Riders of the Pale Horse (14 page)

“I hate the idea of leaving those men trapped there,” Wade said.

“That's the spirit,” Rogue said. “Dress up the chance to make a little extra change with some good old-fashioned morals, and all of a sudden the man grows some courage.”

Wade threw him a look but did not challenge Rogue's statement. Instead, he confessed, “That guard with the scar really scares me.”

“Good. Best chance to stay alive is to have your reflexes sharpened with a little fear.”

“So what do we do now?”

“Turn in,” Rogue answered. “Tomorrow's early enough to start working on a back door for our friends. You can take top duty.”

As Wade was stretching out his bedroll on the truck's canvas roof, Rogue raised himself onto the top of the cab. He spent a moment watching the stars, then said, “I watched you with those folks. You've really got the touch.”

Wade slid into the bag. “Touch of what?”

Robards dropped his gaze from the heavens and inspected Wade. “You remind me of somebody I once knew.”

“A friend?”

“Probably woulda been,” Rogue replied, “if he'd lasted long enough.”

“He's dead?”

Rogue nodded. “Took a direct hit in Nam. One meant for me.”

“I'm sorry.”

“Threads had that way of caring for people. Like you. Had your religion too. Big gangly kid. Didn't talk much. All nuts and bolts of different threads, our lieutenant said. That's where he got his tag. Threads. Only time it all came together was when somebody needed help. Then he stopped looking gangly and started...” Rogue shrugged. “He just changed, is all. I don't know how else to explain it.”

Rogue's features cut a sharp silhouette from the night's starry swath. “We were up on the line. All of a sudden the gooks were on us from both sides. The caps started going off like crazy. They lobbed in one of their homemade grenades, landed in a puddle maybe ten feet from me. Threads just fell on it.”

Rogue's voice held the bleakness of a winter wind. “Man, what a waste. I always felt like something in me died with Threads that day. I came outta that war hating two things
more than anything: waste and the lies people put on you to get you to do their dirty work. I decided I was done with waste and I was done with all the lies.”

Wade hesitated, then quietly offered, “You could make the best of your friend live again.”

The massive frame swiveled around. “What are you talking about?”

Again the hesitation, then, “By accepting what gave his life meaning.”

There was a long silence before Rogue turned away. “Threads is dead. That's fact. It's late and I'm tired and we're sitting here jawing about stuff that neither of us knows anything about. That's fact, too. The rest is just your way of trying to fill the vacuum.” He slid from the cab's roof. “Get some sleep. Tomorrow's gonna be a big one.”

8

Allison arose before the day's heat became a burden. From some unseen grove came the fragrance of ripening fruit. The early morning air was alive with scents—nutty smoke, blooming herbs, dark bitter coffee. She opened her window as far as the stubborn hinges would allow and drank in the aroma.

The window faced east and south. Allison was able to look out over a series of rooftops and catch sight of a sliver of sea. The water looked impossibly blue, as did the sky. In fact, the whole landscape was brilliant with color. Silver-green olive trees softened distant hills. Tiny rivulets furrowed the dry earth, their paths lined by brilliant yellow flowers. Allison watched the dawn strengthen and felt an awakening sense of excitement over the beauty and mystery of this land.

She arrived in the kitchen after everyone else had eaten. A communal pot contained coffee of gluelike consistency. A metal serving tray was piled high with cold pita bread. A vat of butter and half-gallon jar of marmalade stood alongside, both covered by cheesecloth to ward off the flies.

As she served herself, a man glanced in, spotted her, and left. Soon afterward, Ben arrived and greeted her with a smile. “I hope you slept well.”

Allison nodded around her mouthful. The bread was utterly tasteless and had the consistency of boiled leather. “Fine. I had a visitor here a minute ago, but I scared him away.”

“Oh, that was probably the clinic's driver, Fareed. He's a product of the old school. He'll be friendly enough once he's been properly introduced to this attractive new foreign lady.” He watched her set down the half-eaten bread and push the plate to one side. “If you are finished with breakfast, perhaps I can show you around.”

Beyond the cramped waiting room, the clinic opened into a series of largish rough-hewn chambers. Ben led her down
a side hall and explained, “This was formerly a tea warehouse, which was very good for us as it meant that at least a modicum of cleanliness was maintained.” He pushed open a door. “This is your office.”

The closet-sized room was jammed full with a desk, chair, and two filing cabinets. Papers were strewn about the desk, piled on every surface, littered across the tiny floor. There was no window.

“We lost our administrative assistant three months ago,” he said. “I'm afraid we have permitted things to get a little behind.”

“A little,” she agreed.

“We deal with the poorest of the poor,” he went on. “People who are disowned by clan and society. Bedouins, Palestinians from the more impoverished neighborhoods, workers within the truck compound and harbor, illegal guest workers from other Arab states who cannot afford a licensed doctor's fee. Our money comes from various missionary and hospital associations. Forms for this, and the stock lists, will make up the majority of your work. I also make rounds through outlying areas. I'll expect you to accompany me.”

She nodded her understanding. “Granting me entry to closed-off areas.”

In response, Ben pushed her gently into the office. By scrunching up beside her, he managed to close the door. In a low voice he said, “You would be well advised to say as little about that as possible.”

She stared at him. “You have spies working in the clinic?”

“One of whom we know for certain. His name is Ali, and I alternate between thinking that he is a delightful young man and a pestilent little demon.”

“But if you know who he is, why don't you get rid of him?”

“Because any outside group such as ours will be carefully watched. That Ali is both young and overly vocal suggests they consider us to be relatively harmless.”

The thought of such subterfuge at close range chilled her. “But there might be others.”

“Certainly others whose sympathies lie more with the fundamentalists than with the West,” he replied quietly. “But they are excellent workers and willing to consider compassion as an alternative to hatred. So I remain certain only about Ali.”

“I'll be careful,” she said solemnly.

“Good.” He pulled open the door and ushered her back outside. “Now let me show you the women's and children's wards.”

The wards were packed to overflowing, both with patients and families. Each bed had its own little gathering, and most gatherings carried on running commentaries among themselves. Talk ceased at Allison's entry, but with Ben Shannon at her elbow, she was quickly accepted and ignored. Ben showed calm courtesy to patients and families alike, gently resisting their pleas to join lengthy discussions. The nurses were introduced. They gave Allison friendly yet reserved greetings of those accustomed to taking time to inspect before granting full approval.

The flies troubled her tremendously—that and the cries of the children. A little girl of perhaps five clung to a bearded, beturbaned grandfather and wailed as the nurse pressed a stethoscope to her bare chest. For an instant, Allison saw through the young girl's eyes; a strange, uniformed woman in this world of sharp lines and alien smells pressed a bright cold piece of metal against her body, while her beloved grandfather forced her to submit. It was terrifying.

Just inside the second chamber, a querulous little voice halted their passage. Ben sat beside the little form in the bed, accepted the fist that grasped his lapel with panic strength, and replied with a softness that for some reason brought a lump to Allison's throat.

Ben looked up at her and said, “This boy survives on strength of spirit alone. He was shot in the abdomen by a
stray bullet during one of our fratricidal conflicts. Now he has a severe infection. He can rarely keep food down.”

“Can't you do anything?”

Instead of replying, he bent over the boy, placed a hand on the flushed forehead, and spoke softly. The boy chirped a reply, his fever-bright eyes glittering. “He says he feels a song coming on,” Ben told her quietly.

The boy began to sing in a cracked and wavering voice, the tonal changes making no sense to her Western-trained ear. But the sound brought smiles out from the two nurses working elsewhere in the room and a few handclaps from other bedridden patients. The boy sang and sang, then his energy simply disappeared. He wilted like a flower under a desert heat; one moment he was bright and warbling, the next he was simply not there. His eyes lost their focus, his jaw slackened, his hands dropped like weights. Ben Shannon remained bent over him for a moment, stroking his forehead and whispering words not meant for Allison.

Then he straightened and gave her a weary smile. “Shall we continue?” He walked on down the ward.

Allison found herself unable to move. She was surrounded by need and fear and pain, and felt utterly helpless.

He returned to find her standing in the middle of the floor. “I thought you were following me.” He stepped closer. “Do you realize you are crying?”

“No, I...”

He grasped her arm and gently steered her forward. “Come along. Let's make you a nice cup of tea. I'm afraid that's the strongest thing we can offer you here.”

Ben settled Allison in her new office, brought tea, and seated himself opposite her. He did not speak, gave no explanations, did not try to explain it all away. When she was once again capable of thought, she saw the wisdom of his deed. There was nothing he could say to change the way things were here. Either she could accept them or she could not. It was her choice.

She took the time to study him. As a child, her only contact with religion had been through Ben Shannon. Because of his personality, she had come to associate religious belief with a constantly open mouth. But now, Ben seemed more comfortable with silence than anyone she had ever met.

“Cyril was right,” she eventually said.

“About what, my dear?”

“He told me I'd find you changed.”

Ben did not deny it. “Did he give you a reason?”

“He said it was your wife and the desert.”

“They were certainly important. But Cyril's description lacks what my wife calls the yeast of a well-lived life.”

“And what is that?”

“Before I arrived here,” Ben replied, “my life spoke so loudly of my faults that no one could hear what I was saying. But this land and these people are a quieter world than any I have ever known. Learning the lesson of silence forced me to see my life and my heart for what they were. Before, I walked across the stage of life like a poorly trained actor, reading hollow lines placed in my mouth by a preacher or a book or the Scriptures, but never really understanding what was being said. I simply lived my assigned part. I was desperate to avoid taking a long, close look at who I was on the inside. When I came here, the actor's role was stripped away, and suddenly the lie of my untested heart was exposed.”

Allison's brow furrowed. Ben was speaking to her, and yet at the same time he appeared to be speaking beyond her. If there was anything in his voice besides a quiet desire to share, it was gratitude.

“The whole concept of mission to the Muslim world must be very low key,” Ben went on. “We tell all newcomers that you cannot evangelize on a street corner here for two days, because on the first day you would be arrested and either tortured or killed. No, you must show the love of Christ in word and deed and prayer. You share His mercy in public action
until someone finally asks why, and then with an individual ready to listen you share in private word.”

“That must have been tough for you,” she replied. “Pop used to say that once you started on religion, if everybody left the room you'd have tried to convert your own shadow.”

“That sounds exactly like your father.” He toyed with his glass for a moment, then went on. “Living with silence teaches a great deal. When you cannot speak, you learn to share more from the heart. Instead of giving words, you give love. After having spent so much time here, it now appears to me that many Christians substitute words for love. They have mouths like foghorns and hearts like lemons. A year of silent service might teach them what is more important, a big heart or a big mouth. It certainly did me.”

When Ben excused himself to see to his rounds, Allison sought refuge where she had always been most comfortable—in work. It was slow going at first, but by midday she was beginning to orient herself.