Beneath a Southern Sky (3 page)

When they came to the center of the clearing, he planted the torch in the soft earth. He came to stand behind Daria and wrapped his arms around her, cradling her head on his shoulder. He cupped her chin in one strong, rough hand and tilted it toward the heavens.

The sight above her left her breathless. “Oh, Nate! It’s so beautiful.”

In the village, their view of the sky was filtered through a mesh-work of vines and palm leaves, but here the vista was unobstructed. The sky above them was a flawless canopy of navy-colored velvet sewn with a million glittering sequins. Daria felt as though she floated in a realm that was both sea and sky, fathomless and eternal. But she wasn’t frightened because Nathan was her anchor. They stood together in silent awe, matching the rhythm of their breaths each to the other. Nate had been studying the constellations of the Southern Hemisphere, and he began to point them out to her. His voice was soft in her ear, the bristle of his day-old beard sweetly familiar against her cheek.

“Look there, Dar,” he whispered hoarsely, pointing, his arm brushing her cheek as he sighted a star pattern for her. “That’s Virgo.” He tipped her chin slightly to the left. “And see that star right there… the brightest one? That’s Spica.”

She nodded, standing on tiptoe to nuzzle her cheek against his. The star seemed to wink at her, as though it were in on Nate’s little surprise.

“When you look at the sky every night I’m gone, find that star,” he told her. “I’ll be looking at it and thinking how much I love you.”

Her throat was too full to reply. She wanted only to stand there forever, safe in his arms.

Morning came too quickly, and Nathan Camfield rolled out of bed with far more trepidation about the journey ahead than he had allowed his wife to see. He was hesitant to leave her here alone. He had asked Anazu and his wife, Paita, the only Christian converts in the village, to keep an eye on Daria. He knew they would take the charge seriously. The Timoné were a peaceable people, and he and Daria had always felt safe within the village. But still he worried.

He worried for himself as well. He wasn’t sure what he would find when he arrived in the village to which he’d been called.
Chicoro
, the runner who’d come for him had called it. He only hoped the man had been right in judging the distance. For Daria’s sake, Nate desperately wanted to return as quickly as possible. She seemed so fearful.

Daria was already outside making coffee over the fire when Nate came down the steps of their hut.

“Good morning,” she said, as if it were any other day.

“Mornin’, babe.”

“I fixed some fruit.” She held up a bowl of sliced bananas, guava fruit, pitaya, and a variety of the succulent berries that grew wild all over the rain forest.

He started to tell her he’d just have coffee, but then saw the pleading look in her eye. “Sure,” he said, trying to force a cheerfulness he didn’t feel into his voice.

They sat companionably on the stoop as they did every morning, swinging their legs over the side, sipping hot coffee from their treasured University of Kansas mugs. Nate ate Daria’s fruit salad with his fingers, touched by her offering.

He turned to say something to her and saw that there were tears streaming down her face.

“Hey, hey,” he whispered. “It’s only a few days.”

She tried to smile but failed miserably, her face crumpling as she wept.

He jumped down off the stoop and stood in front of her. Taking her chin in his hands, he planted kisses on her tear-stained cheeks, memorizing the feel of her lips on his.

Then he wrapped his arms protectively around her. “Father,” he prayed, “Please be with this woman I love. Keep her safe while I’m gone and help the time to pass quickly for both of us. Father, give me wisdom to know how to help the people you’ve sent me to minister to—both in body and in spirit.”

Through tears, but with a voice that seemed stronger, Daria prayed for him too, in her simple, straightforward way. “God, go with Nate. Keep him safe. Guide him in everything he does. And, Lord, please bring him back to me because—well, I’ve grown kind of fond of him and I think I’d like to keep him for a while.”

Nate laughed and held her at arm’s length, appreciating the way her dimpled smile reached her blue eyes. A strand of wavy blond hair had escaped her braid and, returning her smile, he brushed it from her high forehead. He was so proud of her for giving him this gift of laughter before he went. “Amen,” he said, his heart full.

Together they washed the few breakfast dishes and then he went into the hut for his things.

They walked arm in arm through the village, and beyond to the place where the worn forest trail led to the navigable waters of the Rio Guaviare. Quimico and Tados and their families were already waiting when they got there, chattering excitedly among themselves. Nate loaded his things into the boat, and the two young natives lofted the craft onto their shoulders.

Nate pulled Daria into his arms and kissed her one last time. “Goodbye, sweetheart,” he whispered, aware that the natives were watching and shaking their heads at this bold American display of affection. He released her and went to take his share of the boat’s burden.

They started up the trail. The boat on his shoulders prevented him from turning and keeping Daria in his sight. But he didn’t have to see her to know that her beautiful face was wet with tears and that her tender heart was praying for his safe return even now.

Two

T
he thin trail of smoke slithered toward the clouds like a cobra charmed by the music of the coming rain. Though it was hard to tell how distant the fire was, it worried Daria. It seemed more than a bonfire. And hours too early for that besides.

If there was trouble in another nearby village, they would come looking for Nate. He wouldn’t be back for several days, and she would rather the neighboring villages not know that she was alone.

She turned back to the flatbread she was making, slapping the coarse dough hard with the heel of her hand, forming a thin disk that would fry crisp in a pan of grease over the coals. It was too late for lunch and too early for supper, but at least keeping busy helped soothe her worries. With Nate gone, she had kept an erratic schedule, eating and sleeping whenever the mood struck her. She hadn’t realized how much stability his presence brought, even to the mundane things of life.

She looked again toward the grey wisp of smoke and noted that it was in the general direction of the village to which Nate had traveled. Perhaps he could see it from where he was and would go to help if it signaled trouble.

She missed him. Oh, how she missed him. The jungle was treacherous and unpredictable, but when Nathan was with her, it was truly a paradise. Once she had grown accustomed to the spiders, snakes, and amphibious creatures that teemed in their corner of Colombia, she had seldom felt afraid. The soft plunk of afternoon raindrops on massive palm leaves and the calls of the wild creatures that inhabited the rain forest had become sounds of security. They were as much the sounds of home for her now as the lowing cattle, distant train whistles, and song of the meadowlark had been on the Kansas prairie where she grew up.

Now, with Nathan away, Daria felt as though a part of her was missing. He had made trips without her before—to hunt with the Timoné men and, recently, to treat the ill in outlying villages. Usually he was gone overnight, two days at most. This time was different, and she wasn’t prepared for the dull ache of loneliness that came over her on this fifth night of his absence.

She placed the circle of dough on a clean stone and brushed the coarse cornmeal from her hands. She climbed to the stoop and ducked inside the doorway to their hut. She took a frying pan from its hook on the wall and a can of grease from the narrow shelf over the window.

Though she had been a farm girl, she had never been a camper, and cooking over an open fire had been a hard-earned skill. She smiled to herself, thinking of the many meals of blackened bread and scorched meat they had endured while she learned, at Nate’s insistence, to cook as the Timoné did. The small hut she and Nate had inherited from the missionary who had served before them was set apart from the rest of the village, but she knew the villagers had not missed the pitifully thick smoke that had rolled from her cast-iron skillet during those first weeks. Nor had they missed the reason for Nate’s casual forays into the village proper just as their fires were emitting the enticing perfume of golden brown flatbread and tender roasted meat and vegetables. She knew she had been laughed at much in those early days, but she didn’t care. They were a kind people and didn’t intend to hurt her feelings. Besides, she knew how to laugh at herself—and she could lie in Nate’s arms at night and delight in that sweetest bliss of shared laughter.

“That was an interesting recipe you made tonight,” he’d told her one night after she’d ruined supper two evenings in a row. His tone was serious, but his smile blazed in the darkness. A long pause while she waited for his punch line. “Really, Daria,” he said finally, “you should write a cookbook—except I hear blackened food is already passé back in the States.”

She put an elbow hard to his ribs. “If you’d just let me have a stove you’d be surprised what a good cook I might be! Just think of the juicy pies and cookies and chocolate cakes and—”

Then he locked her in his arms and playfully rolled her over, his sweet tooth aching, she knew, at her torturous litany of his weaknesses. “Not fair!” he cried.

He deftly changed the subject with the kisses that were
her
weakness, wrestling her gently on the soft grass mat that was their bed. They shared their love in whispers and muffled giggles so their voices wouldn’t be heard across the stream in the village.

She never had managed to wear him down about the stove—not even after one of the villagers acquired a propane cooker. Nate had come to be part of the Timoné culture, and to him buying a stove was like giving in to his spoiled American upbringing.

She shook off the poignant memory. Brushing a strand of sun-bleached hair from her face, she scooped grease into the skillet and carried it outside. The flames had died down, and the coals were just right for baking. Soon the corn bread sizzled, spattering drops of grease into the fire and filling the air with its fragrance. After a minute, she flipped the circle of dough expertly and put the pan back on the fire.

While the bread finished frying, she stretched her arms lazily over her head and panned her gaze to the darkening afternoon sky. In the hills to the north, the trail of smoke had grown darker, a swirling column now that was a deeper grey than the rain-heavy sky. It made her think of the funnel clouds that often ravaged the flat-lands of Kansas. A chill went up her spine, and she wondered briefly if she should try to radio Bogotá and report the fire.

The wind came up as it did almost every afternoon, carrying swollen clouds, swaying the branches and palm fronds overhead, making a commotion as familiar as her own breath. As the first raindrops penetrated the forest umbrella, Daria took the skillet from the fire and hurriedly climbed to the doorway of the hut. She went in to sit at the crude bench near the window, her eyes avoiding the empty mat in the corner where she would sleep alone again tonight.

Ten days had passed with no sign of Nathan or Quimico and Tados. For the first time in her life, Daria tasted terror.

Yesterday, after two days of silence, Bob Warrington, their contact in Bogotá, had gotten through to her on the radio. Daria attempted to sound unconcerned when she told Bob that Nathan had not yet returned. Now she regretted it.

She walked to the commons in the center of the village, her prayers for Nate’s safety interrupted by thoughts of what she would do if he still wasn’t back tomorrow—or the next day, or the next. She said a quick
amen
as she spotted the children gathering in the large, thatch-roofed shelter, which served as the village gathering place.

Little Jirelle came running to greet her, the light in her eyes twinkling from behind a curtain of shiny, jet-black bangs.
“Hollio
, Teacher!” she cried.

“Hollio
, Jirelle.
Ceju na
. Come here.” For her own sake as well as the children’s, she deliberately repeated her Timoné words in English.

Jirelle shyly took Daria’s hand and walked with her the rest of the way to the commons. Daria smiled, remembering how she had struggled with what her role as a missionary should be when they first arrived. Nate could offer his gift of healing—he had known since childhood that he wanted to be a doctor. She, however, had left college after her sophomore year, still not having declared a major.

She had found the first hint of her gift in her job as a teacher’s aide when Nate was still in medical school. But what could she teach these Timoné children? She and Nate recognized something precious in the primitive simplicity of these people’s lives. The Timoné had no need for the technologies that cluttered life. Nate was adamant that he and Daria had not come to Americanize or civilize the Timoné. They had come to offer healing—for the body and for the soul.

Finally unearthing the connection between her gift and their need, Daria had organized an informal Bible class. She had first begun meeting with the children outside the hut she and Nate shared, but her little group had soon grown so large that the village leaders suggested that she move to the commons. In spite of the language barrier, the twenty or so who were allowed to come for an hour each morning had learned much, and she had finally begun to feel that her presence here had meaning.

Daria let go of Jirelle’s hand and went to greet the other children who were still straggling in from the crude pathways that wound through the village. Their high, nasal chattering filled the air.

“
Hollio
, Tommi. Hello, Gilberto. Gabrielle, is this for me?” She took a rather wilted hibiscus blossom the size of a dinner plate from a chubby little girl. “
Égracita
, Gabrielle. It is beautiful.
Mui béleu
.”

She greeted each child by name as they took their places along three rows of narrow benches that faced the west. The children quieted and she went to stand at the front of the shelter and opened the colorfully illustrated children’s Bible. She walked up and down the rows, giving each child a chance to see the pictures of the brave and trusting young man named Daniel and the ferocious lions he faced.

“Who would like to play the lions?” she asked, pointing to the pictures in the book.

Ten grubby little-boy hands went into the air, and they all began auditioning for the role by baring their teeth and “claws” and yowling loudly. Their howling made them sound more like Colombian jaguars, and Daria earned their hysterical laughter when she demonstrated a deep roar. But they soon became fluent in “lionese” and went to stand in one corner of the shelter that she had designated to be the lions’ den. She chose Gilberto to play Daniel. He was a bit of a ham and easier to manage when he had a starring role.

The impromptu production went splendidly, and Daria was grateful to have her mind taken off of Nathan for a while. But as she bade the children farewell and walked back to their hut, her thoughts turned again to her husband.

“Please, Father. Be with him, wherever he is. Bring him back safely,” she whispered.

How long did Nate have to be missing before Bob Warrington would instigate a search? What if she couldn’t get through on the radio? What if she needed to leave and Anazu refused to help her? She blocked the roiling questions from her mind and prayed that by tomorrow her worries would be needless because Nate would be home safe in her arms.

“Daria, I just want you to know that I’m doing everything possible to get a search party organized—in case we need it. We’re not overly concerned yet. We knew it would take some time. But it has been a bit longer than we expected.” She knew he meant to reassure her, but even though his words were chopped up on the airwaves, Bob Warrington’s trepidation transmitted loud and clear.

Nate had been gone almost two weeks. It had been more than forty-eight hours since her last contact with Bogotá. Her panic had grown hourly as she stayed inside the hut, trying desperately to get through on the radio. She had wept with relief to hear the radio spring to life minutes ago.

“Bob, have you reported Nate missing yet? To our families, I mean?” She had to repeat the question twice over constant static before he got it.

“No, we haven’t. Frankly, I was hoping you’d have good news when I got through this morning. Do you want me to let your families know what’s going on?”

She hesitated. “No, not yet,” she finally told him, shouting into the receiver. “Unless you think we should.” Their parents had all been against their going. She couldn’t bear to think of them worrying and wondering from afar when there was nothing they could do.

She waited for his reply, knowing that if he believed it was time to inform their families, he was more worried than he let on. But when he agreed with Daria that it would be premature to alert their families in the States just yet, she sighed in relief. “It’s possible that everything is fine and that the trip is just taking longer than Nate anticipated,” he told her. “But I do think it’s time to start looking for him.”

She knew his unspoken fear: Paramilitary units were thick in the coca growing regions on the Rio Guaviare. They were notorious for killing suspicious parties and asking questions later.