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Even though we got back to the farmhouse by late afternoon, because I knew what the media would make of the day, I took the time to call both my kids to let them know I was safe. It was a hard call, especially with Gail and her tears, and I could hear emotion in Richard’s words, both spoken and unsaid. I told them we were just waiting to hear about Russell. Once the police found him, I agreed to have them visit, but I made both realize that they would not talk me into any extended hospital stay. I wanted to die on my own terms, in my own home, surrounded by memories of their mother and the life we had. I assured them that my crusading days were done.
Emily demanded that after a quick bite to eat, I head to bed, and I didn’t argue. I couldn’t remember the ride back to the farm and only ate because there was no arguing with the damn woman.
Neither my bladder nor the pain in my stomach had been enough to wake me, so I got up to find that it was the next day. Emily must have slipped me some pain medication before I slept, but I couldn’t remember a thing. Without a window for fresh air, the heat of the room made me groggy. Finally, fully dressed, I rolled my chair into the kitchen, where a breeze pushed at the bright, white-lace curtains.
Emily rounded the kitchen table with a smile and a handful of pills. “There he is. I was getting worried. I looked in on you a few times, Donald, but you were out like a light, so I figured that was a good thing.”
“Lucky for you, I didn’t wet the bed, otherwise you’d have had more work on your hands.”
I accepted a glass of water and swallowed the pills, two or three at a time.
“Why don’t you go outside. Your horse-children are waiting for their carrots,” she said with a laugh. “I’ll bring your coffee out.”
I nodded, but stopped at the door. “Any word?”
She pursed her lips and shook her head.
I went outside, and I was welcomed by the clomp of hooves making for the fence at the edge of the patio. The big male greeted me with a neigh as he rushed the fence. His mate took her time, refusing to lose her dignity and knowing who was to be first to breakfast. The male’s head bobbed with anticipation, and I couldn’t help grinning. I dug into my pocket and pulled out an apple that I had snagged from the table while Emily had her back to me. Although she never scolded me, her one raised eyebrow at my antics scared the heck out of me.
After relieving my pockets of the sweet treats I’d brought them and rewarding me with a palm rub, both horses meandered around the paddock. I wheeled over to the steaming coffee that Emily had brought out for me. She had retreated into the house, leaving me with my thoughts, such as they were.
I think I was just on autopilot. My mind was numb, and I sat there oblivious to everything around me, my only companions the flashes of yesterday’s violence. Even though I knew Frank and Decker were gone, it felt unreal—like a bad dream. If they walked onto the patio, Frank with his cool demeanor and Decker with his ready-to-please attitude, I wouldn’t have been surprised.
Instead, Mack joined me.
He had two cups of coffee with him, and it was only then that I realized mine had gone ice cold and that I hadn’t touched it. He placed the fresh cup in front of me.
“You okay, Donald? You’ve been staring off into nothing for a while now.”
Swallowing hard, I wrapped my hands around the new mug, absorbing the heat. I hesitated, but then said, “I don’t know what to feel. I lost two of my closet friends and it feels like it never happened.”
“That’s just how your brain protects you from the shock of it all. You just need time to process it.”
“Maybe.” I took a sip of my coffee and enjoyed the sensation of warmth. I could at least feel that.
“You told me yourself that you can’t keep things inside or they’ll eat away at you.”
I grunted. “You can throw my own words at me, but have you ever talked about your own ghosts?”
He looked away and stared towards the horses before returning his gaze to me. With both of his big hands enveloping his coffee mug, he said, “It was in Afghanistan. We were returning from a mission in the northwest, having taken out a couple of key Taliban leaders who were forcing the opium farmers to sell their crops for weapons. Everyone was in a good mood, as the job had gone well.”
Although his eyes had centered on the mug of coffee, I knew he was there living the experience as he told me the details.
“We got a call to make a detour as there had been a report of an attack on a school in a small farming community east of our position. The Canadians had built and equipped a bunch of these schools across the country in an effort to bring education to rural Afghans, especially the girls. The Afghanis would travel for miles for the opportunity, and there were even a couple of buildings to lodge the children, one for boys and one for girls. Before us westerners had arrived, women and girls were not allowed to be educated. That was strictly a male privilege under the Taliban.
“Our trip overland to the community was unremarkable, and we had no encounters with any of the fighters. As we crested the last hill, we saw right off that something was wrong. This town acted as a gathering spot for all the farms in the district and served as a market of sort. Yet, as far as we could see, there was no movement in the valley.
“We went in slowly, expecting to be hit the whole time, but there was no opposition. They’d burnt the school to the ground with all its books and supplies. Charred pieces of paper were scattered all around the structure, the wind tossing black-and-white segments every which way. All the outbuildings were empty. We found ovens still smoking, with husks of burnt bread inside. Kitchens still had uneaten food on the tables. We searched the entire village building by building, but could not find a single person.
“There was blood sign, though. Dried pools of blood showed where someone had bled out, but we also saw blood trails and drags, that told us that some were wounded and tried to escape while they dragged away others.
“It made no sense. We fanned out in ever-increasing circuits around the community until a couple of our men stumbled across an open, communal grave. They also found what was left of the teacher; and, tied to a tree, still barely alive, the village’s headsman. It was from him we learned what had happened.
“The Taliban, wanting to make an example, had killed every schoolgirl, but not before chopping off both of their hands for touching blasphemous teachings. They gave the young boys the choice of joining the females or becoming a fighter for the Islamic extremists. Not surprising, all agreed to join. The Taliban then forced the remaining villagers to make the journey to the next community, thirty miles away, as this village was no long safe for them. They poisoned the well and planned to raze the homes. For the villagers to return, was to die.
“That had been six hours before we got there.
“They had done a good job setting up the ambush. We were caught off guard when the first RPG exploded. They killed two guys instantly. I had been standing over the grave and Dillon and I got tossed into the hole. It might have saved us, but...”
Unseeing eyes flooded with silent tears.
“... those little hands... I’m lying in the pile... they’re covering me... and I have to climb through them... to get out.”
Blood oozes from his mouth and I realize the poor man had bitten his lip to hold himself together. And then this massive warrior breaks down completely as sobs wrack his frame. I sit silently, knowing from long ago that although this is incredibly painful, it’s like lancing a blister. Once all the stored grief, pain, and horror is drained, he can begin to heal.
I was pretty certain that the horrible slaughter we survived yesterday had brought all the baggage he had been carrying around to the forefront: and, like an unwatched pot of oil, it finally boiled over and ignited. Knowing the pain he was experiencing, but also the relief he would feel once done, I was so glad I was able to play my part, if only as a sounding board.
When Mack’s shoulders sagged in exhaustion, I knew the worst was over. I remembered how tired I was the first time I opened up to Maggie. It had been like I had been carrying the weight of a thousand-pound sack over the Alps. I never had noticed just how worn out the stress and memories had made me.
And it hadn’t been a one-time cure. The healing would still take years and another war to get all the hate and anger out of my system. It would take time for Mack as well.
I handed him my handkerchief, and he wiped his eyes, then his face. Surprise crossed his features as he saw blood on it, and he had to explore the lacerated skin of his mouth to realize what he had not even felt at the time.
He cleared his throat. “Sorry,” he grunted, and began to hand me the handkerchief.
“Keep it,” I said, and gave him a gentle smile of understanding. “So, how did you get out of that ambush?”
The question clearly startled him. After a moment, he lifted his cup and drained the now cold coffee. “Mateo,” he said with the hint of a smile. “Even from inside that hole, I could hear rounds from that big rifle of his zinging off the rocks. Like any good sniper, he had never come into the town, but found himself a nest overlooking the area. He took out thirteen before the others gave up and disappeared into the mountains. We had lost our original two, but would have lost more if he hadn’t had our back.”
“You had Mateo, I had Dillon Fox.”
He just nodded.