The Missionary

by Margaret Ferguson

  I heard talking and strained to listen over the ringing in my ear. My team! I tried to comprehend what the voices were saying as my head screamed in agony. I closed my eyes and tried to slow my breathing and tune in as well as I could. It sounded similar to Dari, but I couldn’t be sure. Maybe some of the Afghan Army had survived. The voices drew nearer. Several men. I evened out my breathing and slowly turned my head to look down. There below me, were at least a half-dozen men and a few young boys walking close to the tree from which I hung, some carrying lamps, some carrying guns. I didn’t dare move, for fear of falling, or of being seen. When they were all within feet of the tree, they stopped and looked around, two of the men talking in raised voices. Arguing. They sounded angry. They weren’t friendlies; that was for damned sure. Please don’t look up.

  And just then—one did.

  A teenage boy, maybe. Or a short man. It was hard to tell. He was wrapped heavily in several layers of clothing, a worn winter’s coat on top, eyes peering from an opening between the worn scarves and torn linens wrapped around his face and head. His eyes met mine before glancing away. I closed mine, preparing to die. My breathing came harder as I began to shiver, more from the pain than the cold.

  I thought of Amanda, her beautiful smile, and I allowed that smile to calm me. Then I saw Kevan’s face. He glared up at me, his eyes daunting and direct. Don’t quit soldier, those eyes said. Don’t you dare quit! When I opened my eyes and looked down, the men were moving away. The boy took his time, falling to the back of the group and glanced in my direction until his stare met mine again. He side-stepped to a tree and took something from under his clothing and laid it there in the snow. Then, he took the rifle from his shoulder and set it beside the tree, along with one of his scarves. He looked at me once more, then rushed to catch up with the other men, never looking back.

  What the hell just happened?

  Several minutes passed until the group disappeared deeper into the woods. When I heard nothing but the wind, I gradually began to move. God, I hurt everywhere. Carefully, I adjusted my arms. I thought I could feel my toes but wasn’t sure. They seemed numb, but I saw and felt my left leg move, which I took as a sure sign that I wasn’t paralyzed. Twisting, inches at a time, I attempted to shift my right leg. A torturous pain shot through my entire body, and I grimaced. I was able to lift my head enough to see my leg impaled on a broken tree limb. That would explain the painful throbbing. I maneuvered my fingers, reaching into my pocket for my knife when suddenly, I felt and heard the tree branch crack further.

  I’m six-one and weigh approximately one-ninety, soaking wet, but add a hundred and thirty pounds of equipment—still strapped to my body—plus the frozen snow on the branches, and I’m surprised the limbs held this long. My eyes darted quickly about the graying landscape to assure no one was returning. I spied a lump just beneath me, too small to be another soldier. My eyes focused. The unit’s medical bag hung precariously on a branch just below, so I reached for it, gritting my teeth through the pain. As I felt the branch crack again, I stopped abruptly. I took a deep breath and contemplated my options. Considering my condition and my position, it was logical to assume that I had none. I looked down. The bag was only a couple of feet away, hanging by a strap. If I could just reach it—. Another crack. I felt my body dropping lower. It was inevitable. My luck notwithstanding, I was hoping for fresh powder.

  A moment later, the branch gave way, and it dropped me into several others. I reached for the bag, just missing it, but grabbed the branch it was on. I must have looked like a pinball being bounced between bumpers and spinners as my body was tossed from limb to limb, further intensifying the pain. So, for the second time in less than an hour, I was airborne for the last fifteen feet before landing in a snowbank below. I sank like a cartoon character, spread eagled, into two feet of the white powder. I lay there silently, though my body screamed angrily in agony. A moment later, the medical bag landed beside me, missing my head by mere inches. When no one walked up to me and shot me, I opened my eyes and looked upward. There, dangling in the trees about fifty feet up, was my rifle.

  Of course! This day was just getting better and better.

  I sat up carefully while looking around as cautiously as I could with no ready weapon. My head pounded, so I closed my eyes and took several deep breaths. I still wasn’t thinking clearly. Kevan’s voice hammered at me with every heartbeat. Suck it up, soldier. My eyes snapped open. I attempted to stand, but the snow was deep, and there was nothing to grab onto but the damned log that was sticking out of the front of my leg. I sighed, then reached down and took ahold of it. I was reasonably confident that I hadn't broken any bones, but looking down at my leg, I was pretty sure I had damaged some muscles and tendons. As I rolled to my side, I discovered that my left arm was useless. Maybe dislocated, but definitely strained. I turned in the other direction as best as I could to extract the broken wood protruding from my thigh.

  I clenched the strap from the medical bag between my teeth and then drew in several deep breaths before pulling on the stick. I grimaced, growling painfully, tears running down the side of my face as I fought crying out. When I was finally able to remove it, I collapsed into the snow gasping, exhausted.

  “Okay,” I moaned, staring up at the heavens. “Okay.” I felt my heart pounding against my chest wall as I tried to moderate my breathing, again. Slowly, I sat up and opened the medical bag. I dug until I found saline and a roll of gauze, before ripping my pant leg to the knee. I sipped from my camelback, rinsed, and spat the water onto the ground. Then I sipped, again and spit into the wound, repeating this several times, to wash out the dirt and splintered wood. Dreading what I had to do next, I quickly tore the saline package with my teeth, bit tighter onto the strap and then poured the salty water in my wound, sure I would eventually pass out from the searing pain.

  A minute later, I used my teeth to tear open the packet of self-clotting gauze, my hands trembling as I pressed it into the open wound. Exhausted, I dropped back into the snow, spewing mist and whispered curses into the cold air. As my breathing calmed, I began to dress the wound, my hands carefully wrapping the gauze around the gaping hole in my leg. Then I pulled out man’s best friend. Duct tape. I proceeded to tape my pant leg over the gauze in the hopes of serving two purposes: keep the tissue in place and protect it from bleeding out.

  I picked up my trash before haphazardly shoving everything into my pockets. Then, I grasped the large bloodied stick in an attempt to help me rise out of the snow. My chin trembled as I fought to suppress the excruciating pain while trying to stand. I fell once. Then again. On my third try, I succeeded in staying upright, albeit awkwardly. Shakily. Slowly, using the five-foot tree limb as a crutch, I worked my way toward where the young boy had left his rifle. For all I knew, it was a trap, and I’d be blown to bits. But, my gut told me that wasn’t the case. The Taliban didn’t play cat and mouse. They hunted to kill.

  When I reached the tree, I leaned against it, utterly worn out and favoring my injured leg. After an instinctive survey of the perimeter, I picked up the gun. It was a WWII British Lee-Enfield bolt action rifle, a popular choice among those we were fighting. Carefully, I unwrapped the package left behind to find a piece of flatbread, some nuts, and a dozen .303 shells. I glanced in the direction they had traveled, utterly confused. I’m certain the men I saw were Taliban. Was there a defector in their ranks? I certainly wasn’t going to hang around to ask. As I filled my pockets with the items, I glanced around contemplating my options. I took a moment to inventory what I’d lost and what I still had. I checked my night vision goggles, and they worked. Feeling drained, I slurped from my camelback and quickly ate a snack bar.

  Then I glanced up into the trees. If I made it, surely—. But, since landing, I had heard no chatter on my headset. Not even a flicker. I contemplated before loudly whispering into my mic. “Talbert? Coons?” I looked around. “Can anyone hear me?” I felt foolish. I knew I was jeopardizing their lives and mine by drawing
attention to my location. It’s not like I could climb up there and get them. Only, I had just been up there. At some point, I would have had to consider how to get down. And yet, if there were someone up there, how could I just abandon them? “Stanford? Banks?” I called out again, just as softly and listened for a response. Anything—telling me they were still alive.

  From my vantage point, I could see no one else hanging in the trees. However, it was dusk now, so it was possible that they were unconscious and, in a tree-top somewhere. Or maybe even on the ground. The powder was pretty soft. It would have been a painful fall, but they might have made it. Every inch of my body screamed in agony., though, when I felt around on my torso for other open wounds, thankfully I found none. But, I knew I would look like hell tomorrow. That was if I made it to tomorrow. These mountains were crawling with the enemy. Some of them were my specific targets on this mission. One in particular. This was the last place on Earth I wanted to be before I fell out of the helicopter.

  I took the laminated map and compass from my pocket and guessed where I thought I was. I wouldn’t get far with my injuries. I was dozens of miles from command; only it was like a million miles with the mountainous terrain, the harsh winter conditions and me on foot. Injured. Plus, in this part of the world during winter months, days are much shorter, meaning nights were longer, with nighttime temperatures likely dropping to the twenties or lower at this elevation. If I were lucky. I was not feeling very lucky at this point.

  I looked down. My pant leg glistened with blood. Unfortunately, I was going to leave a trail wherever I stepped, so walking in their footprints would be useless. Therefore, feeling my chances of surviving a conflict in my condition was slight, I went in a different direction. Hopefully, I’d see them before they saw me if we did cross paths. I used the tree limb and rifle as crutches, wrapped the linens that smelled of sweat and goat around my head, and limped into the shadows, not having a clue where I was headed.

  Chapter Four

  Every wobbly step I took; every exhausting chilled breath I drew in was an effort. Though my instinct was to breathe through my mouth, I knew that breathing through my nose warmed the air a little more and would allow my lungs to last a bit longer. Which, in the end, only meant that if I died out here in this frozen hellhole that it would take me longer to do so.

  Quit your whining Soldier! Kevan still screamed in my mind. Remember your training. I had been moving for what felt like hours, but I didn’t know if I’d even made it a mile. The pain was incredible. My feet and hands were now, numb. And, I was shivering unceasingly—whether from pain or blood loss or the cold I had no idea. It didn’t matter. It wouldn’t stop.

  I was surrounded by miles of mountains and trees and snow. Thankfully, the moon hid behind the clouds, keeping me virtually invisible. The only lights I could see were a couple of stars twinkling through the trees above me. And in the distance, there was a soft glow; remnants of what I could only assume was my transport, and most probably, the rest of my team.

  An hour later, my foot found stone, and I fell forward onto a rocky ridge at the base of one of the many mountains in this range. I contemplated my options. The climb was about forty degrees, and there would no longer be anything to cushion my steps. Or I could take my chances in the valley where my legs sank mid-calf deep, making it harder to walk. If I’d had a coin, I would have flipped it. I sighed and began the arduous climb, hoping to find one of the hundreds of uninhabited caves in this mountain range.

  After a while, my chest hurt, and my throat burned as I began to breathe through my mouth from sheer exhaustion. It wasn’t long before I spied a cluster of trees and underbrush about fifty feet in front of me on the craggy hill. I hobbled anxiously towards them and fell forward.

  “Ow,” I managed to gasp, expelling what little heat was left in my body into the snow that cradled my face.

  I began to crawl toward the trees, finally dragging myself the last twenty feet, grasping at rocks and roots, anything I could use to pull myself nearer to them. When I was completely under the canopy, I lay back on my pack, drawing in deep breaths. I sipped on the tube connected to my camelback. Just a tablespoon’s worth. Maybe two. Grateful it hadn’t frozen. Yet. Conserving water and food was important. My energy. Everything. I had no idea how long I’d be out here. I did know, however, that I needed to get out of the elements. I reached for the tree limb above me, only it snapped, unloading the full umbrella of snow into my lap. I brushed it off as quickly as I could. It would defeat the purpose if I sat long in wetter clothes. I continued to tug at branches, to pull myself back up, but soon, I just didn’t have the strength.

  “Okay,” I gasped. “This isn’t working.” Unclasping my pack one-handed, with my non-dominant hand, was an effort. I fumbled with the buckle until it released, and I could drag it around my body. It felt like it weighed a ton as my energy waned. I tried to pull the unit’s medical bag to me, only I couldn’t. I removed my gloves with my teeth, my fingers tingling and burning. Massaging them didn’t help, nor did blowing into my cupped hands. With some difficulty, I released the Velcro on my jacket. My fingers soon found what they searched for, though my hands were so numb that the familiar sensation of what I was feeling didn’t register, at first. I slid the photograph from my pocket between frozen fingers. It was hard to focus, as my left eye was already swollen almost closed. Amanda’s baby blue eyes stared back at me, and my mind drifted to a time and a place that seemed so out of reach. A moment that was warmer. Much warmer.

  My eyelids were getting heavier. Must stay awake… They fluttered as I fought the overwhelming desire to close them. I knew that If I shut them now, they might never open again. Have to stay awake... I tried to envision that warmer place and smiled, weakly, as I thought of her. And it wasn’t just her, but that sexy, bordering on scandalous, one piece I had bought her on our trip to Galveston. My God, was she beautiful. Amanda smiled devilishly as she frolicked in the surf, her tan arms splashing the gritty gulf coast water at me. Her beautiful frame shone with the coconut-scented sunscreen that drove me absolutely mad.

  I pictured myself there, yearned to be there, fighting to recall every moment we spent together on that last trip. Only—. My hands ached to slide over her flawless, warm body once more. It was our last time together. Our last kiss, just before—. I remember kissing her hard, not wanting to let her go, but knowing—. Amanda stepped from my arms, backing slowly away, her blonde hair blowing frantically around her heartbroken face. Stay, I heard her say, though her lips never moved. Stay here. With me.

  “I can’t,” I managed to gasp to the frozen trees above me. “You know, I can’t.” She smiled sadly, continuing to back away, the vision fading with her into the snow and rocks and trees. “I’m sorry.” Words said too late, to no one. “I’m so sorry.” Whispers dissipating into a fine mist.

  “Crap,” I wheezed, closing my eyes. “It’s not lookin’ good, Kev.”

  I lay back, sinking, drifting farther away. “I’m so sorry, Kev,” I breathed through cracked lips. I drew in one last, painful breath, then merely…relaxed. Resolvedly, I accepted my fate. Knowing that I was likely going to freeze to death here on this godforsaken mountain. I’m sorry, my mind repeated over and over. To Kevan. To Amanda. To my team.

  Numbness soon pervaded my body. There was no snow. No pain. There was just—nothingness. A pleasant, peaceful, oblivion.

  All at once I heard music softly playing; I felt a presence beside me, staring at me. The sound of a cane flute swelled, causing my heart to race. My eyes fluttered as I tried to focus. The figure stood over me, dressed in colorful regalia. A low, guttural chanting faded in. The blurred vision nodded slowly, almost imperceptibly. My body was immediately covered with the recognizable weight and smell of a blanket—a bear-skin blanket—the burden of it pressing against my chest. Suddenly, the fog lifted, and I could see clearly.

  The room was ornate, filled with vintage furniture and carpets. On the wall were familiar animal pelts and hand-wo
ven tapestries. A feather passed over my face, then my chest. Before long, he appeared, shuffling along the table of Native American blankets on which I lay. His hands and the feather hovered over me without touching me, shaking a fine powder from the feather, until I was surrounded by a pale aura. And, as the air cleared, stepping into view, just behind him, was my grandfather,

  I remembered. Suddenly, I remembered. I was nine and visiting my grandparents when I fell ill with a high fever. I looked back up at the man who had healed me. It was the same Shaman. My eyes turned from the Chickasaw Healer back to the man I was closest to for my whole life. “Grandfather?” I began, warily.

  My grandfather closed his eyes, his head bobbing lightly to the sound of the singing that had joined that of the flute.

  “Am I dead, Grandfather?” My eyes searched his face. “Is this heaven?”

  In an instant, the fog returned—and the cold. And the pain. I tried to cry out, but there was no sound left in me. I was immobile, and yet, I was moving. Or, rather, being moved. Dragged. I wanted to open my eyes, but I couldn’t. My body bounced and yawed and—. And, if just for a moment, a flicker of time, I managed to open them. I saw shapes around me—non-descriptive faces wrapped in linens that smelled of sweat and goat.

  “Grandfather?” I heard myself say.

  The music and chanting faded into humming. Murmuring. The murmuring became clearer. Voices, speaking ever so softly. Speaking inaudibly. Speaking—Pashto. My first instinct was to get away, only I couldn’t move. Confusion overwhelmed me as my mind flickered with visions. Blurred objects moving. A white dog. The Shaman. Snapshots, blurry and baffling.