35
Thin brown dust swirled around his feet and across the hard-packed dirt parking lot onto the gravel road. A small boy of five years sat on an overturned bucket staring at the new running shoes on his feet. They felt good to him. His new shoes and new clothes were clean and smelled good. His hunger was gone, but he was still scared; he was always scared. Locked in his arms was an old stuffed toy, a bear, its fur now matted and discolored in spots, one plastic eye cracked, a left ear soaked from the boys constant biting and sucking. The noise of the plane that had carried him to safety was still in his ears. He could not quit listening.
Standing beside him was Sister Marie Claire, dressed in a dull blue uniform, her head covered in a white kerchief. At the back of the parking lot, a man in a truck watched the nun and the boy from behind the steering wheel. He brought them to this spot near Rumbek.
The nun talked low and steadily to the boy as he sat in the cool of this late autumn morning. Her words were in French; he could not understand her. The nun and the boy were shaded from the sun by the building next to which they waited. He shivered at times, but was not uncomfortable.
***
As the nun watched the small boy, she heard the sound of an approaching vehicle. Looking up, she turned around, but could not see, the old building blocking her view. Sister Marie Claire turned toward the boy and said, “I know you cannot understand me, but the surprise I have been telling you about is here. I think you will be very happy and I hope and pray that God continues to bless you. You have been brave and now your prayers have been answered. Please remember the people that helped you for they gave much for this moment to happen. Two of these people were people I love. I hope that, in some way, God will help you to know this.”
A car, an old gray Peugeot with a red front fender, rolled to a stop at the edge of the parking lot, the dust swirling about so thickly that the boy could not see it for a moment. The boy turned at the sound of the car door opening. A woman’s sandaled foot touched the ground. The woman stood by the car and said his name. The nun watched his face, saw his face contort and the tears begin to flow. He uttered something, the word indiscernible, the bear clutched to his chest, an arm outstretched, he ran from the bucket and into her arms. The nun began to weep. The woman held the boy tightly to her chest and whispered something in his ear. The nun heard him saying one word over and over. Her head fell to her chest, tears trailing down her thin face. Sitting behind the wheel of the Peugeot was the young priest from the mission. The nun looked up to see the smile on his face.
With his face buried in her shoulder, the small boy clung to his mother as she carried him to the car, his arms wrapped around her neck. The bear hung by its paw from the boy’s hand. The nun hoped his fears were over and he was no longer afraid.
***
The building housing the Catholic diocese in Rumbek was built with a dark wood, somber in the afternoon’s overcast light. It sat along a narrow-paved road, the asphalt bordered by two broad bands of fine, light dirt, while other buildings, painted white and beige, bravely faced its dark authority Michael Campbell met the bishop on the front steps. “Thank you for seeing me this morning,” he said, a hand extended to be shaken by the prelate.
The corridor leading to the bishop’s office was as dark as the outside, a long narrow hall, clad in a wood Michael did not recognize, stained almost black, light from the open, screened main door reflected on raised parts of the panel’s grain, shiny ragged ribbons along the walls. The office, also dark, with a small wooden desk, scarlet curtains and carpeting the only hint of the church in his office.
“Mr Campbell, how is your friend, Mr Martin?” the bishop asked.
“He’s doing all right, considering. He is paralyzed from the waist down. But, other than that, the doctors expect him to recover. Thank you for asking.”
“You know, I admire what he and the good Sister Marie Claire did. I am completely saddened, however, that a fine young man lost his life in the process. Your friend and the nun have to bear that responsibility forever, I am afraid. We can offer them our forgiveness, but it is not our forgiveness that is important, but that of God,” the bishop said. Michael noted a weariness in the bishop’s voice. Pouring some tea into a cup on his desk, the cleric asked, “Would you like some?”
“No, thank you. Father, I need your help. Hanley’s plane still sits near Shambe. I spent two days there, repairing some damaged oil lines and straightening some cooling fins around cylinders. I also moved it off the road. Some residents of Shambe have been watching it, keeping it from being vandalized. I want to fly it from Sudan to Morocco. I will make a stop in Niger and Algeria. Maybe two in Algeria. I want to leave tomorrow. I do not want any problems. Can you and the church help me?” Michael asked. The bishop busied himself with adding sugar and some milk to his tea.
“You do not need our help. If you have enough fuel to cross the border into Chad or the CAR, then I would say you should leave whenever you want. I’m told the government is not interested in the plane, not yet, at least. I would leave here and take
