The Doctor's Mission

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“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.

Chapter Six

William heard the women’s wailing over a loss before Hannabo reached him. It was an unmistakable sound in the bush.

Someone had died.

Hannabo came running, out of breath, tension pouring out of his very skin. The smell of fear was strong. They all had to leave the village before accusations began.

Hannabo’s words confirmed it. “It was one of the warriors in Nana Bolo’s personal guard.”

“I’ll get the women. You get the rest of the caravan. We’ll meet you on the trail just outside the village. Hopefully all eyes will be busy elsewhere with the mourning ritual and we can be long down the trail before someone points the finger.”

Hannabo nodded and set off to roust the rest of the caravan. Most were probably packing up already. Some may have already headed into the bush, taking no chances with their lives.

He saw a familiar red head peek out of the hut door. Her long hair was loose and mussed. She was dressed, however, and looked like she’d slept in her clothes last night.

“Pastor Mayweather, what’s all the wailing? What’s happening?”

“One of the warriors has died in the night. Grab your things. We must leave immediately or risk death.”

Mary paled and her eyes widened.

“It will be all right. But there is one chance to save ourselves and it is now. Grab your gear!”

She spun around and headed back into the hut. He headed back to the palaver hut to get his pack. The separate compound looked empty, probably in response to the wailing. Custom required the widow receive comfort from the entire village. Custom also required punishing the responsible party. The inevitable witch hunt wouldn’t exclude guests.

He couldn’t let another woman die because of him. The idea of his own death did not bother him; he had settled where he would spend eternity when he was but a boy of twelve. But what about Mary and Clara? The Mission Board had assigned them, but the assignment being given was no absolute guarantee. Do-gooders with no real salvation experience had slipped through the process and come to the mission field before.

Where did the women stand with the Lord? Hot shame lodged in his chest. He’d been so set on getting rid of them, he hadn’t bothered to find out. Now he might not have the chance. Bad enough a man had died here last night without accepting the Gospel.

He rolled his bedding and attached it to his pack, then left the chief’s compound and headed back to the women’s hut. Rounding the corner he came face-to-face with both women, dressed and with their packs on their backs.

“We’re ready.” Mary’s voice carried a faint tremor. He’d obviously scared the wits out of her. He’d apologize later. Provided they all lived.

Clara’s face was pinched and drawn, her eyes reflecting her own wrestling match with fear. One she appeared close to losing.

“Dr. O’Hara. Clara. Keep your heads down and follow behind me as if it was a normal leave-taking. Don’t make eye contact and don’t stop for any reason.”

Clara nodded and they both followed. Behind him Mary asked, “Pastor Mayweather, what is going on? Why does this warrior’s death put us in danger?”

Maybe some explanation would help her to understand, but he was loath to slow them down. Mourning would turn to anger quickly and he wanted to be well down the trail before that happened. He condensed his answer. “Nothing is considered an accident here. They’ll want someone to blame. We would be a good target right now.”