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MYSTERIES OF THE NIGHT
"It was supposed to be easy," I whispered.
The smell of something foul stung my noise as I stood in the basement doorway. All I had to do was to go down into the dark
underground room and look inside Uncle Joe's trunk.
Ever since my uncle came to live with us in The Valley, nothing was the same. Folks whispered about the trunk he brought with
him from the sanitarium. Some said he had a dead body in it. Others claimed gold. Jim and I felt drawn to the mystery like
bees to honey. We wanted to know what was in that trunk.
No way I would have gone down the cellar, but my brother Jim bet me and I have never backed down from a bet. Not even when
he conned me into eating worms. I did it just to prove a point.
To this day, Papa still doesn't know what happened to his bait.
As I took the first step, I looked down and swallowed hard. The stairs disappeared into the dark abyss and a tiny voice whispered
in my head. Go back, stupid; you don't have to prove anything. My stomach rumbled as cold fear settled in it. Nobody had been
down here since Granddad slipped on a loose plank and broke his hip. After he got better, he went to live with Aunt Esther.
He claimed there were too many ghosts down there, but Mama told Aunt Esther the only ghosts were the ones from the beer he
drank. I wasn't taking any chances, and I took my time walking down the stairs. Finally, I made it down to the bottom.
"Randy, what's taking you so long?" Jim hollered.
I stood below, basking in the warmth of the sun rays that reached even this dark place.
"If you think this is easy, why don't you come down here?" I yelled back.
"Just hurry up, will you. I hear somebody coming."
"Fine." My hand shook as I pointed the flashlight at the darkest corner of the room. The light skimmed the dust covered walls
and scattered old furniture. All of a sudden there was a loud bang and I turned in time to see the underground room door close.
"Jim! Jim!" I swallowed the lump in my throat and gritted my teeth. Angry, I hatched on a plan to get back at him. When something
moved across the floor, my heart began to race. Two beady eyes stared back at me as it scurried across the room.
"Just a rat," I murmured aloud. Something scraped against a hard surface and the hairs on the back of my neck prickled. Anyone
else would have cut their losses and run, not me. Besides I wasn't going to spend a day washing my brother's smelly old socks.
Aiming the flashlight toward the center again, I searched the area.
There it was, the old trunk covered in cobwebs. The one everyone talked about in hushed tones when they thought we kids weren't
listening. We heard the fear in their voices and wondered what all the fuss was about.
Fishing the key out of my pocket, I walked toward the trunk, determined to solve the mystery that had put Uncle Joe in a sanitarian
for most of his life. Trembling with excitement I jammed the key in the lock and pushed up the lid.
My imagination soared at the thought of finding a trunk full of gold or maybe a stack of baseball cards. When I saw what was
inside, my heart sank.
A bunch of dolls, big ones, small ones, fat ones and a faded diary. My little sister would be in doll heaven if she could
get her hands on them. Puzzled, I rummaged deeper. Nothing. Breathing in the smell of mothballs, I scratched my head and gagged.
I grabbed the diary, thinking maybe something important lay in between the pages. I started to close the chest when out the
corner of my eye, one of the boy dolls winked at me!
The heavy lid fell down on my hand. "Arrggh!" Luckily, I didn't break the skin. Papa would have skinned me alive if I had
needed stitches. Especially after he warned us to never go into the trunk, but at that moment I didn't care about anything
except high-tailing back upstairs. I made it up those stairs two at a go and opened the underground room door.
"Boo!" Jim jumped out from behind the door.
I punched him in the stomach with as much force as I could.
He stumbled and rubbed his belly, a look of surprise in his blue eyes. "Ouch."
"That's for shutting the door on me," I said, and then I threw another punch underneath his chin.
He touched his jaw and glared at me. "What was that for?"
I grinned at him. "Nothing, it just felt good."
"You find anything?" Jim's eyes were shiny bright but as soon I showed him the diary his face fell.
"That's it?"
"Yep, except for some stupid old dolls."
"You sure?" he cocked his head to the side and gave me a suspicious look.
"Yep."
I could tell he wanted to say more, but Mama stood in the door waving her hands. "Jim, Randy come on in, it's almost dinnertime,"
Mama called.
We ran toward the house. He tried to outrun me, but his legs were too short. Jim's thirteen, a year older than me, but I can
outrun, spit and whip him with one arm behind my back. I stood on the wrap-around porch, with a smile on my face. Jim frowned
at me. "Mama's going to tan your hide if she knows you've been down the cellar."
"It was your idea." I shoved the book underneath my shirt.
"Nah, it wasn't." He slipped pass me and slammed the screen-door in my face.
That's just like Jim, at a hint of trouble he's never around.
I eased inside, hoping Mama wouldn't notice the bulk in my shirt.
Mama stood over the stove stirring something in the pot. She brushed back a wisp of her long, braided hair and glanced up
at us. "Jim, you go tell your father it's time for dinner. He's out back. Randy, go upstairs and tell Uncle Joe. Then I want
you both to wash your hands."
"Yes, ma'am," we said in unison.
I hurried to the bedroom I shared with Jim. I tried to put what I saw out of my mind. It had to be a mirage.
Feeling better, I tapped on Uncle Joe's opened door. He didn't answer. He doesn't talk much. I never heard him say one word
to me other than "pass the salt." He sat by the window, rocking gently in Grandmother's rocking chair.
He turned his head and stared at me.
"Uncle Joe, Mama says its dinner time." He nodded and grinned at me with those big yellow teeth as I backed out of the room.
Jim and I are scared of him. All of the kids in the neighborhood are, except for Susie, but she's only two. Uncle Joe had
never laid a hand on me but there's something about his eyes. They look right through me.
"Randy," Mama called me from downstairs.
Relieved, I backed all the way out and peeked over the rail.
"Yes, ma'am?"
"Did you wash your hands?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Wash them again. I know you, Randy. You're always sticking your hands into something."
"Aw, Mama."
"Don't you Mama me. Do as I say. We got a few minutes before it's time to eat."
I washed up quickly using the bathroom upstairs and walked back into my bedroom and lay across the bed. I opened the diary.
My mind was still on treasure, so I flipped through the pages.
He kept writing about someone named the Trickster.
March 10,
Grandpa told me I needed to keep a diary. He said nobody was going to believe me when I tell them about the Trickster.
I should have never opened the trunk. The Trickster has gone too far. At first his pranks were small. He'd take Mama's purse
and hide it or he'd leave sugar all over the kitchen floor, but today he pushed my brother Ben down the stairs! Everyone thought
I did it because I was right next to Ben when he snooped up on him. Ben had to go to the hospital. I should have listened
when Grandpa told me the story about the trunk. He told me it was cursed, and anyone that opened it would be played tricks
on by the Trickster. The only way to stop the pranks was to lock him back inside, but I can't find the doggone key.
March 26,
Grandpa's sick. He went to the hospital. Doc Wilson said he'd been food poisoned. Mama made Daddy take me to see this doctor
after I told them the Trickster did it. I told the doctor, too but I don't think he believed me, either. He wanted to put
me somewhere I'd be safe. Daddy won't let him. He said no son of his was going to the nut-house. I'm not the one that should
be locked away. Why won't they believe me?
April 1,
He did it again! He tried to burn the house down. Daddy got hurt bad, but I got the Trickster. I found the key and locked
him inside. He'll never hurt anyone else. They're taking me away. The cops said they found an empty petrol bottle in my room.
Mama's crying but at least he won't hurt anybody else. I don't know how long I will be gone. I made Ben promise not to let
anyone open the trunk.
A gust of wind slammed my door shut. I sat straight up in the bed. It's only the wind. I shivered and slid the book under
the pillow, then I went down the stairs. Jim was already at the table and so was Uncle Joe, Papa and little Susie. Breathing
in the rich aroma of the cakes Mama had made, I sat down next to Uncle Joe.
"You children settle down. Your Papa's, going to say grace," Mama said placing the chicken soup in front of the table.
Papa bent his head and clasped his hands. I prayed he wouldn't be long while my stomach growled.
Finally, he raised his head and chuckled. "Everyone, let's eat."
My mouth watered at the smell, so I grabbed a piece cake, dipped it in the soup, and swallowed it whole.
"Slow down, son. You're not in a race," Papa said with a twinkle in his eyes.
"Leave the boy alone, Ben. He's still growing." Mama beamed at me. "You're going to be as tall as your daddy."
I felt a warm tingling feeling inside. Mama didn't usually give us compliment. That's when I noticed Uncle Joe barely touched
his food. I don't know why I said it. I swear it slipped out. "Uncle Joe, who's the Trickster?" You'd have thought I'd lit
one of Jim's fire crackers underneath Uncle Joe, the way everyone stared at me. Mama's face turned pale.
"Who told you?" Spit flew from his mouth. He bolted from his chair, grabbed me by the collar, and lifted me off the ground.
"You've seen him. Answer me, boy!" He shook me so hard I could hear my teeth rattled.
Papa grabbed him and pulled him off me. I've never been so glad to feel wood against my feet. "Sarah, call the police, tell
them Joe has lost it again."
Uncle Joe struggled in Papa's grasp his eyes wide with fear. "Let go of me, Ben. I have to save the boy."
Mama ran toward the phone and Jim followed. Papa dragged Uncle Joe, who was kicking and screaming for all he was worth, into
the living room. I swallowed hard and wondered what I said to set him off. Susie gurgled and laughed as she pointed her stubby
little fingers. My eyes trailed to where she was pointing.
In the corner near the china cabinet the same doll that winked at me was sitting upright. The head rotated around and stared
at me with black button eyes. An evil smile blazed across its face, revealing razor sharp teeth. I knew then that everything
Uncle Joe had said was true. Lucky for me, I still had the key in my pocket.
Ken
THE HUNT
It was Eel’s day in court. The Nairobi High Court was jammed in and out with both local and international news corps
carrying the most sophisticated telecommunication equipment in the market. The local police had a difficult time keeping
the thousands of curious onlookers at bay, and yet the source of all this brouhaha had not yet arrived in court.
‘He is expected to be brought in any time from now, we have learnt from a very impeccable source’, declared the
announcer at the Local TV station I was watching the Live Feed. I pressed the remote and the CNN channel appeared on the
screen, and alas! They also had a live feed from Nairobi. Ditto the BBC, CCTV and the Al Jazeera. I switched back to the
Local ADTV station just as one of the allegedly most dangerous men in the world was swiftly being hustled by at least a dozen
cops into the underground court cells. The cameramen were busy blazing away at the barely visible stout guy at the centre
of the world press since reports about his capture had erupted barely twenty four hours earlier.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
The National Intelligent Service Chief in Coast province, Mr. Joe Temu, had been under much pressure from his boss in Nairobi
for considerable period of time. ‘I don’t want to hear about any excuses, just results!’ the National Intelligence
Chief had chastised him several months earlier. At that exact moment, Temu had opened his mouth to say something but had
promptly decided to shut up.
What was the point of telling his boss what he (the boss) already knew but all along chose to ignore? He wondered why his
boss was always ignoring the obvious. Surely, he was very much aware that the Americans, British and other foreign spies
were very much at work in Mombasa, sniffing about, and had also not yet found anything about terrorist Eel.
Temu always dreaded the fortnightly ‘direct briefing’ trips to Nairobi. He always carried three different medications
during those trips: One for migraines, another for high blood pressure, and an anti-depressant.
He was acutely aware that if he didn’t get a quick lead towards Eel, he would probably die young due to the stress he
was going through unless he sought an early retirement; a luxury he couldn’t afford. He was only forty five and all
his four kids were in private schools.
Three months after the ultimatum from Nairobi, to get Eel ‘or else’, Temu received a call from Saffi on the yellow
secure line in his Mombasa Office. Saffi was the district Intelligence Chief in Lamu, and what he said was so startling,
Temu quickly swallowed a high blood pressure pill before he proceeded with the conversation with his junior officer.
‘I believe I have Eel in custody, sir,’ Saffi had announced coolly.
The ecstasy racing through Temu’s system was just too much to bear. He thought of taking an anti-depressant but thought
about how foolish it would be to die at such a time, when glory was there just waiting for him to take advantage; the capture
of Eel was just too great news and he wanted to be there at the centre of the inevitable international limelight.
Temu thought quickly about the bizarre situation he was now in. Protocol could wait a bit. His Chief Harassment Officer, Mr.
Maina, who was also the National Intelligence boss could wait for a few more hours. He cunningly cajoled the Provincial Police
boss to avail him a police chopper to fly him to Lamu and see for himself whether the guy in custody was actually Eel himself,
and not an impostor buying time for the real Eel, as the real bastard prepared to commit a genocidal act somewhere on this
dangerous planet.
As he rode in the noisy chopper accompanied by the deputy Provincial Police Officer, Temu recalled that several foreign Intelligence
services had severally suggested to their Kenyan linkmen that it was very likely that one of the world’s most wanted
men could very possibly be hiding somewhere in the Coastal region of a neighboring country, if he was not actually sheltering
in the remote eastern part of Kenya.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
In Lamu, Temu was met by Saffi and some other junior security personnel. They walked briskly to Temu’s office a few
meters away and Temu immediately demanded to hear all the details, pertinent or not, that had led to the surprise capture
of Eel.
“And why are you so sure the guy in custody is Eel and not just a look-alike?” he had brusquely inquired of Saffi.
"It is him, alright,” Saffi insisted and quickly began detailing how they had cleverly cornered the guy, plus twenty
of his bodyguards.
Temu knew how much the CIA guy in Mombasa, Mick Butler, would have liked to be here, in this room. “Sorry boy, I’m
not going to share credit with anyone, not even with that bully, Maina.” He smirked, then looked at the puzzled faces
staring at him, struggled to recreate his earlier stern look, and went on with his ‘interrogation’ of his junior
officers, even though he was now fully convinced that they had the real Eel in custody. He could think of nothing that could
contradict Saffi’s assertion that the guy tied up in the next room was Eel himself.
He thought of Butler and his unpredictable demeanor. He recalled the CIA man one day asking him how he would recognize Eel
if he ever came across him in the street. “Was Butler drunk or what?” he had wondered then. But the guy had insisted
on a reply, and Temu had reluctantly obliged him! “Photos, interrogation… the usual small stuff. But about me
meeting Eel in a Mombasa street, that must be an American joke, right?” But instead of showing some satisfaction with
Temu’s answer, Butler had said a word he had never heard of before. “What was that?” he’d inquired,
quite puzzled.
“It’s a French word. Eel speaks French, apart from English, Arabic, Kiswahili, among other languages he’s
picked up along his murderous path.”
“I know all that, but what was that French word you said and why is it important?”
Butler had repeated the word but never explained its meaning. “You may mention it to him if and when you ever come across
him in the street,” he’d said almost nonchalantly and immediately changed the subject.
The evidence Saffi had against the guy in his captivity was quite overwhelming. He had photos of Eel standing next to extremely
sophisticated weaponry: Mortar launchers, rocket propelled grenades, Ak-47’s, plus boxes containing what looked like
bomb-making material.
“The real weapons are still lying at the place my informers had found them, near the ocean about fifty kilometers from
here,’ Saffi informed his excited boss. ‘I’ve already contacted a senior military official attached to the
border patrol and an army unit has already been dispatched to the area to identify the weapons and secure the place’.
Meanwhile Eel and all his companions had all claimed to be Kenyan Citizens. They had also claimed to have lost their Kenyan
IDs during a burglary in their shared house several years earlier. ‘How interesting, and how more stupid can an explanation
be,’ thought Temu silently.
Temu had personally briefed the Internal Security Minister about the matter a couple of hours earlier and a military plane
had immediately been dispatched to Lamu to take the suspects to Nairobi for further interrogation and ‘special treatment’
at the Intelligence Department headquarters. Temu, Saffi and a dozen Policemen accompanied the barely mobile suspects to
Nairobi.
On arrival at the military airport in Nairobi, their fingerprints were quickly taken. But not too surprising to anyone in
the government entourage, none of their prints matched any at the Registrar of Persons.
Eel was a foreigner who had sneaked into the country about twelve years earlier and had cunningly got himself assimilated
by the local fishermen. Unfortunately to the local spy agency and their foreign allies, the locals had treated Eel with utter
kindness, never suspecting that he was quietly creating a terrorist cell that was meant to spread fear across the world.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
‘Something simply doesn’t add up’, the internal security minister said abruptly. ‘Firstly, this Eel
phenomenon, according to your report, appears too scared, something real terrorists always try to hide. We need to undertake
further investigations immediately.’
It was an order and everyone in the room knew when not to offer the minister any unsolicited advice. The minister had another
order: The men in the room - all high ranking government officials, intelligence chiefs, and military commanders were directed
to send their best men to the upper coastal region and immediately begin fresh investigations about the Eel affair.
It took the military men less than four hours to identify the type of weaponry that had earlier been found in the company
of Eel. And quite a find it was: Apart from the Rocket Propelled Grenades, an assortment of heavy artillery guns and bomb
making materials, including very sophisticated bomb timers and detonators were dug up from several places within a three kilometre
radius.
But something else the intelligence guys found out at the North coast shocked everyone including Maina back in Nairobi.
‘The guy we have in custody is not Eel, Sir,’ Temu began tentatively. He forlornly informed his boss by satellite
phone from a small smugglers’ town sixty kilometres north – east of Lamu that they had got the wrong guys in custody
up in Nairobi.
‘Give me the details,’ Maina barked down the line. ‘The whole world’s top pressmen are right now
jostling to photograph what they believe is Eel. What is this nonsense you are now talking about?’
A now very much humbled Temu gave him all the details. Musa, the man in custody and who everyone thought was Eel had been
a local ivory smuggler and gun – runner since his teens. His father, Hamza, now deceased, was a well-known local bandit
who had operated between the Coast and North Eastern Provinces for many years before he was killed by the paramilitary police
during a major operation in the mid-nineties. Musa’s mother’s whereabouts were unknown, but presumed to be long
dead.
‘Our hypothesis: A cornered well-armed foreign militia on the run needed cash and an escape route desperately. Musa
had dealt with dangerous characters all his life, was functionally illiterate, knew little about current world affairs and
just saw an opportunity to exchange costly weaponry for just a few thousand dollars. He must have been thinking only about
profit, sir.’
‘Our guess is that, although Musa knew that he had acquired some important military equipment, he didn’t discern
what some of them were. He had been supplying criminals in Nairobi with weapons for a long time and he must have guessed that
he could fetch much more from the Nairobi based criminals for what he now had in his possession. The guns were much bigger,
for instance. That must have meant a lot to him and his equally illiterate henchmen.’
‘Our men fumbled, Sir. Eel, if it was him Musa had dealt with, could now be thousands of miles away. Our interrogators
thought Musa and his men were merely acting when they appeared not to understand even a single word of French. And they had
thought their horrible English was just a clever camouflage.
‘Musa has been an outlaw all his adult life, but he’s never been arrested. He was brought up mostly in the South
Eastern jungle of the country, never went to school, and never ever applied for an ID.
‘Many local people have seen him on TV and most of them recognize him as a major local smuggler very familiar with many
clandestine Sea and land smugglers’ routes’. Even the local police appear to have had some kind of strange rapport
with him for years. Am positive the local police have been colluding with him on some of his missions, but that is corruption,
sir, not terrorism. I’m very sorry for the mistake my men have made and I will personally take very stern disciplinary
action against them immediately.’
The spy boss returned the phone to its cradle violently, shaking in disgust. He would immediately recommend Temu’s
demotion once he was through with the embarrassing affair - a national embarrassment actually, he corrected himself sorrowfully.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
After cooling his nerves by smoking three cigarettes in succession, Maina called his boss, the security Minister. ‘The
trial is a farce, sir. We must end it now before we become the laughing stock of the world.’
‘We already are,’ fumed the minister.
After a silence that seemed to last forever, and thereby driving Maina’s nerves to near breaking point, the Minister’s
voice was back on the line, this time sounding even more harsh: ‘You should have consulted widely before announcing
to the world that you had Eel in custody…’
‘But nobody ever made that announcement…’ he began protesting, but was immediately cut short.
‘You may now consider yourself fired,’ the Minister declared matter-of-factly
and promptly put down the phone.’
The internal security Minister had one more urgent thing to do. He called the Justice Minister and with as much brevity as
possible, explained why the case against Eel had to be ‘postponed’ immediately, while his staff worked out a journalistic
spin about the whole muddle.
But, unfortunately for the minister, the major news agencies were already reporting about the ‘fiasco from Nairobi’.
END.
Habi
BEST PLANS
It was supposed to be easy. I would meet Bobo at the beach in the pretense that I would be an extra hand. The police officers
who worked that area would make themselves scarce. There wouldn't be anything to worry about; the plan had been laid out with
precision.
The knuckles of a backhand hit my cheekbone. My neck snapped to one side, and my handcuffed hands twisted in an effort to
get free.
"I'll ask you again, who's your supplier?" The voice of my interrogator spoke lower than I had become accustomed to over the
last two days. My body stiffened when someone from behind pulled my head back by the hair. The stench of my own urine rose
from the damp concrete floor. Sitting in a chair with my hands fastened behind my back for two days made my body cry out for
relief. My bruised torso ached, and my head felt like it would explode. Swollen to slits, my eyes could barely focus in the
dim light.
"I don't know," I choked. My parched throat felt like hellfire.
"I will give you water if you give me the information I require." The tall silhouette of my torturer paced from side to side.
I squeezed my eyelids closed in an attempt to muster up tears. No relief came to their dried out sockets.
"Please, I told you everything."
He moved in close to my face; I could smell garlic on his hot breath as he spoke.
"Do you think you can fool me? I am not that easily fooled, my friend. You must know who your supplier is, it doesn't make
sense that you don't."
I said no more. I realized that whatever I told this man, he wouldn't believe. Another blow caught me in the mid-section causing
my lungs to gasp for air. Relief came in the form of blackness.
=========================================================================
On the scallop dragger, I retched in agony. I discovered I would not get used to it after three horrible days of puking overboard.
I was hired as an extra hand to shuck scallops. Since my pay was determined by the amount I shucked, no one cared that I didn't
do my share. In fact, they made up for my lack of efficiency and earned more money for themselves. The knowing glares and
empathic remarks from the fourteen other men aboard made me realize that fishing would not be my future career. Some probably
looked at my attendance as an intrusion due to this specific fishery becoming almost obsolete. Though the price of scallops
had increased dramatically over the years, the opportunity to find them had decreased substantially. Since 2008, quotas had
become less and less, yet that didn't prevent their scarcity fifty years later.
Truthfully, it hadn't been my intention to make a career of fishing. I had other motives for being aboard the Little Princess
that only the captain, Bobo, and I knew about.
After heaving up my breakfast for the third day in a row, I moved with unsteady legs toward the helm from where Bobo manipulated
his large vessel with expertise.
"How much further is it to Crab Island?"
"it won't be 'til the night that we'll reach there, Chuck."
In the short time spent with these men, I soon discovered everything in a fisherman's eyes was either "her" or "she." I gazed
at the blue emptiness of sea and sky before us. Seasickness made my stomach lurch again, and I rushed with stumbling awkwardness
to do what I had become accustomed to.
By nightfall we finally reached the island where an outpost offered supplies. Bobo, I and two other men rowed ashore from
our anchored vessel. Lights poured from a shanty on a hill near the island we were heading to. My legs felt like jelly when
my feet hit the stationary structure that was mean to act as a wharf. I almost fell before I managed to grab a post to steady
myself.
"Aye, you'll get used to these maneuvers in a while," Bobo said as he moored the rope to the same post.
I said nothing, but looked at him and shook my head. How did I get myself into this mess? I felt like a rag doll.
It amazed me that my legs didn't seem to have bones. After a few stretches and kick outs, I walked clumsily after the men
toward the lit cabin where we replenished our supplies.
It took several loads before we completed our task. The other two men groaned and complained that we didn't need so many supplies.
Unknown to my mates, some of the packages they carried were meant for me.
We rowed back to the larger vessel where we'd spend the rest of the night before continuing on our fishing trip. In the cud,
I nestled into my bunk until sleep finally took me to oblivion.
Morning came fast though, and the voices of the crew prompted me awake. The boat's engine blared, smells of buttered bread
and eggs wafted from the kitchen, and my stomach churned. The men took turns at breakfast and we continued on our journey.
I gazed at the dawn's early light. Bright red skies skewed with orange-outlined clouds put me in mind of the saying; "Red
skies at night, sailor's delight. Red skies in the morning, sailors take warning." While I wondered if a storm would quake
our journey and dreaded the possibility, a flashing light off in the distance caught my eyes.
A bullhorn blared once the vessel was in hearing distance. "Stand to, Little Princess. Make preparations for us to come aboard."
The crew, unaware of any crime being committed, simply stopped working, and waited for the US vessel patrolling the Indian
Ocean off the Horn of Africa.
My packages were found, and we were all placed under arrest and made to board their huge vessel as two of their men took control
of our boat. Then the endless questioning begun.
====================================================================================
The water caused me to choke and sputter as I came to. I couldn't take much more of this torture. I licked my lips in an effort
to catch the liquid running down my face.
"Give him some water," the man said, "if we send him back to Kenya in a coffin, we'll never live it down."
He turned and I could hear his footsteps walking away from me. "Bring him back to his cell. I'll go see what the captain has
to say." A door creaked open then banged shut.
"It would have been easy, if you just told him who your supplier was, you fool." The man who had held me by my hair finally
spoke. My wrists were freed from the handcuffs and I rubbed them. I shivered in the cold room. A glass of water appeared
in front of me. "You're lucky he's letting you go back to your cell. Hopefully your captain will give him what he wants. How
could you be so stupid to smuggle cocaine, anyway? Both your government and ours have high restrictions on that drug. I'm
surprised there is even a market for it anymore. Do you know how many people it has killed? Millions, my friend. Millions."
In my desperation, I hoped my case wouldn’t end up in a Kenyan court. Who was the complainant anyway when caught with
such contraband in international waters? I needed a good lawyer, but in the USS Hadley, such a possibility seemed, well, just
a dream. Not knowing what my fate would become, I dozed off, dreaming of my fiancée who I’d left behind in Kenya after
telling her I was going on a two week business trip to Cyprus.
Ted
TO BELIEVE OR NOT TO BELIEVE
It was supposed to be easy; at least that’s what they kept saying. Accept the Lord into your heart and Heaven awaits.
Do not, and there’s that other place.
“Just believe, James.”
“Look at all the wonderful and beautiful things around you, then ask yourself, how could God not exist?”
“James, it’s easy, let go and accept Jesus Christ.”
But he couldn’t. The funny thing is he truly did want to believe; he wanted the comfort of believing in a just and merciful
God waiting for him with open arms. He wanted to know he was part of something larger, something more than this little planet
with its innumerable petty squabbles…both large and small.
He attended prayer meetings and services and cook-outs sponsored by his local Church; he talked to his Reverend and friends
and even called a television evangelist on one of those late-late infomercials. Once, James convinced Reverend Roberts to
let him stay in the Church overnight, hoping for some divine inspiration. But all he received was the willies from sitting
in the dark with paintings of Jesus staring down at him.
Now here he sat in Reverend Roberts’ office, waiting for him to begin the “heart-to-heart” as he termed
it. Behind his desk was an old photograph: a man standing with his arms crossed in front of a small white clapboard building.
A simple wood cross adorned the doorway, and flowers (carnations, James thought) bloomed big and round on either side. James
knew it was the first church built on these very grounds; he also knew the man in the picture was Reverend Roberts’s
grandfather.
He noticed James staring at the picture. “Interesting photo, isn’t it? Whenever I look at it, I always think about
how far we’ve come.”
Reverend Roberts' eyes looked inquisitorial as he waited for James to answer.
James shifted in the seat. He didn’t know what to say. The chair was hard metal with no padding and hurt his butt. He
wondered if it was deliberate. “Yes, I guess we have come far.”
“Do you even know what I’m referring to?”
“Well, the Church, right?”
“Not our Church specifically, but Christianity as a whole.”
James said nothing, just sat in the chair trying not to squirm.
“How old are you now, James?”
“Twenty-four.”
“Do you know in your lifetime you’ve been deluged with things designed to pull you away from the faith?”
“No, I don’t know that.”
“Of course you do, think about the Internet. Look at all the websites where people condemn the word of God. Look at
all the television shows featuring homosexuals or promiscuous sex, or movies designed to confuse us like Jurassic Park and
Harry Potter.”
“Reverend, I never thought Harry Potter —”
“No, you haven’t but God has. Never in history has there been such an assault on His word from so many places.
And that’s why we’ve come so far, that even in the face of all these lies and distortions our faith still flourishes.”
“That’s just it Reverend, some of these things aren’t lies, like dinosaurs. They did exist.”
Reverend Roberts nodded. “Maybe, but it’s the implication behind it. They want you to believe because dinosaurs
existed, the Bible must be wrong.”
“Well, isn’t it?”
”Why, because the Bible doesn’t mention them?”
“So a Tyrannosaurus Rex was chasing Adam and Eve as they ran naked through the Garden of Eden?”
The Reverend’s mouth became a grim line. “That’s uncalled for, James. Show a little respect, if not for
me then for where you are.”
James ran a hand across his brow. He thought it probably seemed impatient and annoyed to Reverend Roberts, but he hadn’t
meant it that way. It was the knowledge neither was going to make any headway with the other — but then, deep down,
he knew that already.
He met the Reverend’s eyes and knew he felt the same way, maybe had all along. “I know you think I’m being
disrespectful, but I’m not. There’s a lot in the Bible that doesn’t make sense. From the very beginning
it doesn’t, like the Bible says the world is maybe a few thousand years old, but what about all the proof it’s
really millions?”
“It’s the word of God, James. Some of it is designed as metaphors, but in any case and whatever the logic, it
is not for us to question His word.”
“And why not? Reverend, that’s what human beings do! If God didn’t want us to question things, he shouldn’t
have made us so curious.” James stood up and began pacing the room, breathing heavily. “And who says it’s
the word of God? Men do! Men are the ones who say that! How are we to know it’s from God? How are we to know it isn’t
all just…made up?”
Suddenly he stopped, burying his face in his hands. Reverend Roberts turned away, eyes distant and dismayed. James returned
to his seat. A film of sweat dampened his forehead. “I’m sorry. I just…I shouldn’t have yelled. But
the more I learn the more doubts I have. I keep hearing to accept the Bible but how can I, how can anyone when there are so
many unanswered questions?”
The Reverend leaned forward. “What you’re saying proves my point how easily false prophets can sway us from God’s
true word. And you know the answer already, faith allows us to believe, it allows us to accept there are things we can’t
and don’t need to understand. But when you persist in looking for answers elsewhere, you make it easy for those doubts
to overwhelm you.”
“I know you think that Reverend, but I don’t see it that way. I see it as knowledge, you know? I’m trying
to find out what I think is the truth, or as much of it as I can. How can you tell me I shouldn’t do that?”
“The fact we’re having this discussion is my answer,” Reverend Roberts softly replied.
James stared at his twisting and writhing hands. With an effort, he forced them to be still. Finally, he raised his head.
“I’m sorry Reverend, I can’t believe in a religion that so freely practices ignorance and justifies things
because it’s convenient.”
“I’m sorry too, James, for you.”
“Don’t be. I’m not sorry, not anymore.” He walked to the door, pausing with his hand on the knob.
“I don’t believe in your version of God or anyone’s version really. But if your God does exist, I can tell
you exactly what I’ll say if I meet Him.”
Reverend Roberts simply stared.
“I’ll tell Him why I didn’t believe. I’ll say it’s because I followed what He gave me: free
will and a conscience to make up my own mind what I chose to believe. I looked for answers in what men call His Book but didn’t
find any, so I went elsewhere. I haven’t found them yet and probably never will, but at least I’m brave enough
to stick to my convictions.” James paused. “What do you think God will say?”
The sad look on Reverend Roberts face was gone. In its place was the expression of the fire-and-brimstone preacher, the one
claiming, there is only one way to Heaven, and son, yours ain’t it. “James, I think He’ll say you’re
in the wrong place.”
“I don’t. I think He’ll say, ‘I respect your courage, and your spirituality. Please, come in.’”
James stepped through the door, not bothering to close it behind him.
Jack
MY BOLD CONFESSION
I first became interested in the topic of acquaintance rape when I became a statistic--a victim. It was difficult for me to
understand how I could have misread one of the men with whom I worked and thought I knew.
It was common practice for transportation employees where I worked to arrange free rides with the drivers. I asked for a ride
and received the driver's permission the night my vacation began. He was a man in his sixties, over six feet tall with a large,
broad-shouldered frame, and I had never so much as had a friendly cup of coffee with the guy before. Unfortunately, my innocent
stopover in Voi, ended with the driver entering my room as I slept and forcefully entering my body.
His arms came around me just above and below my elbows, imprisoning my arms at my sides. He placed his head on top of mine,
forcing it into the mattress. His knees dug into the backs of mine so I could only flex my feet up and down in fearful agitation.
I could not defend myself. I could not get away despite my struggles. He fiercely whispered into my ear, "I'm going to get
what I want, so you might as well hold still and enjoy it."
My mind would not accept what had happened. So, as a self-defense mechanism, I blocked this episode from my conscious mind
for three years. Not one word about the rape escaped my lips. My sleep was tortured by nightmares of being overwhelmed and
overpowered. I gained thirty kilos, developed ulcers, and had a multitude of female problems. Friends and relatives noticed
a change in me, but none knew what my problem was or how to help me. I dragged my feelings of fear, shame, guilt and anger
into the black abyss called depression. I hid from the pain in drugged slumber, rarely stepping outside my door. I became
a hermit in my own body, floating through the days in a fog of denial.
Then one day, another older driver came to my home uninvited. I was alone and had just gotten to sleep when he rang the doorbell.
In a panic, I screamed at him to go away, slammed the door, and collapsed into a fetal position. It took several hours of
flashbacks, uncontrolled crying and shaking to figure out what had happened and why.
My attempt at suicide landed me in the hospital and started me down the long, difficult road to acknowledgment, resolution
and, hopefully, recovery. During this time, I noticed a distinction was being made between Stranger Rape and Acquaintance
Rape. I became aware of newspaper and magazine articles about Date Rape. I pondered, what the difference meant to the victims?
How did it affect their recovery? Was my experience with acquaintance rape and my reaction typical?
In my quest for answers, I turned to my sister, Michele, a rape crisis counselor. She said the victims can be female or male,
and the general legal definition is as follows: Rape is the coerced or forced penetration of the vagina or anus with the penis
or any other object. Date or acquaintance rape occurs anytime someone known to the victim used force or coercion to gain sexual
intercourse of any type. An ugly definition of an ugly crime.
My sister and others also believe it is because of the freedom of the sexual revolution that payment is expected for time
and money spent on a date. Women of ALL ages are expected to be sexually active, and peer pressure is fierce. Often, even
the victim doesn't call it rape. "Things just got out of hand," seems to be the attitude of victim and assailant alike.
Now, not only is the crime of rape committed more often, but in three cases out of five, the assailant is someone the victim
knows. The rapist often sees himself as 'seducing' his victim. Strangely, in some convoluted reasoning, the victim is seen
as the blackguard for labeling her attacker as a rapist. It is better to be a rapist than the raped.
I determined that acquaintance rape is on the increase because of the sexual revolution and, unlike stranger rape, it does
have something to do with sex--as well as violence. According to experts, another reason acquaintance and date rape is escalating
is because both males and females are presently more accepting of violence in their relationships and in general.
Authorities agree the dramatic increase in reported acquaintance rape cases indicate it is rampant and graphically on the
rise. But too many still don't realize they are rape victims because the act was committed by someone they knew.
In checking whether my own reactions were typical, I found post-rape victims experience three phases of responses:
* First, the acute reaction. This may immediately follow the attack and may entail shock, anger, crying or extreme calm.
* Second, an outward adjustment. This is a pseudo-adjustment exhibiting denial, suppression, and rationalization because acquaintance
rape is frequently unacknowledged and unreported.
* Third, integration or resolution. Often this occurs as a result of an event which reminds the victim of the rape. She experiences
a flashback. This phase may start six months or several years after the assault.
Most victims have an extreme sense of vulnerability which restricts their ability to function. Victims may have recurrent
nightmares, phobia, anxiety, depression and diminished self-esteem. This cluster of reactions is labeled Rape Trauma Syndrome
and is likened to Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.
In addition, besides experiencing sleep and eating pattern disturbances, mood swings, and a constant attempt to block the
thoughts of the assault from her mind, most Rape Trauma Syndrome victims report physical reactions in the body area that was
the focus of the assailant's force. It is stressed that the major symptoms most victims experience are nightmares and phobias,
including fear of sex.
If a victim previously had a psychological or physical condition, she would develop additional symptoms and would 'regress
according to her vulnerability.' The victim who has not reported the rape and has not dealt with her feelings and reactions,
has also burdened herself psychologically by her silence.
Rape-related stressors, like the assailant who is known, require extra coping tasks by the victim. This victim has to deal
with different issues than the victim of stranger rape. When the assailant is known, the victim must learn a new way of predicting
dangerous human situations or remain in a chronic fearful state of existence in relating to people, especially men.
To recover, the victim needs to make some kind of sense out of why the rape occurred, deal with a group to which she and the
assailant already belong, and make the decision whether or not to press charges because of loyalty ties. Thirty-seven percent
of victims said the issue of trust was most important to them in recovering from rape because of their feelings of being betrayed.
Not only does the victim have to deal with the disgrace of being raped, she also has to deal with the stigma of being mentally
ill.
Now that I realized my reactions to acquaintance rape were all too typical, including the fact that I did not report it to
the police, I looked into the reasons rape victims don't file a report. I suspect the war stories I had heard about how rape
victims are treated by the police and the court system also had a lot to do with it.
It has been theorized that if the victim perceives the police as able to provide a haven, she is more likely to report the
rape. In addition, a victim is most apt to report stranger rape, but least apt to report date rape. If threatened with a weapon
or seriously injured, a victim will more readily report the rape. Many victims report being beaten instead of being raped.
In other words, the victims perceive physical violence as more socially acceptable than rape.
In studies, it has been discovered that the attitudes of both police and rapists are surprisingly similar:
1. Rape prevention is primarily the woman's responsibility
2. Rape is motivated by a desire for sex
3. Punishment for rape should not be severe
4. Victims precipitate rape through their appearance or behavior
5. A raped woman is a less desirable woman
6. Women should not resist during rape.
In this same study, it was found there are no uniform methods for labeling rape cases by police and they can vary from one
department to another in the same precinct. The police have a tendency to doubt the credibility of women who:
A. are extremely obese
B. have seen psychiatrists
C. ARE 12 OR OLDER
D. receive welfare
If a police woman is present when a victim files a report, the case is more likely to be categorized as founded.
Indications are that legal reforms of police and court processes in other states have shown an increase in the accuracy of
labeling cases and in convictions. Hence, the victims would feel more secure about reporting rapes if there was an obvious
increase in convictions.
Research indicates that about a third of rape cases are acquaintance rapes, but the myth commonly believed is that 'true'
rape involves strangers. People also believe that a woman's reluctance to report a rape indicates a fabricated rape report,
even though it is estimated that only ten-to-thirty percent of all rapes are reported.
Acquaintance rape is a problem demanding public awareness. The long-range effects on the victims also places a vast financial
burden on the public itself because of high, long-term medical expenses and the subsequent economic non-productivity of victims.
The myths about stranger versus acquaintance rape must be dispelled among victims, rapists and the legal system. We need an
integration of reform laws to aid in convictions and reduce victim harassment. The statutes of limitation must reflect realistic
victim symptomologic time frames. These responsibilities do not belong solely on the shoulders of the victim.
Men and women alike must be made aware of the rights of the other to say, 'No.' Forcing or coercing another in order to gain
sexual intercourse of any type is an act that can and will lead to arrest and conviction, even if the assailant is an acquaintance.
Many years later, I still awaken each dark morning about three o'clock (the time the rape occurred), my feet agitated, flexing
up and down in helpless, tortured pantomime of that repugnant assault. Even sleeping medications have no power to eradicate
this recurrence. And when during those few nights when I manage to fall into deep sleep, I wake up with a scream. Its only
after many minutes have passed that I realize am still alive.
Claire
NO MORE LONELY NIGHTS
I have a strange story to tell. Would you like to hear it?
You would?
Well, I'm warning you, you might not believe it.... Why don't you go and get a drink - tea or gin, whatever is your fancy?
I'll wait right here for you, and when you're ready, I'll tell my tale.
* * *
It begins on a Sunday morning when I was lying in my bed, refusing to start the day. My sixteen-year-old daughter Rebecca
banged on the door, as she did most days, and demanded life from me. You see, I'd given up on life several months before.
Rebecca was made of stronger stuff. Weeks ago she'd picked herself up, and then got on with her life. I knew she still cried
herself to sleep, but she always awoke fresh and ready for the day. I cried myself to sleep, and then kept on crying when
I woke up.
Some background: my husband Jim was killed in a hit and run accident seven months before this particular Sunday. As with every
long tenth of the month, I planned to spend the anniversary lying in bed, wishing the world away. Wishing me, too, was dead.
But Rebecca had other ideas. Bang, bang, went her fist on the door.
"Go away," I said dully. And then, realizing this wasn't a great way to talk to one's daughter, I added, "Please."
"No Mum. I'm not going to go away. Dad wouldn't have wanted me to go away."
I despised it when she used that argument, basically because I knew she was right. Jim would have hated what I'd become: a
lifeless, spiritless, lonely woman who'd let not only her appearance go, but her entire life.
"Dad's not here," I reminded her, loudly.
"Well, duhhh," she said. "Mum, I'm going to bang on this door every five minutes until you open it."
"Fine," I said, covering my head with a pillow. Yes, she'd lost her father, but I'd lost my soul mate. I was having problems
even existing without him.
Bang, bang.
I knew what she wanted. She wanted me to get up, gather together some of Jim's things, and take them along to the monthly
car-boot sale at her school. She'd said a hundred times how I needed to let go and move on. She'd told me that hanging onto
Jim's possessions was preventing me from doing this. When I asked her what made her the expert all of a sudden, she furiously
held back her tears and thrust a fistful of money at me.
"I sold some of Dad's paintbrushes," she'd told me. I had been horrified - Jim's brushes were one of his most precious things,
and when he'd given them to her it was like a coming-of-age gift. How could she have sold them?
"I don't want to paint anymore, and it has helped me, really it has. It was like saying goodbye to him."
Forgive me, I digress. Back to that Sunday morning.
Bang, bang, went my daughter's determined fist on the door. I lay there, wondering time and again how my grandmother had dealt
with this situation. My grandmother had lost her husband, too. She'd been left with five children and a shop to run, when
she was about the same age as I was. My mother tells me that my gran took it very badly and refused to live (just as I was),
but that one day, she'd simply got up and carried on. Nobody ever knew what did it, and she wasn't around anymore to ask.
Bang, bang.
In the end, I realized Becky wasn't going to go away. I shocked myself by getting out of bed.
My daughter was sitting with her back to the door, fist raised over her head, ready to pound on it again. She fell into my
room as I opened the door.
Looking at me upside down, she gave me a gentle smile. "Well done," she said.
* * *
An hour later, we entered the school field. I'd refused to shower and change, and wore my pajamas under my jeans. My hair
looked like a crazy bird's nest and my shoes were the tattiest I could find. Becky ignored this; she knew she'd won and didn't
want to completely tumble my pride. Who'd given her such wisdom? It must have been Jim.
I'd told her I was only coming for a look. I wasn't ready to part with Jim's clothes, some of which still smelt faintly of
him; or his books, some of which still had folded-down corners. I used to open them and read over and over again the last
words he would have read.
The car-boot sale was Becky and Jim's thing. They'd come here every month, searching for bargains and returning home grinning
from ear to ear, eager to show me what they'd found. I'd never been, and to be here now made me long for him all over again.
Becky saw me hesitating, and tugged at my hand.
"Come and check out the CDs," she said.
I allowed myself to be led like a child to a stall, where teenagers sat behind hundreds of used compact discs. Becky soon
fell into easy conversation with them and we both ignored the stares directed at 'the mad Mum' with her bird's nest hair.
My eyes wandered. Next door to the CD stall was a rickety table housing a bizarre collection of items: various old clocks,
a mound of clothes, some china ornaments and odd bits of jewellery. Behind the stall sat a faded-looking woman with merry
eyes. With a shock, I realized she was staring intently at me. I smiled uncertainly, not sure if I knew her, and then I wandered
over.
"I'm sorry, do I know you from somewhere?"
"I don't think so," the woman replied. "Sorry if I was staring, but you have an awfully lost look in your eyes."
"I'm sorry?" I said, stunned.
"Forgive me, that was rude. Look, I've some books here, why don't you take a look?"
I did think she'd been rude, but despite myself, I browsed through her books. One of them seemed to stand out, as if to say,
"Choose me, choose me!" I picked it up. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the woman smile, knowingly.
The book was heavy, and it looked very old. It had a faded leather cover and the word, Ways, printed in embossed lettering
on the cover. There was nothing else written on it.
"Ways? What does that mean?"
The woman didn't answer, but continued to look at me.
Ways.... It was as if some of the words of the title had rubbed off. Ways of what? Ways to what?
"I think you'll really enjoy that book," the woman said.
I opened the front cover. Inside it was written,
What a long, strange journey it is
in faded gold lettering. I turned a couple of pages and read the first line of the story:
After the death of her husband, Lara lost the will to live.
I almost cried out. I looked up at the woman as if to say, How did you know?
She was watching me and I could see tears in her eyes. "Take it," she said. "Forget the money. One thing though, don't forget
to write your name in the back."
I turned to the back page. Under the title, 'Past Owners' was a long list of names and dates. The first one was Margaret ,
1912. Turning the pages backwards, I found the last: bertha , 2007.
"You're Bertha?" I asked.
"That's me."
"Why do I have to add my name?"
"It's a bit of a tradition, I think. I feel that if you don't add your name, you'll somehow break the chain. I'm sure you'll
find the book very useful. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to be going. Bit of a slow day, today." She began to pack up her
stall. I held the book close to my chest and went in search of Becky. I wanted to read it right away.
The rest of the day passed in a bit of a blur. When we got home, Becky insisted on making me sit with my feet up while she
made lunch. She wasn't having me rushing back to my room just yet.
I relaxed in my favourite chair, with my new book on my lap. Ways. I stroked the cover, took a deep breath, then opened it.
At midnight, I was still reading. I couldn't stop. The story was incredible - moving, uplifting, sad, funny and timeless.
The strangest thing of all was, I could relate so well to so much of it, that it seemed to have been written about me. The
heroine, Lara, had lost her husband and was unable to get on with life. The story was about how she came back to reality,
began to heal and move on, and how eventually she found a new love. It sounds trite, but it was the best story I'd ever read.
Becky had long since given up on me and gone to bed, depositing tissues, biscuits and beer on the table next to me as she
left. She kissed me goodbye as she left for school the next day, and I barely noticed. At half-past ten I finished the book.
It was like saying farewell to a friend. I closed the cover and sighed deeply. Then, I smiled. I felt different. I felt really
different. I felt uplifted, lighter in spirit and almost (dare I say it?) happy.
This was wrong - I wasn't supposed to be happy. I tried to bring back my familiar friends of misery and sorrow, but they seemed
to have gone.
I laid Ways on my lap and looked around the room, realizing for the first time what Becky had been telling me for ages - the
house was a mess. I'd not let her touch it, saying I'd clean it when I felt better. That had been going on for months....
* * *
I wish I'd had my camera ready when Becky got home from school. Her face was a picture. I watched her with unsuppressed delight
as she took in the cleaned and tidied rooms, the fresh flowers on the table and the meal laid out for two.
"Mum," she said. "Are you feeling all right?"
After that, ever so slowly, I began to feel like myself again. I still had mountains of sorrow to climb inside me. I still
thought of Jim every minute, but the thoughts were more comfortable in my head, as if I'd learned to have him there, but not
worry about him too much.
I even began writing again. One day, while I was on chapter three of a new book, my friend Della came for a coffee. She'd
recently lost her mother and seemed to carry the weight of her sadness with her. We sat and chatted about life and death and
I told her about the book I'd read.
"Can I borrow it?" she asked. "I need a good uplifting read."
I handed her Ways, adding, "Be careful, it's hard to put down." We said our farewells and I went back to work.
The following day, while I was in the middle of a particularly difficult moment, in the plot of chapter four, I was interrupted
by a hammering at the door.
I opened it to see Della in a terrible state. Her face was swollen and red, the whites of her eyes were bloodshot and she
looked as if she'd not slept a wink.
"I've been up all night reading," she said. "That book, Ways, I thought you said it was uplifting? It was so terribly sad
- I've never cried so much in my life!"
"What?"
In a rush, Della explained, "The story, it wasn't uplifting at all. It was so sad. The way she, Daniela, lost her mother -
just like me - and couldn't cry about it, and then one day her mother's spirit came to visit her, and she just started weeping
and couldn't stop.... Well, I started crying myself and I couldn't stop, either."
"I'm sorry," I said, feeling guilty and horribly confused. The story she described was nothing like the one I'd read....
"It's okay. The weird thing is, I needed to cry. I realized I haven't cried enough, and that was the reason I was still so
sad. Now I've started I can't stop. The tears just keep coming!" Della sniffed and snorted and then burst out laughing. "I
came to say thank you," she said. "I'm beginning to feel better. Listen, I hope you don't mind, but I've lent the book to
my neighbour who's just lost her beloved son. I thought it might make her feel better. She says she'll drop it back to you
directly herself. I hope you don't mind?"
"No, it's fine. Della, I'm a little conf...."
"Sorry hon, but I've got to dash. I'm doing the school run today." And off she went.
I closed the door, puzzled.
Becky arrived home from school later looking cross and frazzled. When I asked her what was wrong, she told me a great long
story about best friends and broken alliances, boyfriends and betrayals. She asked for my advice and I gave it as best I could.
Then, timidly, I suggested she might try Ways. An idea was forming in my head.
The next day, I was proved right. Della's neighbour, Carla, returned the book, and I wasn't at all surprised when she told
me how comforting it had been to read about someone who'd lost a child that was dear to them, and how the book had helped
her.
"Tell me," I said. "What was the lead character's name again? I've forgotten."
She looked at me oddly before replying, "Catherine."
I took the book and opened it. It still said,
After the death of her husband, Lara lost the will to live.
Thoughtfully, I closed it. When Becky arrived home, looking mournful and confused, I handed her the book. She took it doubtfully
(it wasn't pink with drawings of cool girls on the front).
"You might be surprised," I said.
I wasn't at all shocked when a grinning Becky appeared for breakfast, wearing the same crumpled uniform she'd had on the day
before.
"I've been reading all night. This book is awesome! But I'm surprised you enjoyed it, as it was all about teenagers and their
problems. There's some great advice in there and I feel a whole heap better!"
"Tell me," I said. "What was the girl's name in it again? I've forgotten."
"Mum, you're still barmy as ever! It was Rachel."
* * *
Over the course of the next few weeks, I tried the book on everyone I knew who had problems. All of them said the book helped
them, and all of them read about a different person. I couldn't explain it, nor did I want to. If it was magic, I simply accepted
it. To examine it too much might have damaged it in some way. You might think this acceptance is strange, but after experiencing
how much Ways helped me, I didn't want to somehow upset the book's charm by investigating it too thoroughly.
In the end, I ran out of people to lend it to. I remembered what Bertha had said, that I shouldn't forget to write my name
in it. I turned to the back pages and wrote, Lina, 2008. I skim read some of the other names, wondering at their stories.
One leapt out at me and I staggered, then sat down in shock. Beatrice, 1963. Beatrice was my grandmother....
My grandmother had read this book! As I tried to let this sink in, I remembered my mother's story about my gran - about how
one day, she'd simply got up and carried on, leaving the weight of her grief behind. Now I knew why. I sat with the book on
my lap, wondering about fate and destiny, and if we really had any choices in life, or if it was all preordained....
As I was closing the book, I noticed some words in embossed lettering inside the back cover.
Let the words free
I knew, then, that it was time to let the book go.
* * *
"I'm proud of you, Mum," Becky said.
We were standing behind our stall at the car-boot sale. The gates were about to open, to let in the hundreds of people who'd
come and see what we had for sale. I looked at our arrangement proudly. Becky had done a great job of constructing a pole
on which to hang Jim's clothes, and they flapped slowly in the breeze. Many of his books lined the table and some of his painting
gear was laid out neatly next to them.
Becky and I had things to sell, too, and they sat amongst the bits and pieces that had belonged to Jim's life.
In front of everything, just waiting for the right person to come along, was Ways.
* * *
Well, there it is. I hope you enjoyed it, and I hope you were able to suspend your disbelief long enough to listen. If Ways
ever finds you, it'll be because you need it. The book will tell you what you need to know, and I wish you well.
Share the wisdom - and don't forget to write your name in the back pages.
Sue
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