The priest followed Hanley out of the plane. After locking the plane’s rear door, he threaded the chain from the large rock through a section of the right wheel strut and padlocked it. “This will do, but even if it doesn’t, it’s all that I have,” he told the priest. He smiled and again the priest thought the smile odd, the American’s face sad, but smiling nonetheless.
Picking up the duffle and the old satchel, Hanley Martin said to Father Robineau, “I’m ready if you are.” As they walked to the truck, Hanley asked, “Do you think the plane will be safe, I mean, will it be vandalized?”
“I would doubt it. There are few if any rebel factions operating in this area. Most of them are in the Darfur region, west of where we are. The people here are still respectful of the mission. We have told those visiting the mission of your coming and they know the plane will help them. So, I believe they will honor its presence here and not disturb it. They will come to see it, starting tonight, perhaps, certainly tomorrow. Now they certainly know you are here. How could they not? My hearing is bad and I could not have missed your arrival.” The priest smiled and put a hand on Hanley’s shoulder. He said, “Let us return to the mission, we will find something for you to eat and drink and you can tell me about my niece, Sophie.”
Stopping, the priest allowed a small, low cloud of dust to catch up to him, adding another fine layer of dirt to his dull boots. Squinting from some minor discomfort brought on by age and the thought in his head, he said to Hanley, “Tomorrow or the next day, you will meet Sister Marie Claire. She is a person of some force, or forcefulness. She is determined regarding some things, determined to makes changes. Sudan does not change easily. She knows this. It does not stop her; nothing stops her, not even the bishop. She will talk to you about these changes. Be careful with her. She means well, but be careful.”
4
A thrill slid up Hanley’s spine, chilling the back of his neck. Since leaving Crete, he had been too busy with the travel, customs, the fear and the anticipation, to think about her. The old priest snapped her back into Hanley’s consciousness, holding his attention tight, freezing his stomach, forcing a rigid smile to his face. “I’m looking forward to meeting Sister Marie Claire,” he said.
“She’s not at the mission now. She is in Rumbek gathering supplies, drinking water and food, paper products, that sort of thing. She will be back later tonight or tomorrow,” the old priest said.
Hanley’s first glimpse of the Catholic mission station at Mapuordit was a yellow lightbulb glowing in the distance, a stationary point he watched as he bounced around on the passenger seat of the old vehicle. Even anchored as he was by a seatbelt, his upper and lower body parts were constantly flung about. He tried to hang on to anything that would hold them in place but his attempts were mostly useless.
The single yellow bulb was screwed into a standard white porcelain fixture, hung from the eaves of the station’s main building. It was a deep yellow glow, the kind he remembered glowing at night, marking the back doors of countless farmhouses all over Indiana. It was the color that bathed the side of his uncle’s farm house night after night, year after year. The memory brought a twinge of nostalgia, the kind he felt when it was something he had not thought of for years.
“I’m sorry for this horrible road. You may become accustomed to it, but I will tell you, I have been here for years and I have not,” Father Robineau yelled to Hanley. The noise of the ride was more irritating than the jostling. After weeks spent flying an old twin-prop cargo plane, he was surprised he could think that possible.
Hanley leaned into the voice of the priest to hear what he was saying. Before he could answer, the old Land Rover rolled to a stop beside the main building and the priest turned the key. Hanley said, “I’ve always been capable of adjusting to most things. It’s a gift of sorts, or else it’s that I expect less from my surroundings than most people. Don’t worry. I’ll be fine. As long as there are no snakes, I’ll have few problems.”
“There are snakes,” the priest said.
“Great.”
“Oh, please don’t worry. We do not see many. Only a few in this area are really dangerous. You just have to be careful where you step or reach. Unfortunately, they don’t have rattles that warn you like American snakes. I think your snakes are much more considerate of others. In Sudan, our snakes are rude. Of course, in France, we have no poisonous snakes,” the priest said.
“I thought France had a couple of types of poisonous snakes,” Hanley said, “I believe I read that somewhere.”
The old priest’s face assumed an offended look and said, “There is nothing poisonous in France, Monsieur. Let me show you your room and then we can have dinner with the staff which will be in one half hour or so. We eat late as we have much to do while there is daylight to assist us,” the priest explained.
With his duffle and satchel gathered from the truck, Hanley followed the priest across the compound to a rectangular building made of plywood and metal,
