3

HE OBVIOUSLY WASN’T HIT,” Jason said.

Leiah sat in the front passenger seat and glanced back at Caleb’s frail, bouncing figure staring off at the sharp, angular landscape. The boy hadn’t offered any explanation, at least none that she or Jason could understand. He’d rattled off a string of words in Ge’ez, the language preferred by most Ethiopian Orthodox priests, but they meant nothing to her. She wasn’t even sure if the boy spoke English, although it wouldn’t surprise her. If the priests had taught him Amharic and Ge’ez, they’d likely exposed him to English as well.

She looked back at the American. “What? The bullet just frightened the soldier and he fainted?”

“No. But it obviously didn’t cause any damage. Dead men don’t run back to their trucks and drive off.”

“And neither do soldiers who have the enemy pinned down.”

He looked at her with a raised eyebrow—a don’t-be-smart look. “You always mock men who save your neck?” His eyes were nearly as blue as her own. He could be of Scandinavian descent with the blond hair.

“Save my neck? You mean like you did with that peashooter of yours? Forgive me, I’d nearly forgotten.”

“You’re alive, aren’t you? Last time I looked, the monastery was pretty much leveled. You may not be thrilled with this ride, but like it or not, it’s saved your neck.”

He’s right, Leiah. This man saved your life. “You’re right. It hasn’t been an easy day.”

Jason stared ahead without responding. They would head straight for Addis Ababa, he’d said, an eight-hour journey on these roads. From there they would see.

She watched the muscles on his arm flex as he gripped the wheel. It took a strong man to live in this country, and he’d done it for two years, he’d said. He wore blue jeans and a well-worn khaki shirt rolled at the sleeves, both layered with dust—typical American.

“Maybe the soldier was wearing a vest of some kind,” she said. “Or you hit his belt or something. Enough to knock him out without hurting him.”

Jason nodded. “Makes sense.” He shook his head. “What doesn’t make sense is why they haven’t picked up the chase again. But they’re coming. There’s no way they chased us this far if they had any intention of letting us go. Something’s not adding up.”

“And why do you suppose they took off in the first place?”

“They fled because they were terrified by my carefully placed shots, that’s why,” he said, grinning. “Either way they did. For now anyway.”

She smiled, slightly amused. “So you’re with the Peace Corps? They’ve already been withdrawn from Eritrea.”

“And from northern Ethiopia. Trust me, I’m not out sightseeing. I did this as a favor to an old friend who I’ll probably never see again.”

“How long have you been with the Corps?”

“Almost two years on this assignment. Before that, two years in the Congo. Not much better than this.”

“So you don’t approve?”

He looked at her past her furrowed eyebrows. “I wouldn’t have given four years of my life to this place if I didn’t care for the people. I don’t see you running back to Eritrea.”

“My camp was wiped out. I saw hundreds of unarmed civilians killed in less than an hour. I’m not running from the people.”

“And neither am I.”

Neither spoke for a few minutes. She had never been good with men. At least not North American men. It was part of her reason for leaving Canada seven years earlier. A head doctor—Dr. Flannagan, his gold door sign read—had once given her some psychobabble about insecurities brought on by her burns, but she rejected the reasoning wholesale. She could hardly be more secure.

And what if Dr. Flannagan was right?

So what if he was right? Everyone on the planet struggled with at least a smidgen of insecurity.

She shook her head at the thought. “I’m sorry. Like I said, it’s been a bad day. So what are you running from?” That sounded bad, so she quickly explained. “They say that everybody in Africa is running from something.”

Jason stared ahead without turning, his jaw line firm. It struck her looking at him that his complexion was as pure as she had seen. Darkened by the sun and silted with dust, but unbroken.

“I have a degree in agriculture,” he finally said. “I’ve spent the last two years with the Irob people on the border, propagating an unusual method of soil conservation they developed.”

“Really? How so?”

He looked at her carefully, as if to judge whether she had genuine interest. “They build sandstone walls along the escarpments leading down to the Red Sea to collect soil that washes from the highlands.”

“The Alitena gardens. I’ve heard of them,” she said.

He looked surprised. “You have? And what brings you?”

“Me? I’m just a nurse.” She didn’t let him pursue the question. “So then, here we are, the Peace Corps and the Red Cross. Regardless of how we got here, we’re now on the same mission. We might as well make the best of it.”

“And what mission would that be?”

“The boy, of course.”

“Your mission?”

“Ours. Why not?”

She shifted her gaze to a small cluster of stone huts on the outskirts of Biset. A young man leaned on his cane next to a smoldering field of tef grain. The man watched them pass with a blank stare.

Leiah looked over her shoulder. Caleb had his head twisted back, watching the scene. He must have sensed her, because he turned around. His large aqua eyes locked onto her, questioning and thoroughly innocent. He stared into her eyes without blinking. What kind of boy was this who had never seen beyond the monastery until today? And what did he make of these two people arguing before him? For that matter, could he even understand their words?

She suddenly wanted to reach out and take the boy into her arms.

Leiah cleared her throat and spoke slowly in her broken Amharic. “Are you all right, Caleb?”

He hesitated and then nodded. “Hara,” he said softly. Yes. He looked away then, without changing his expression.

Leiah felt a sudden lump rise to her throat. The boy was like her in many ways. They were both alone. So much alone.

“Let me take the boy to Kenya,” she said.

Jason didn’t answer.

“There’s a refugee camp on the border. I was thinking of possibly going there. Or I could take him to the coast. Either way he would be safe with me.” She would’ve thought Jason would jump at the suggestion. Instead he avoided her look and stared ahead.

“Father Matthew wanted him out of the country, didn’t he? I’ll take him for you,” she offered. “In a way his evacuation provided for mine. It’s the least I can do.”

“We’ll see,” he said.

They drove south on a paved road now, quiet in their own thoughts.

Caleb’s mind spun with the new world. When he climbed into the truck and buried his head in the woman’s garment, he’d told himself that it was all another vision—a dream in the night. It had to be, because even though Dadda had told him that the world was going to change, nothing in real life could be like this.

But when he’d opened his eyes, the world had not changed. He was still in the truck (he knew it was a truck because he’d seen a picture of one in the book Father Timons had shown him once), and he was still moving very fast on the hard path. What was this, a part of the kingdom of heaven? Or maybe hell—he was being shown hell. But it wasn’t a vision, was it?

The mountains seemed much bigger than he would have guessed. Dadda had told him that the hills around the monastery went very far and reached very high, but looking at them now for the first time he thought they were touching the sky. If he could climb up one of those, he might be able to see God.

He looked at the man and woman in the front. They called each other Jason and Leiah, and it was obvious that Jason and Leiah were both angry people. They didn’t know how to speak kindly. It was no wonder Dadda had suggested he not leave the monastery until it was time. And if he was leaving the monastery as Dadda had told him he would one day, he didn’t know how he could manage with such odd men and women. Even the ones in the other truck had been angry. The world was full of grumpy, angry people who wanted to hurt each other.

But Jason did not mean to hurt him—he knew that. Miss Leiah loved him. So did Jason, he thought, although he wasn’t very good with showing his love. He should spend a few years with Dadda.

Caleb heard the sound of a bird, and he turned to a gaping valley beside the road. Below them, but high above a tiny river, glided a big bird. Maybe as big as he. The sight sent a chill down his spine. What a lovely creature! They had pigeons and doves and some other small birds at the monastery, but nothing so big.

When he returned he would have to tell Dadda about this bird.

If I could be a bird,

If I could be a bird,

I would fly to heaven and land in my Father’s hair.

He smiled.

Jason drove south with a feeling of disconcertion gnawing at his mind, as if a tick were working discreetly away up there. He had a surplus of excuses, of course: it was not every day you saw a monastery obliterated seconds after stepping from its sanctuary. And how many of this planet’s inhabitants would ever have a stream of bullets part their hair while they lay sweating on the ground? It was no wonder his head was throbbing.

Then again he was alive, which was in itself a wonder.

It’s the boy, Jason.

He grunted and was rewarded with a quick look from Leiah. The nurse with the stunning face and the scarred body and a mouth big enough to swallow Africa. It was her offer to take the boy that dug at him, he thought. Which made no sense. He could be rid of both of them with the nod of his head, for crying out loud. And this was not good?

Not really.

No? And why not, dear Jason? Father Matthew would approve.

It suddenly occurred to him that he hadn’t examined the papers Father Matthew had given him. He pulled the envelope from his breast pocket, steadied the wheel with his left knee, and tore it open. Inside were two sheets of paper. He managed to unfold them without running off the road. An immigration form and a letter.

He scanned the pages quickly, surprised by their content.

“What is it?” Leiah asked. It was her first question in over an hour.

“Nothing.”

But it was something. The form was a consular general recommendation for Temporary Protective Status under section 44 of the Immigration and Naturalization Law, completed and signed by the priest and an embassy official. If Jason wasn’t mistaken, an Immigration and Naturalization Service officer had been persuaded that the boy might have claim to U.S. citizenship as a birthright. His mother may have been an American nurse.

The commander who had deposited the boy at the monastery’s gates had killed an American nurse. Or so the theory went, but the evidence was inconclusive. Still, enough cause for investigation.

Furthermore, as long as Caleb remained on the African continent, his life was at risk. Father Matthew had signed custody of the boy over to World Relief ’s resettlement program. All it required was the signature of an authorized agent of custody in the event of the priest’s death.

Father Matthew wanted the boy in the United States.

Of course that was insane. There was no way Jason could take the boy back to the States with him. He shoved the papers back into his pocket.

“They’re for the boy?” Leiah asked.

“Yes.”

“And?”

“And we’ll need to pull over for gas in Woldia. Maybe, just maybe, we’ve made it far enough south to avoid any more run-ins with the EPLF. I don’t want to hold you up. If you want, you could take a bus to wherever you’re going.”

“Take a bus from Woldia? To where?”

“You mentioned Kenya.”

She hesitated. “With the boy?”

“I’m still thinking about the boy. Either way you could go.”

“Why do I get the feeling you wouldn’t mind my going?”

“I didn’t say that. You’re headed for Kenya; I’m not.”

“I really think the boy should stay with me. I’m with the Red Cross, for goodness’ sake. He’s now a refugee; let me take him.”

He didn’t respond.

She turned away from him and stared at the passing hills. They fell into an awkward silence.

Jason considered apologizing. She hardly deserved the cold shoulder he was dishing out. Thing of it was, he didn’t even know why he was so bothered by her. She’d done nothing to hurt him or the boy. She was strong willed; that much she couldn’t hide if she wanted to. But then he was usually attracted to strong women.

It’s the boy, Jason.

They rolled on to the hum of the road. Jason looked back once and met the boy’s eyes. They stared large and innocent. His dark, wavy hair fluttered in the wind. He sat with his hands limp in his lap, and it occurred to Jason that he was in shock.

Jason smiled. “Tadius.” Hello, friend.

“Tadius,” the boy returned, smiling sheepishly.

It was the first smile since leaving the monastery, Jason thought. His heart suddenly felt heavy staring into those innocent round eyes. He faced the road and swallowed. Maybe it was the boy.

Beside him Leiah had nodded off with her head against the roll bar. Her hair lay against her cheek in delicate black strands. Her complexion was smooth over her nose and her lips, down past her chin to the base of her neck, where the burn scars began. Looking at it now, Jason blinked at the sight. Judging by the scarred tissue at her wrists, he surmised that her whole upper torso had been baked in a fire. The fire had either missed her face, or reconstructive surgery had given her a new one.

Either way, the result was a stunning display of contrasts. Watching her at any distance in her tunic, you would see only a beautiful woman with a silky tanned face and the eyes of the sky. But under her garments lay a mangled mess of skin.

Jason removed his eyes and studied the asphalt rolling to meet them. He had been too hard on her. Whatever had brought her to this rugged land was no less than his own reason for coming. What are you running from? she had asked. And what are you running from, Leiah?

She was right about one thing: they were now both running with the boy . . . this enigma behind them, who had never before today seen an automobile, much less fled for his life in one. Who did not hesitate to run into the field of fire to see a wounded man up close. The boy was either badly disturbed or so totally innocent he simply could not understand even the most obvious threat. He would be lost in a UNHCR refugee camp.

They rolled into the outskirts of Woldia with the sun nudging the western slope of the Great Rift Valley. The dusty concrete streets were a maze of activity, filled with more than the usual fare of drawn carts and old automobiles spewing plumes of gray smoke. News of the attacks farther north had obviously quickened the pace even this far south.

“We’re here?” Leiah looked around, dazed by sleep.

“Welcome to the lovely metroplex of Woldia.”

She chuckled. Jason braked for a crossing horse-drawn cart loaded with bulging gunnysacks. Wheat. The driver shot them a stern glare and pulled in front of the Jeep without concern for his own safety.

They pulled into a dilapidated BP gas station five minutes later. An attendant ran out, eager to service them. Even as far south as Woldia, jean-clad Europeans were immediately branded as tourists loaded with cash. Jason asked for a full tank of fuel and an oil check and climbed out. Leiah was already out, extending a hand for the boy, who sat gazing about from his rear-seat perch.

“Come on, Caleb,” Leiah urged. “Stretch your legs.”

The boy had settled his stare across the road where a street merchant dressed in a bright red tunic sat surrounded by his caged birds. Jason saw the boy’s interest and motioned to Leiah. “You go ahead and visit the rest room. I’ll take the boy across the street to see the birds.”

Leiah hesitated before dropping her arm and heading for the small tin shack labeled “Rest Rome” in broad black letters on a cockeyed wooden sign.

“Come on, kid. You want to see the birds?”

The boy glanced at him and returned his eyes to the cages. He suddenly stood and hopped to the ground. Without waiting for Jason, he struck out across the street.

“Hold on!” Jason took after the boy into the busy street. A small pale yellow Fiat honked its horn and slid to a stop three feet from the boy.

The driver’s face puffed red with angry objections, but the Fiat’s window was up, and Caleb only looked curiously at the man’s shaking jowls. He walked past the car, fixated once again on the birds.

Jason lifted his hand in a hasty apology to the driver and hurried after the boy. The incident had gathered some attention from pedestrians strolling along the cracked sidewalk. “Caleb . . . Caleb wait.”

But Caleb did not wait. In fact he was suddenly running. His eyes were now wide in a look of sheer horror, and he ran right up to the merchant’s collection of thirty or so cages.

They were the typical tubular cages which frequented markets throughout Ethiopia, holding a variety of birds, in this case mostly white-collared pigeons. The merchant had his back turned to Caleb, but at least a dozen onlookers had now stopped and focused on the boy. He was of mixed race, an unusual sight to be sure. But it was his expression, Jason thought; his face held such a blend of innocence and anguish that it would have stopped a dumb mule had one been in front of the boy.

At the last possible moment, Jason knew what the boy intended to do, and he broke into a run. He spoke sternly but quietly, not eager to draw attention, although with the running he was beyond that. “Caleb, stop! Don’t touch the birds . . .”

It was too late. The boy reached the first cage, flipped the gate open, and pulled a rather strange-looking bird free. A look of delight splashed across Caleb’s face as the bird flapped noisily to the sky. He giggled.

The merchant spun around at the sound, but before either he or Jason could reach him, Caleb had repeated the process with another cage, setting free another bird of the same species. He was turning to a third cage when Jason reached him and grabbed the arm extended for the cage.

Had Jason not been there, the merchant would have probably slapped the boy’s head from his shoulders. As it was he screamed a string of obscenities and flung his hands to the sky. A crowd was gathering, delighted at the show.

Jason pulled Caleb back. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why he did that.”

The merchant immediately switched to English. “You must pay! You must pay!” He looked at the sky, lifted his arms as if beseeching the sky for mercy, and swore in Amharic. “These are very rare birds, you know. Very rare! Abyssinian catbird! You will pay for these now!”

Jason was reaching for his wallet already. “Yes, of course. I’m sorry. I don’t know what got into him. Please, how much?”

Around them the crowd was cackling and pointing to the skyline, where the two birds had perched themselves on a three-story building.

“Very rare, you know. These are very rare, very expensive birds.” The merchant now had his eyes on Jason’s wallet.

“Of course, and I’m very sorry. Please how much do you want?”

Caleb stepped away from Jason and stood looking up at the merchant. He spoke in a dialect of Amharic usually reserved for Orthodox religious ceremonies. “What will you do with these birds?”

The sound of the language from the boy’s mouth cut through the crowd like a sword. A hush swallowed their laughter. The merchant looked from the boy to Jason and then back again.

“Please, tell me what you will do with these birds,” the boy repeated.

“I will sell them.”

“And why would you sell them?”

“They are a delicacy. What do you care, you thieving young scoundrel?”

“He’s hardly a thieving scoundrel,” Jason said. They were speaking in separate languages now: the merchant and the boy in Amharic and Jason in English. “He’s an innocent boy who obviously loves birds. Not everyone is set on killing every piece of meat they can find.”

The merchant’s face grew red. “And what do you know, you farenji? Perhaps you need to be taught a lesson.”

“I meant no insult. Just tell me what you charge for the birds.”

“In the cages, two pounds each. But they are not in their cages. They are on the roofs. Now you must pay five pounds each.”

A rumble of agreement went through the crowd, as if this ploy were a particularly clever move on the merchant’s part.

“And that’s highway robbery, my friend,” Jason said.

A note sounded very softly, like a tuning fork, quiet but pure, echoing at the back of Jason’s mind. Someone was singing. Jason extracted some small bills from his wallet, and the crowd hushed.

The note sounded like the perfect C, held unwavering, and it occurred to Jason that it wasn’t his wallet but this singing that had hushed the crowd. He looked down to see Caleb’s chin lifted lightly and his eyes closed. The boy’s mouth was parted in a pure, crystalline note that carried on the air, effectively silencing the crowd. Even the merchant had frozen and now stared at the boy.

From the corner of his eye, Jason saw Leiah step from the rest room and pull up at the sight. He turned to her and their eyes met. It must be strange, he thought, to look across the street and see him and the boy surrounded by a crowd while the boy sang this odd note of perfection. The entire street seemed to have turned its attention to the boy now. A donkey drawing a cart twenty yards up the street stopped and turned its head to the scene. Even the drivers in the cars that drove by were craning their necks for a view of the commotion by the bird merchant’s cages.

Still the note hung in the air, undisturbed and soft. The crowd now stared at the boy as if he were performing an astounding feat right before their very eyes. But it was just a note sung from the thin lips of a ten-year-old boy.

And then it was more. Because then the two Abyssinian birds who had flown to freedom took flight again. Only this time they flew to the boy. On wings that seemed to flap too slowly for their flight, they fluttered through the air, over the street and over the crowd, which lifted its eyes as one and watched. The birds hovered just above the boy for a moment and then settled onto his shoulders.

Caleb opened his eyes and smiled. He took the birds from his shoulders and set them back in their cages. Now the crowd found its voice: murmurs of incredulity.

Caleb looked up at him, and Jason knew precisely what the boy was thinking. He wanted the birds. Jason pulled out four pounds and paid the reduced price to the merchant. “Your price for the birds?”

The man nodded.

“Jason!” The piercing scream came from the gas station, and Jason spun to see Leiah frantically pointing up the street. He followed her arm. A truck blared its horn as it picked its way through the crowded traffic.

Jason saw the markings clearly then. It was an EPLF Land Rover identical to the one that had cornered them in the canyon!

Panic crowded his throat and he spun back to the boy. Caleb had one bird out and he threw it in the air. He laughed and went for the second bird, oblivious to the danger behind them.

“We have to go, Caleb! Leave it!” He grabbed the boy’s arm.

But Caleb pulled away, snatched the second bird from its cage, and threw it into the air.

Jason lifted the boy from his feet and spun to the street. Someone from the crowd had spotted the EPLF vehicle and was shouting frantically. The street broke into pandemonium. From the truck’s direction a machine gun began to pop, and the Land Rover broke through the traffic.

Jason saw all of this in the time it took for three draws of breath, and by then it was too late. He’d left the Jeep across the street, and the Land Rover was closing the gap with a full-throated roar.

“Jason!” He snapped his head back to the street before him. Leiah was shouting at him from the driver’s seat of his Jeep. She had swung the Jeep around! “Hurry!”

He reached the Jeep in three strides, hefted the boy into the back seat, and piled in beside him. The Jeep lurched forward before he had seated himself, and he nearly toppled off the back.

Machine-gun fire ripped through the air, and Jason shoved the boy’s head down. Caleb cried out in surprise.

“Stay down! Move it, Leiah! Floor it!”

“It is floored.”

They careened around a corner, beyond the sight of the EPLF truck. Jason had driven the Jeep cautiously over the last hundred miles, and it had just received a change of oil, both factors that may have contributed to its healthy pace now.

“Same truck?” Leiah yelled back.

“I don’t know. Keep it floored!”

“It’s going as fast as it’ll go, believe me!”

The EPLF truck came into view, nothing more than a small speck now, just emerging from the town. The sound of weapons fire popped adjacent to the truck: the Land Rover was taking fire. It made a sharp turn onto a side street and disappeared from their view.

Jason released the boy’s head and climbed over the passenger seat. “Just keep her pegged.”

“We okay?”

“Maybe.”

Leiah stared ahead, her knuckles white on the steering wheel. Jason glanced back at Caleb, who sat staring at a rust bucket on the side of the road that looked as if it might once have been a Model T. His hood had flown off, freeing his shoulder-length hair to fly wild in the wind. It struck Jason that had his own son lived, he would be Caleb’s age. He might not have looked so different.

“What happened?” Leiah asked.

Jason turned to face the road. “I’m not sure. Animals seem to like him. So does the EPLF.”

“Or hate him. Isn’t this a bit far south for them?”

“A bit far? Honey, we’re halfway to Addis Ababa. There’s no way they should be this far south.”

“And what does that mean?”

Red hues drew the first lines of a sunset in the western sky. There was more happening here than Jason could even begin to piece together. What was it about this boy? Even beyond his unique innocence, there was a sweetness that had worked its way into Jason’s heart.

“It means that I’m taking him,” he said.

“To Addis Ababa?”

“To the United States. To California. It’s where the priest wanted him.”

“You . . . how can—”

“The papers are already drawn up. Father Matthew was no idiot.”

Her jaw stiffened and she looked ahead. The Jeep’s tires whined incessantly, speeding them down the deserted road.

“I thought you were going to allow me to take him.”

“You assumed. And you assumed wrong.”

“Then I’m going with you,” Leiah said.

He faced her, surprised. “Don’t be ridiculous. I thought you were going to Kenya.”

“I said I was thinking of going to Kenya. But really I have no reason to go to Kenya or to any other place. The boy needs a careful hand. No offense, but it’s not something I’m sure you have.”

“Thanks. And you’re Canadian, not American. What do you think you can possibly do in the States that I can’t?”

“I can be with him. The last time I checked, the Red Cross was an international organization. I’ll go with you to California and then return to Canada. I may be more help than you might think, Mr. American.” She paused and looked to the horizon. “Besides, it’s been a long time since I’ve been home; maybe it’ll be for the best.”

She said it with a finality that silenced him for the moment. In reality, as a Red Cross evacuee she had as much right to take a flight to Los Angeles as to Nairobi. She was also a nurse who had obviously taken to the boy. He had no reason to suggest she do anything against her wishes, regardless of how wacky they seemed. It was a wacky world.

“Fine,” he said.

She nodded. “Good.”