Chapter 5

As Jean shuffled through the forest, she couldn’t help but think about the horrible luck which had befallen her. Her mother had told her often enough, not to feel sorry for herself, because some people had it a lot worse than her.

She missed her mother terribly, her wisdom, her sweetness and her firm beliefs that people were mostly good and God knew what was best.

Was it best for her mother to die?

Jean knew that being an orphan in her country was not unusual. But being branded as a witch child, that was something else entirely. To have people actually believe just because someone died around her that Jean had caused it, that was bad luck.

But Jean had a loving aunt who would take her in immediately. Except the aunt was dead. Bad luck again.

Jean could be half way to the shelter already except she had the misfortune to step on a sharp piece of glass, slicing her food. Bad luck. She would have had a ride, straight to the village, only the person who was kind enough to stop for her was shot.

All of this was bad enough but the horrible people who had killed Peter (Jean could pray he wasn’t dead, but if he were still alive, he’d tell them all about her, which certainly wouldn’t be good either) were after Jean because they were convinced that she had some sort of merchandise.

Maybe Jean was never meant to survive at all. Maybe it was God’s will that she join her mother. After all the shelter was probably not that far away. Peter must have taken her at least twenty kilometers. Another twenty kilometers—she could do that in a day.

But not with her injured foot.

Just keep walking, she told herself, as she tiptoed through the forest. At least it stopped raining. And soon you’ll come to another village and people there will help you.

But only if her luck changed.

Jean must have walked for at least an hour with a heavy heart, carting the thermos. She didn’t care if it was muddy. If she couldn’t find water soon, she was going to drink from it. What she was hoping was for more rain. That way she could empty out the dirt and use the thermos to catch some of the raindrops.

The trouble is, she reasoned, I don’t even know if I’m walking in the right direction. With each step I could be going further and further away from Stonage, and what if, with each step, I’m getting closer and closer to Asmodeus? What if I end up where I started from? What if this is all for nothing?

I can’t think this way, she thought, as she fought off mosquitoes and stinging ants and birds flying low, and as she glanced down at her blood soaked foot. I just have to keep moving.

But she was getting tired and feeling dizzy and she figured it wouldn’t hurt to stop just for a brief rest. So she sank down in a small clearing, to catch her breath.

Just for a moment.

But Jean was so weary and so weak that the moment changed into minutes and the minutes into an hour. The hot, blinding sun was beating down on her and she thought, I’ll just wait here until it gets cooler, and then I can start again.

Maybe by that time my foot will have stopped bleeding.

She closed her eyes and when she woke, a little boy was staring at her.

Startled, she asked him who he was.

“Daniel.” The little boy looked her up and down. “Who are you?”

“My name is Jean Marcato.” Jean felt better now. The sun had shifted and it appeared to be late afternoon. She looked at the bottom of her sneaker. She didn’t see any blood seeping through so she should be on her way. “I’m going to Stonage. Do you know where it is?”

The little boy shook his head. If he had never heard of Stonage, that could mean that it was far away. It could also mean that the little boy wasn’t very bright. Or just very young. “How old are you, Daniel?” she asked.

“Six.”

“Where are you from?”

“I live right down the road.”

She stood up, feeling slightly weak and dizzy. If only she had something to eat, anything. She put slight pressure on her foot, wincing in pain.

Daniel looked down and then said, “Oh, you have a boo-boo.”

“Thanks,” Jean said sarcastically.

“Don’t you have a band-aid?”

“Obviously not.”

“I could get you one. You could come home with me. My father is a pastor.”

“You mean like a priest?”

The boy hesitated for a moment and then he said, “I’m not sure. He used to work in the bus station carrying people’s suitcases but he wasn’t making enough money so he changed jobs.”

Jean thought that was rather confusing. All the priests that she had ever known were poor and the little money they had, they gave away.

“I could get you some food too.” He looked at her thermos. “I guess you don’t need any water.”

Jean had forgotten about the thermos. She grabbed it from the dirt and opened it. The water muddy and brown, not drinkable. She was tempted to dump out the contents then and there but she thought it might evoke too many questions from Daniel. Instead she just held on to it.

“I could use a band-aid,” she mumbled.

“Then come home with me. My daddy is real nice.”

“What about your mother?”

Daniel merely shrugged, indicating that the subject was off limits.

“Okay,” Jean stood and winced. “How far away do you live?”

“Not far.”

With the thermos in one hand, Jean limped behind Daniel.

It wasn’t close and her foot ached as Jean tried to keep up with the little boy. Maybe this is going to be fine, she thought. Maybe I’ll get help. A ride to the refuge. Or maybe I can stay for a while with Daniel and his father.

They were coming to a village. Jean could see the dusty buildings and a few broken down store fronts up ahead. A lone boy was pushing a wheelbarrow with some water in plastic containers. She was tempted to beg.

But then Daniel turned around. “This way,” he said as he motioned. She trudged after him. A few people were sitting in the street, on the stoops, on straw mats, gawking at her.

I must look like a crazy person, Jean thought, with my dirty face and my hair all wild, and a torn t-shirt sticking out of my sneaker, clinging to a muddy thermos.

But she walked straight ahead, lowering her eyes when she passed by a group of teenagers dressed as soldiers. She knew that the military could grab you off the street and arrest you for no reason at all. But they didn’t seem to notice her. Instead they were talking in loud voices and laughing.

She trembled when she saw where Daniel was heading—to a half finished building with rough stone walls. A bit of wooden roof hung overheard, but most of the structure was exposed.

She noticed several children staring up at her, wide eyed and hopeful.

“Do you live here?” she asked.

“This is the church.”

Jean was immediately suspicious. “What kind of a church?” she asked. “Doesn’t it need an altar or something?”

Daniel shrugged again. He obviously didn’t know too much about his father’s business. But it doesn’t really matter, Jean reasoned. I’m not trying to join the church. I’m just trying to get a band-aid and a little food.

“We live back here.”

Daniel led Jean through a series of twisted roads which seemed to wind on and on. The sweat was coming down in little ripples, falling on the road. Her hunger was deep inside her stomach, an endless pit. She was so tired and so hot it was hard to go on. But what choice did she have?

Finally Daniel stopped in front of a row of small houses standing proudly between mango trees, obviously where the privileged minority resided. Jean noticed a fan circulating in one of the bare windows. What she wouldn’t give, just to sit in front of a fan for a few precious moments?

Daniel proceeded up the walk and reluctantly, Jean followed.

“Papa,” Daniel called out. When there was no answer, he called out again. And again. And a third time. “He’s not home,” Daniel stated the obvious as he reached for the brass knob and threw the front door open.

“Can I come in?” Jean asked rather timidly.

“Sure.” Daniel led the way.

Jean stepped inside the house and was immediately greeted by a cool breeze. Three fans whirled in different directions. The room sparkled in white wicker and the pleasant smell of watermelon filled the air. A large flat television hung on one wall. Daniel’s father was filthy rich.

Jean eyes darted around, wondering where she was supposed to sit. She didn’t dare go near the sofa with the blue and white striped cushions. Her blackened clothes would surly stain the couch.

So she sat instead on the hardwood floor, careful to avoid the floral Oriental rug. She pulled her knees to her chest and lay her head against the wall. Except her head was wet and when she touched the wall, she noticed a small smear of sweat. She sat up straight.

“This is real nice,” she said.

“Yeah, everyone loves my dad. And they give him things, like that TV over there. We got a satellite disk and we even get pay-per-view channels. We got all these nice fans. Someone even gave him this house.”

“He must be very special.”

“He is. Someday soon he is going to have his own radio show on the Global Radio, where he can say prayers with everyone, not just the people in this lousy village. I guess I should get you that band aid now.”

“And please, a little something to eat,” Jean begged and then felt immediately ashamed. “And something to drink.”

But Daniel took it in his stride. He bounded out of the room, hopefully heading for the kitchen. Jean thought how nice a big fat juicy piece of cold watermelon would taste. She would even eat the seeds.

She bent down, looked at her foot and very carefully removed her sneaker. Then she unwrapped the t-shirt, layer by layer. The gash seemed slightly better. Maybe it was healing, all on its own.

“Who the heck are you?”

Jean jumped as she spotted a heavy set man, standing by the front door. His hair had been cropped neatly and he was wearing a well fitted pin stripped shirt and a fresh white shirt. Jean could smell the expensive leather of his tassel shoes. He stared down at her, his eyes angry and irritated.