food and medical supplies for stricken people in southern Sudan and Darfur. Thoughts that should never enter a man’s mind hadn’t left him since he’d been diagnosed with cancer. Was there a possible cure? How much would it cost? What about a test drug?

  He shrugged. Desperation did strange thing
s to a man. But he’d never ask Paul for money—certainly not to find a cure for a tough warlord like himself. Life had a beginning and an end, and his was trickling away like the sands washing into the sea, whether he liked it or not.

  The dirt landing strip beside Warkou came into view. The rains had saturated the earth, turning the area into thick mud. Last year the Bahr al-Ghazal province hadn’t received sufficient rain, and the resulting drought had brought starvation to many of the villagers. Now, if the government left them alone, they could plant crops and survive another season. Some of the villages had received seeds from humanitarian organizations and missionaries to begin growing their own food again. Ben hoped the new government officials actually kept their word on some things. The idea of villagers growing tomatoes, beans, cabbage, and maize without fear of getting shot sounded good to him. Of course, many of the fertile areas held land mines.

  A few villagers watched the plane circle and then come in for a landing. They were curious but not afraid. This cream-of-the-crop missionary plane always brought aid. Ben chuckled. Ironically, this flight brought a dying man.

  After talking to Paul yesterday, Ben had convinced a missionary pilot in Nairobi to fly him to Warkou. Commander Okuk was supposed to meet him there and escort him back to his men. Ben searched the ground, but he didn’t see the bullet-ridden truck or Okuk. A half-dozen curses etched into his mind. He hated wasting time and putting up with irresponsible people. He hated more the limited days and hours left in his cancer-infested body. The pain he used to ignore now attacked him harder with its reminder of his finite future.

  He could handle the torment, but not the idea of death. His father had once told him every man needed to have his house in order from the moment he realized the difference between heaven and hell. Ben had put off making any changes, and now he didn’t have a spare moment to contemplate rectifying his life. He’d stopped believing in God after seeing more than his share of blood and tortured bodies. Not like his parents, who thought Christianity was the cure for the world’s problems. Why waste time and effort to parley with death over the things he couldn’t change? He’d always considered himself invincible—a superhero, as they said in the States. What a joke.