The Missionary

by Margaret Ferguson

  Suddenly, the pain became excruciating. Unbearable. Like nothing I’d experienced before. Something, or rather, someone, was holding my leg. It felt like an animal tearing at my wound. This time, when I screamed out, my cries were forcibly muffled. There was no healing. It was torture. That’s it! They were torturing me. My eyes popped open again, only long enough to catch a glimpse. Firelight danced against a wall—shadows and light, against a jagged wall. A cave, perhaps? Was I in a cave?

  When the faces appeared again, I was somehow able to move my good arm and immediately grabbed the one closest to me by the throat. His eyes widened with astonishment and surprise as I tightened my grip. I didn’t have much strength left, but with what I did have, I was going to try and take one of the bastards with me. My grip tightened, his hands on my wrist, desperately fighting to free himself. Unexpectedly, my other captor put pressure on my left shoulder. I felt and heard a snap, causing me to release his partner’s neck, instantly immobilizing me as I once more began drifting in and out of consciousness.

  Then, I felt her touch, felt her hand on my cheek. When I looked up, Amanda leaned against me; her slender, naked body lay beside mine. I held her tighter, pressing myself ever closer, savoring the feel of her. Savoring her body heat. My hand shakily reached for her face, a face I’d caressed a thousand times. And yet, something was different. I looked into her dark eyes, mesmerized. There was something familiar, and yet unfamiliar. In my muddled state, something was off. Everything felt different. And again, as I pulled her closer, held her tighter, it felt right. My body desired her warmth. Desired, her. She leaned in and kissed me, ever so gently, pressing her lips to mine, whispering against my cheek, her hot breath taunting me.

  “Everything will be okay.” Just a whisper. “Everything’s going to be okay.”

  And, as I felt myself slowly drifting away again, suddenly, I was no longer afraid of living. I was no longer scared of dying. I was no longer afraid.

  The Found

  Chapter Five

  When I woke, it took a few moments to get my bearings. I lay still, so as to not alert my captors, as I took in my surroundings. We were no longer in a cave, but some other structure. Slowly, I moved my fingers. I could bend them again. I didn’t lift them, yet, afraid of finding black or missing tips. My toes wiggled, but I didn’t feel the familiarity of my boots. There was a noticeable smell, one that nauseated me, so I breathed through my mouth for fear of vomiting. I saw my packs and the gun that the young man had left against the tree, now leaning by the wall. If I could somehow manage to reach the pack, I could get my pistol. Or, better yet, my knife. The door opened, and I quickly closed my eyes.

  I heard a question asked in Pashto. “What are we to do with him?”

  The answer was faint, but I heard the word, Shura, which is a tribal council.

  It became unbearably silent. Slowly, I turned my head, though I could only sense the blurry figures staring down at me. Tentatively, they made their way to where I lay. I didn’t move, but I glared up at them with all the defiance I could manage. They stood above me, I’m sure, contemplating what to do with me. And I, in turn, considered slamming their heads together. However, I lay there like a slug, still weak and in no condition to move, much less, fight.

  The one to my right clapped hands and rubbed them together rapidly, then kneeled beside my leg. I felt a sudden warmth around my wound. Surprisingly, the hands, though gloved, were gentle. My leg throbbed, though not with the intensity of when I first discovered I had a third limb attached to me. Literally.

  The other man stood by me, guarding me, I suppose. I wondered why my hands were free. And why I wasn’t in a dark, dank cell somewhere. Was I to be ransomed for money for arms, or traded for insurgents that the coalition had captured? Or was I to be executed publicly, only to be viewed a million times on YouTube, gawked at by sadists or the curious—maybe to be used as an example in some anti-terrorist training seminar? “See what happened to this guy? Don’t let this idiot be you.”

  I rolled my head to the side and stared at the mud-walled building, trying to focus. Colorful pillows sat on a carpeted dirt floor. A rug hung from the ceiling, covering one wall. There was a small table and two chairs, plus a sleeping area. This was someone’s home. The smell of fresh bread permeated my nostrils, and as if on cue, my stomach growled. The man to my right covered my leg with something hot, and I jerked. Then he moved around my feet and to my left arm. Carefully, he used both his hands to maneuver my shoulder. It hurt like hell, but nowhere near what it did when I fell out of the stupid tree. So—how did I get here? And, where was here? When he lifted my arm, I saw I was no longer wearing my uniform. They had outfitted me in a long, dress-like tunic and nothing else, covering me with several thin blankets.

  His hand carefully moved under my back and tried to raise me up. With some trepidation, I slowly rose, until I was sitting shakily on the edge of a long wooden plank. It was elevated on rocks and covered with a thick cushion, or toshak. My head and my leg throbbed, almost in unison. The shorter man hurried away, then returned with a small cup of something steaming. He motioned with his eyes and his hands for me to take it and drink. Carefully, I sipped at the hot liquid, the warmth traveling down my throat and into my gut. As I brought up my arm, I moved it closer to my nose and then turned my head away. God! It was me that I smelled. I gagged, without vomiting, almost spilling the hot tea on myself.

  Though I couldn’t see their mouths, their eyes smiled. The smaller of the two men retreated again. This time when he returned, he brought with him the smell of bread. In his bare hands he held a flatbread, freshly made. He dangled it in front of me, like a carrot in front of a horse. I cautiously brought it to my lips and took a bite before hungrily consuming every bit of it. They both chuckled. Well, I’m glad someone found something funny in this situation. I relaxed and forced a tentative smile.

  Then the smaller man turned, walked to the door and picked up the rifle. Instantly, I stopped chewing. He twisted and walked to me, carrying it in his hands. I froze, my face revealing my concern. I looked between them. I appreciated their kindness, but if they knew anything about a Beret—or me in particular—they would have known that we don’t go quietly. He stood before me holding the rifle up to me. I looked at him, perplexed. Then he picked up the bread and held up the gun.

  The tree. He was the one who left the flatbread and the rifle at the tree. When he saw the recognition on my face, he nodded. I nodded in return. Who were these people? And why did they help me? There was a knock in the distance, and the man with the rifle ran to the door, set the gun down, and opened the sagging wooden door. Several older men with long, gray beards stepped inside. They walked up to me and then around me, as though inspecting an animal at auction. They didn’t speak; they merely eyed me up and down. Two of the men began to converse.

  They were talking about me, of course. What did you think they were discussing? The weather? More importantly, they were proposing what they were to do with me. I’m not entirely proficient in the dialect, but my ears perked up when I heard the word, crash. In particular, they were talking about how local Taliban had found a crash site and many bodies. They were wondering if I had been with those who had died, and if so, how I could have survived. They concurred that I must have some mystical protection, having survived with so few injuries. I wanted to say, “Yeah, me too,” but didn’t feel it was the appropriate time to let them know I understood what they were discussing. Well, most of what they were saying, at least.

  The smaller man interjected that they had an obligation to protect me. I wanted to jump up and hug him. After much discussion, they determined that they would have to discuss it more. I tried not to show my obvious disappointment. Then, the man, who I presumed to be the mullah, or religious leader, of the town, walked up to me and looked me in the eyes. After he had given me the once, over his eyes arrived on mine again. He nodded, slowly. A moment later, I returned the gesture. I think we just showed each other respect. Out
here, that goes a long way.

  One by one, the tribal council members walked backward from the building, each with a slight bow before stepping over the worn wooden threshold. The smaller man returned to my side and slowly pulled the linens from around his face. I squinted. Why, he was nothing more than a boy—fifteen, if a day. He grinned at me with big yellow teeth. A small smile crept up the side of my lips.

  He patted his chest and said with genuine pride, in broken English, “Abraham.”

  I looked between them and held my hand to my chest. “Edward. Eddie,” I corrected.

  “Edward, Eddie,” he said, with a thick accent.

  “Eddie,” I clarified.

  “Eddie.”

  I nodded.

  I turned to the other man, who looked down and then walked to the table. When I glanced back at Abraham, he was still smiling.

  I held my hand over my heart. “Thank you,” I said in English. When he looked at me, perplexed, I repeated it in Pashto. His smile faded as he realized that I could speak his language. Then it returned, even bigger. I reached out to shake his hand, and he looked down at it, then up at me again. “Nice to meet you,” I said in English, then repeated it in Pashto.

  He shook my hand hard and fast, repeating my words.

  A moment later, the other one returned, with a stethoscope around his neck and a syringe. My smile faded. I’m Special Forces; just survived falling from a helicopter, hundreds of feet in the air. I’ve fought Taliban, some in hand-to-hand combat, to the death. And yet, I don’t mind admitting that I really, really hate needles. When I looked up into the eyes that avoided mine, I saw kindness. And yet, I saw something more. Something familiar. And while our eyes were on one another, he began warming the stethoscope on his arm before placing it against my chest and checking all four lobes.

  Well, at least I knew what he was now. He then tapped each of my knees and took my pulse. A moment later, he was behind me, checking my lungs through my back. Suddenly, I felt a breeze on my backside, right before I was stabbed with the syringe in the fatty part of my right butt cheek.

  “Ow,” I said flatly. “What did you use, a horse needle?” Then as he moved away, I muttered under my breath, a little sarcastically, “You could have just told me to drop ‘em, Doc.”

  “But I only needed one cheek,” the voice responded, in perfect English.

  I turned abruptly to face the back of the person who had just given me the injection. Then I froze as I watched the headscarf and linens being removed from the face, to reveal that of a woman—a spectacular, dark-haired, dark-eyed woman.

  Chapter Six

  The woman stood over me, a small, forced smile planted on her face. Slowly, her hand moved to my chin and closed my mouth. I was speechless.

  “How are you feeling?”

  “Confused.”

  Her smile grew as her eyes narrowed. “I mean, physically. How do you feel?”

  “Like I’ve been run over by a Mack truck.” I watched as she checked my legs, inch by inch, for other injuries. “How do I look?”

  Tentatively, she unbuttoned my shirt. I cringed as she pulled it over my left shoulder.

  “Sorry,” she said sincerely. Then she picked up my left forearm and inspected it. Every time she found a bruise she pressed lightly—I assume, checking for blood clots. When she finally looked up at me, she replied flatly, “Like you’ve been run over by a Mack truck.” She slid the syringe into an invisible pocket in the folds of her attire. “Hope you’re not allergic. That’s penicillin.”

  I tilted my head nervously. “Guess we’ll find out together,” I sighed aloud, as I watched her. “Where exactly am I?”

  “A small village. In the Takhar District.” Her eyes met mine. “Do you know where that is?”

  I nodded. Several miles from where I was supposed to be. Where we were supposed to be. “Did you happen to,” I began, stumbling on my words. “Has anyone else—?”

  She shook her head. “And I haven’t heard of anyone being found in other villages.” Her fingers tentatively moved over my skin as she inspected my back and then moved to my front, her hand tracing my midsection and chest. “But it’s only been two days. News travels slowly up here. Especially in winter.”

  I shook my head. Two days. No one could have survived the elements up here for two days, much less one. Especially if they were hanging in a tree. Even with the warm gear they were wearing, it would have been a miracle.

  Her hands stopped at my face, her latex covered-fingers gently tracing cuts, bruises, and scratches. She looked at me as if knowing what I was thinking. “If someone had found anyone, they would have brought them here.”

  “So. you’re saying they are dead?”

  “No, that’s not what I’m saying,” she corrected me as she lifted my right arm. “How many were with you?”

  “Thirteen,” I sighed.

  When her eyes met mine, I could see the sadness at the mention of so many. “I’m sorry,” she added sincerely, sliding my left arm back into the tunic. She turned away to wash her hands in a small basin. “I will see if I can make some inquiries as to how many men they found at the site.”

  “Site?”

  When she turned to me again, she hesitated.

  “Only one?”

  She side-glanced at Abraham, then looked back at me and nodded.

  I adjusted the shirt over my chilled body, staring down as I began buttoning it. Maybe the other bird got away. I exhaled.

  She walked back to me and handed me two more shirts. “In case you get cold.” When she saw me edge toward the side of the wood plank, her hand went to my bare chest. “Where do you think you’re going?”

  I stared at her. Good question? Where did I think I was going?

  “You’ve got a hole the size of a grapefruit in your leg.” Her smooth, soft hand continued to hold me in place. “It will take several days before we can even sew you up. You can’t put any pressure on it. Not yet.”

  I glared at her in frustration, her kind eyes diffusing my attempt to intimidate her. Her gloved fingers tentatively toyed with her scarves. “If it gets infected, it could be bad.”

  I watched her from behind as she fumbled awkwardly with the colorful linens around her neck. I caught her glancing at me occasionally, seemingly uncomfortable. I found it curious that she dressed like a man in a culture where that just wasn’t done. She drenched a rag in a steaming pot of water, then gingerly wrung it out. Carefully, she carried it back and pressed it over my wound, as if to make her point.

  “Hey!” I snapped, cringing.

  “Until then, your body needs time to heal.”

  “How long?”

  “It depends,” she said, raising her eyebrows.

  I scooted back onto the makeshift bed, grimacing when my muscle flexed beneath my shoulder blade. Her demeanor relaxed. “I cleaned it out the best that I could. There’s just no way for me to tell how much damage was done deep down. We don’t have access to the equipment we would need to determine that. And there’s no way to get you down the mountain. At least not for several weeks.”

  “Weeks?”

  “Weeks,” she clarified with a reassuring smile as she moved again to my side. “Maybe longer. Your leg was pretty torn up. Considering how we found you,” she began, then exhaled. “My prayer at this point is that there’s not so much damage down here,” she said, patting my knee cap, “that you won’t be able to walk again without assistance.”

  Without assistance? The words hit me hard. I closed my eyes. My brain could hardly process the possibility.

  “It’s pretty bad.” She nodded. “If we can stave off any infection, you should be fine. But it’ll still be a long road to recovery.”

  I looked away, contemplating her words. “It will heal, right?”

  Her eyes met mine again. “You should have a complete recovery.” Her forced smile was a small consolation for the possible truth. I rolled my good arm behind my head as she fluffed a pillow and then motioned for m
e to lay back on it. “I don’t anticipate any complications at this point, provided you follow my instructions and don’t try and do too much, too soon.” Her hand delved into her outfit and came out with a small vial. “Take this.” She nodded toward my leg. “It will help with the pain.” She took a misshapen metal cup half-filled with water from the table. “I gave you morphine before. However, I’m running low. And, until supplies are replenished, we’ve got to make do.”

  “I’ll be fine,” I growled, pushing her hand away.

  She narrowed her eyes as she studied me. “You’re one of those, huh?” she said, before setting the small cup and the pills on the rug, beside my bedding. “I’ll leave them here., just in case,” she smiled sternly. “Ten hours is a long time to wait if you are wrong.” I watched as she turned toward the door, looking back at me with a word of caution. “Please take them if you need them, but don’t lose them or waste them. They are few and far between out here.”

  “Yes, Ma’am,” I replied compliantly, trying not to sound as sarcastic as I was feeling.

  Her brow furrowed as she seemed to ponder what to think of me. “And please don’t get all macho on me after I leave and try to stand,” she instructed. “You’ll only make matters worse.”

  “Yes, Ma’am.”

  “And quit calling me Ma’am.”

  “Yes, Doctor.”

  “I’m not a doctor.”

  I stopped mid crouch, as I was laying back. Confused. “You’re not a doctor?”

  She stepped back to me. Her hand moved to my chest again and pushed me the rest of the way down. “I’m a nurse.”

  “Well, is there a doctor here?”

  “Just one. Dr. Lewallen went to Kabul for supplies last week. Then the storm blew in,” she sighed, “so he’s probably still there.”