Читать книгу The Doctor's Mission - Debbie Kaufman - Страница 13

Chapter Five

Mary clutched the extra blankets Hannabo had surreptitiously secured for them from their gear and followed Clara, ducking into the low opening of the mud hut. Once inside she straightened. The conical roof gave more openness than she’d realized. The floor was smooth, packed dirt with faint round marks overlapping at regular intervals. The smooth clay walls lacked a window and the only real light came from the open doorway.

Squinting against the dimness, she made out two elevated wooden pallets to her right. They seemed high for a bed, sitting a few feet off the floor. She placed the blankets on the one closest to her.

She slid her pack off her shoulders and laid it at the foot of the pallet. Clara groaned in relief enough for both of them as her pack came off and said, “Right now almost anything looks comfortable. Even wood covered with a thin reed mat.”

“Not exactly my idea of comfort. But I’m too exhausted from being such a troublemaker to care.”

“You aren’t a troublemaker, Dr. Mary.” Clara’s grin came through as Mary’s eyes adjusted to the low light. “You’re just used to being in charge.”

“Exactly. If Pastor Mayweather would only talk to me instead of barking orders, maybe I wouldn’t have caused him such problems.”

“Rare is the man who can treat a woman like an equal. Even at the hospital they wanted to relegate you to anesthesia and not surgery.”

The pain of loss stabbed Mary’s chest. “They were right. The most important operation of my life and I botched it.” Tears threatened to flow. Exhaustion was breaking down both her muscles and her emotions.

Clara stepped close and put her arm around Mary. “You didn’t botch anything. Your brother was too far gone by the time he arrived at the hospital. Not even that braggart Dr. Hubbard could have saved him—no matter what he said.”

Mary looked at Clara through unshed tears. “I wish my father saw it that way. Jeremy died on my operating table. Father’s letter spelled out whom he held responsible for his only son’s loss.”

“Now, now. Grief did his speaking for him. Grief will pass and he’ll think it through. He’ll come around. Your father loves you. He supported your studies to become a physician in the first place.”

Mary pulled away and picked up the blankets. “I don’t know, Clara. He made his opinion pretty clear that nothing I did could ever atone for costing him his only son.” Mary arranged the blankets over the planks as best she could. “I’m afraid I agree with him.”

“Nonsense. A German soldier killed him. Men die in war, plain and simple.”

Mary sat down on the pallet and unhooked her panniers one at a time. “Well, what’s my excuse this time? If I hadn’t reacted to that gunshot and just stayed put, we wouldn’t be in any danger.”

Clara’s belly laugh startled Mary. She looked up from unlacing her boots. “Dr. Mary, we’re in the middle of the Liberian jungle with heathen tribes known for their cannibalism. Of course we’re in danger. You think the chief wouldn’t see or hear about a pretty woman with red hair anyway?”

Mary turned up the corners of her mouth despite her fatalism. She reached and pulled the pins from her hair, letting down the long plait and wagging the tresses ruefully. “I suppose you’re right. My hair has always been a beacon for trouble.”

Clara’s face turned serious. “God made you exactly right, my girl. From the color of your hair to the desire He gave you to be a doctor. We just have to trust that He will protect us in this eternal battlefield.”

Mary slid off her right sock and removed the plaster from her small toe. No signs of infection, but she pretended to study the healing area awhile to take in what Clara said. It sounded like what William had said, only without the anger. They both envisioned God’s plan so clearly. She just wanted to bury herself away, do some good with her training and not think so much about God’s plan for her. Since Jeremy died, her faith had faltered to the point she wasn’t sure she could even know God’s plan in her life anymore.

Mary took the fresh plaster Clara offered her from her bag. Even if the God of her childhood was real, did He have a plan for their lives? Otherwise, why would Jeremy have died? Jeremy and so many boys like him. Where was God’s protection, his plan in the Forest of Argonne?

Clara’s soft voice interrupted her contemplations. “We all have doubts sometimes, Dr. Mary. Take them to Him. He’s the only one with real answers for them.”

Mary’s tears hung back at the border of her lower lids and she blinked to dispel them. Clara generously pretended not to notice while she explored the small hut. “No place for a fire. I thought there would be some sort of pit in the center.”

“I don’t know. This hut seems a lot smaller than the ones we passed. Maybe they have them. Or they do all their cooking in the open like the groups we passed with cook pots.”

“True. Speaking of food, I wonder what we are to do about dinner.”

Mary formed a reply, but Hannabo stuck his head in the doorway first. “Mammies, food is here.”

“Oh, thank the Lord. I’m starved.” Clara’s enthusiasm was infectious and Mary’s stomach rumbled in response.

Two of the village women entered single file. One, a young girl of about fifteen whom Mary hadn’t seen on their walk through the village, smiled shyly. She wore twice the amount of necklaces Mary counted on the other women they’d passed and had a bright red skirt wrapped and tied around her hips and chest. Her well-fed appearance made sense when she bent to place a wooden bowl of steaming liquid in Clara’s hands. Pregnant. And so young. Only four to five months, but pregnant nonetheless. Mary hoped her own expression didn’t mirror the shock on Clara’s when she seemed to come to the same conclusion.

This girl, still a child in many ways, at home would have been in school, giggling with girlfriends, maybe even mooning over a handsome boy. Here she was already someone’s wife.

Mary stole her attention from the girl’s pregnant belly and focused on the wooden bowl offered to her. Steaming soup. What kind she didn’t know.

The woman in the faded blue skirt she’d seen earlier stirring the cook pot stood in front of Clara. A lot less jewelry adorned her. Was this a sign of status? If so, this young girl outranked her older counterpart. This woman looked to be only in her late twenties, but a hard life displayed itself in the weariness, the long lines around the woman’s mouth. Her life story was summed up in her face.

The same face also clearly advertised the woman’s feelings. Was all that hatred directed at her? Why?

Mary wondered as she took the steaming bowl and the women stepped back. The two women gave no indication of leaving, and Mary questioned if there was a ritual to the meal. Getting no cues from the women, she lifted the bowl up and inhaled the aroma.

She took a glance at Clara who sat holding her bowl with one eyebrow raised as if to say, you first. Ha! Afraid of monkey again.

Mary smiled at the two women now standing to the side, watching intently. She infused her voice with a cheery note and said to Clara, “Probably chicken soup. Whatever you do, let’s not offend them.”

Mary lifted the bowl to her lips and took a small sip which she balanced on her tongue, mouth open to cool the heat. Heat which never cooled.

She swallowed. Real tears came to her eyes and her sinuses began to run. She managed to stutter, “A little spicy.” Somehow she kept the smile plastered to her face. The younger woman giggled behind the hand now covering her mouth. The older one lifted her chin as if in challenge.

Mary managed to take another sip and smile. After all, once her tongue started singing soprano, what did more spice matter? The older woman’s eyebrows went up ever so slightly. Respect? Mary couldn’t be sure. But she never backed away from a challenge.

She finished the bowl completely and waited to grab for her canteen until the women backed out of the hut.

Clara’s face flashed between pale and a little green. Sweat poured off her. “I don’t know how you swallowed the soup, Dr. Mary. I’m not sure mine is going to stay down.”

“Did you catch the expression on the older woman? She expected her food to be insulted.”

“What was in that anyway?”

“Pepper of some kind. Let me ask Hannabo.” Mary stuck her head out the door. William and Hannabo held their heads together in conversation. Surely she hadn’t done something else she didn’t understand.

Hannabo caught sight of her and said something to William. He turned around and walked over to her. “Is there a problem?”

“Not unless you consider having our tongues completely numbed from dinner.” She tried for a smile so he’d know she spoke in humor.

The serious look on William’s face dropped instantly and his eyes crinkled in merriment. “Red pepper. A country-wide favorite. Since you’re an honored guest, I am sure the spicing was generous.”

“You could have warned me. I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to taste food again.”

“You will. It was a little tough to swallow my first time, too. The wives looked pleased when they left, so you must have held your tongue, so to speak.”

Mary marveled at this lighthearted side of William. She’d begun thinking he possessed only a serious side. “Why Pastor Mayweather, is that a pun? Humor becomes you.”

And just as quickly as it was there, the smile vanished. “Is there anything else you need for the night, Doctor?”

Mary wasn’t sure what to make of the sudden turn in demeanor. “No, we’re fine. Did I say something wrong?”

“No, of course not. Not this time at least.”

Of all the things to say. Couldn’t he just be nice and let it go at that? She bit back a scathing retort as he said, “If there’s nothing else then, may I remind you a lot of celebrating will go on in the village tonight. A lot of religious ceremonies are conducted after nightfall.”

Mary shuddered despite the waning heat. “What kind of ceremonies?”

William’s eyes narrowed and he tilted his head for emphasis. “None you need to be attending.”

This time she did sputter. “I assure you, I hadn’t planned to attend. I was merely curious.”

“See that you keep your curiosity in check this time.”

Of all the gall. He turned on his heel and returned to where Hannabo was waiting. Mary stood rooted and gape-mouthed at the man’s insolence. After a few seconds, William walked off and Hannabo came to stand at the entrance to their hut.

“Where’s Pastor Mayweather going, Hannabo?”

“Nana Pastor, he goes to speak to Chief. He hopes to show Nana Bolo the one true God and get him to put away his fetishes. He will not succeed.”

“Why not?”

“Nana Karl has tried for years. Nana Bolo’s devilmen are powerful. They have already given him what he wants. He will not listen to the stories of the white man’s God.”

“Devilmen? What do you mean?”

“They hold the magic. Their conjures are strong. The young girl who brought you dinner?”

“Yes, she is with child, I believe.”

Hannabo’s head nodded vigorous assent. “Because of the Devilmen. Nana Bolo made his offering when she did not conceive for some time.”

“Nonsense. Conception is not a sign of magic.”

“Devilmen do many things, miracles sometimes, Mammy Doctor. I believe in the Jesus God, but I’ve seen devilmen work. They hold much power.”

A shiver that belied the heat ran through her. Evil seemed so distant back at home in a Virginia church. Not so distant on the battlefield. Witchcraft prevailed in this darkness.

“Our worlds are very different this way, Hannabo.”

He nodded in response.

“There is another difference I wanted to ask about. Why do some of the women cover their…uh, chests and some do not?” She felt silly being embarrassed, but it was one thing to examine someone and another to ask about modesty issues so specifically to a man.

Hannabo replied as if it was no issue at all. “Young girls who are not promised in marriage wear only the skirt. Once they are promised or married, they wear more to show their status.”

So it was a question of status, just not the way she’d thought. She said good night and went back into the dark hut, feeling her way to her bed. Clara was stretched out, already snoring. Mary sat on the hard pallet and wondered what kind of witchcraft Hannabo had seen to make him think it held power. Exhaustion took a stronger hold than her questions, and she lay back to fall into a fitful sleep filled with the rhythm of drums, shouts and fervor.

When quiet finally reigned, she sunk into a deep inky blackness even dreams couldn’t penetrate. Later, a rooster announced the dawn. More than once.

Foolish fowl. The sun wasn’t up yet. She tried to shake off the hold sleep claimed but kept dozing off.

The only thing finally piercing the veil of slumber and startling her completely awake were the screams.