Chapter 10

Jean walked and walked and walked, leaning on trees, occasionally hopping. Her tee shirt caught on a branch, causing Jean to stumble. She picked herself up, rubbed the dirt off her scraped knee and kept going.

At one point she passed a group of cardboard boxes. She hesitated when she heard voices, the voices of young males involved in some kind of dispute. She wondered if they were the sparrows Matilda had spoken about, the children who stole and took drugs. There was no way Jean wanted to get involved in that, not after all she had been through.

She tiptoed by them and kept walking.

There was no doubt in her mind that she was getting further and further away from safety. But without clean water, how could she reach it anyway?

Jean began to dream of cold, clean water as she trudged through the forest. She pictured the icy liquid flowing down her throat and soothing her empty stomach. She thought about dipping her body in the stream and washing away all the memories of the last few horrific days.

Water was up ahead. She knew that because of the swarm of mosquitoes that had descended on her. Two of them bit her in the leg before she slapped one, squishing it with her bare hand, although leaving her thigh stained with her own blood.

Jean could also feel the water in the distance. A slight coolness swirled in the air. The woman had not lied to her. The woods began to clear and Jean saw a tiny stream. She almost ran to it but the pain on the bottom of her right foot made that impossible.

She stooped down on the bank, cupped her hands and dipped them in the steam. The water was warm and a little murky but it tasted delicious. She drank greedily over a dozen times before collapsing on the ground.

That’s when she first noticed that the rocks were missing.

At first Jean couldn’t believe it. She searched in both pockets and even turned them inside out. Nothing.

How could they have dropped without her knowing it? Wouldn’t she have heard them tumble as they reached the ground?

But that’s the only thing that could have happened, Jean reasoned. They must have fallen out because I know I had them in my pocket when I ran away from Pastor Francis’ prison. I could have lost them in the alley. Or by the river bank.

Then she remembered when her tee shirt had caught on the branch and she had taken a spill. The rocks must have fallen on the ground then. She should go back and find them.

Would she even be able to recognize them with all that other dirt around her? Jean looked around at the forest. It was difficult to remember in which direction she had come. She was lost.

Jean threw water on her face and put her hands in the stream. She tried to think about what she needed to do now.

She knew what she wanted to do. She wanted to just forget about the strange rocks. She could stay by the stream at least for a few hours, maybe even spend the night there. Once she felt refreshed, she could keep walking until she got to a village. Then she could ask where she was. Maybe someone kind would point her towards Stonage.

Maybe just by pure luck (and she was certainly entitled to some good luck), she would actually reach Stonage.

Or she could go back and try to find the rocks.

Chances are if she dropped them by the water, someone else had already found them. But chances were also good that no one else would think they were of any value. Someone might even step on them and they might be in the river now, floating kilometers and kilometers away.

It’s silly to return, Jean thought. I’ll never find those rocks. But what if those thieves catch up with me? And what if they don’t believe me when I say I don’t have them? Even if I tell them that the stones fell out of my pocket, they could think that I’m a liar. They might kill me for being careless.

Or maybe the thieves are not even after the rocks at all.

One thing was for certain. Rocks or no rocks Jean couldn’t stay in the woods forever. She had to get to a village, where maybe someone could point her in the direction of Stonage, to Sister Mary Jude’s refuge.

Jean would have given anything to take some of that clean water with her. She scanned the area for some sort of container, a pail, an old plastic bag, anything. But there was nothing she could use.

I’ll just rest for a bit, Jean thought, and then I’ll go back and look for them. But she knew in her heart of hearts that soon it would dark and she wouldn’t want to walk through the woods in the dark and, the longer she waited, the less likely she would be to find those rocks.

Assuming she could find her way back.

I’ve got to be the unluckiest child alive, Jean thought gloomily, as she drank another round of water and rose slowly.

Or maybe she wasn’t. Maybe it was Jimmy, who was nearly blind, after someone threw chili in his eyes. Or maybe it was Jimmy’s cousin, who had been burnt alive, just for looking at Pastor Francis in a funny manner. Or poor Natalie, branded with an iron because she wet the bed.

You have it better than most, her mother had told her.

Would her mother think that was still true?

I’ll make you proud of me, Mama, Jean thought as she hobbled towards the path and said a silent prayer that she wasn’t lost.

The water had invigorated her and she felt more optimistic.

She had escaped from her tormentors in Asmodeus. She had managed to hitch a ride and when thieves pursed her, she had escaped again. Then when she was caught and put in prison, still she managed to escape.

I can do this, she thought. I can get to safety.

One way or the other.

Jean kept her head down, looking for the strange stones. Then her heart quicken as she saw a piece of material torn from her tee shirt, now stuck on a scrubby branch. This must be the spot where she had fallen. With her foot throbbing, she bent down and searched the ground, over and over again. Nothing.

Either she hadn’t dropped them here, or someone else had walked here, kicking them aside carelessly. But who would have been in this corner of the woods in the brief time Jean had been at the stream? Was it possible?

She might never know.

So Jean kept walking. She saw dozens of colorful butterflies flying above her, sunny yellows, ocean blues and peony pinks, filling the sky and wandering over the trees. Jean wished she were a butterfly. Maybe someday she would become a butterfly, and now she was just a mere caterpillar. But in time she would rise above her circumstances and soar to a brilliant future. Maybe. It was possible.

She smelled the river before she saw it, damp, dirty, dingy.

The sun had gone in and the blinding heat was replaced by a warm breeze. The clouds above were dark and threatening rain. She remembered hearing somewhere that when butterflies come out in multitudes, it means a storm is forthcoming. But rain is good, Jean told herself. If I can find some sort of bucket, I can actually catch the rain for drinking water.

Please God, she prayed, let me find the stones on the river bank.

Except once she was actually on the sand, she couldn’t remember exactly where she had been standing. With no one around, it was difficult to get her bearings. Everything looked the same. The sandy ground, the small rocks, the uneven terrain.

She walked up and down the banks of the river, which was no easy task with her foot aching. She saw nothing unusual. She got down on her hands and knees and crawled through the mud, clawing with her bare hands, hoping they had been buried beneath. I have to find them, she thought. It could mean my life. God, please let me find them.

Her ragged nails were embedded with dirt and she could taste the mud in her mouth. And piece of sand stung her eye No usual rocks.

She was hungry and walked into the forest, looking for food. She found some mushrooms, which were rather bitter but she ate it anyway. She also found some cassava plants and she greedily stuffed her mouth. It was while she was chewing that she remembered that cassava could carry a virus spread by flies. Or maybe the plant was diseased because of green spider mites or mealy bugs. She spit it out on the ground and jumped when she heard a crackle of thunder. Then the rain came lashing down.

The rain, that Jean had so looked forward to, now was like needles piercing her skin, blinding her, making it impossible for her to see a few feet in front of her. She sat down in the sand but when a flash of lightening broke a stick to bits right near her and the splinters of wood flew into the air, Jean realized that she wasn’t safe.

She ran under a tree to hide. She couldn’t remember if that was wise or not. What if the lightening hit the tree and it came crashing down, crushing her in the process?

What choice did she have?

Jean stayed stationary for what seemed like hours. There was no possible way to catch the rain and she began to think it foolish that she had ever considered that an option. And the storm hadn’t helped the heat or the humidity.

Now her sopping wet clothing stuck to her and she began to shiver.

She stayed under the tree and managed to drift. She dreamt of her mother and her aunt and her little brother, Lawrence, who never had a chance, who disappeared as though he had never lived, as though he had never mattered.

When she finally woke it was pitch black. Night. Somewhere in the distance Jean heard an animal crying. She rose slowly and looked around, trying desperately to get her bearings.

Jean didn’t want to remain in the woods but the thought of walking, hoping to find a road or a village was equally daunting. Anything could spring on her, wild animals, thieves who were hunting her, people who were convinced that she was a witch child. The question was: was she safer in the woods or on the road?

And where was the road anyway? And what if it were paroled by soldiers or rebels who might shoot her just for crossing their imaginary line?

If she started to walk, would she only become more lost in the forest? Should she just stay put until morning, sitting on the wet ground? She thought of the children she left behind, like Jimmy. Was he sleeping on a plastic sheet with the rain beating on his bald head? Was Natalie afraid? Would Matilda comfort her? And what about Gertrude? Did she sit on her chair, holding the rubber whip in one hand, and an umbrella in the other?

Maybe they took the children to a shelter when it rained. At least Pastor Francis gave them water and a few tablespoons of rice. At least they had each other. The loneliness of being on the run without anyone to talk to was as painful as her hunger, as her thirst, as her foot which never stopped throbbing.

Jean had no choice. She closed her eyes and waited for daylight.