Monday Morning Faith (24 page)

I spotted Poo waiting at the shore and sighed, not looking forward to another day with her underfoot. Sam helped me out of the boat, and Poo attached herself to me, holding my hand in her hot, sticky little fingers.
What
had she been eating? I didn't want to consider the choices.

Sam suggested I hand out candy in the morning and help in the clinic after lunch. Everywhere I went that morning Poo was underfoot. When she wasn't pursuing me, she stood off at a distance, staring at me. I practically developed a nervous twitch, reaching to straighten my hair, pull my blouse straight, swipe dirt from my cheek. The constant observation was unnerving.

The dog was tied to the tree. When I walked past he remained quiet. His face rested in his paws, eyes straight ahead. I thought he looked depressed. Sneaking a quick look around, I found no one but Poo watching, so I fished the foil out of my pack and approached the tyrant. The dog watched, making no effort to challenge me. I bent closer, my eyes spotting fresh welts on the dog's back. Dried blood encrusted a couple of the wounds.

Someone had beaten him. My hand moved to my queasy stomach.

“It's okay, boy,” I whispered. “This will help.” I upended the foil and pieces of toast and jelly fell on the ground. The animal sprang to his feet and inhaled the food. When he was through, his eyes turned on me. I fished two packets of jelly beans out of the pack and removed the paper, then dumped the candy on the ground. This way it would last him longer — and cellophane had no nutritional value, which he didn't seem to realize. I stretched my hand out, alert for any sign of aggression, but there was none. I was surprised when he let me stroke his head. I walked on, making a mental note to tell Sam about the abuse. Perhaps he could arrange to have the dog brought to the missionaries' huts. I would see that the animal was fed and watered.

By midmorning, I'd had enough of Poo's scrutiny. She was a child; I was an adult. I did not have to put up with this sort of harassment. I'd do what any take-charge adult would do: I'd lose her. The village men had gathered in a circle in the middle of the village, having what looked to be some sort of a business meeting. I could hear the low rumble of male voices, and I swerved to avoid coming too close, feeling my presence would not be appreciated.

The native male appeared to be quite chauvinistic.

Sam had mentioned that once he and the missionary men had been allowed to sit in on a public discussion. Frank understood enough to surmise the meeting was called for voting purposes: whether to allow Protestant missionaries into the village. Catholicism was strong in the area, and a few huts were thought to contain an unpretentious wooden table with a cross, a small bouquet of flowers, and a colorful replica of Christ or the Virgin Mary — whom the villagers called Satntu Maria or just Maria. From all appearances the villagers weren't comfortable with religious symbols. Instead they practiced the belief that the animals were gods. If missionaries, Catholic or Protestant, were making headway in changing their minds, I'd seen little evidence of it.

Eva and Mary were demonstrating to a group of young women the proper way to care for babies. Such information seemed a moot point, considering the horde of half-wild children running through the village. I paused to listen; Poo leaned against me. Although I knew I was being childish, I was still angry over the theft of my glasses. In my mind the missing can opener made things worse. I claimed no powers of ESP, but I had no doubt what had happened to the utensil. We'd have to open canned goods with a machete if it wasn't found. I used one finger to push my glasses up on my nose. The left earpiece, held with the surgical tape, irked me no end.

A group of women passed me, carrying bulging string sacks containing betel nuts that had fallen to the ground. The men would break the rough brown shells open with heavy bush knives and remove the meat, which they would lay on wooden racks over the fire in a thatched smokehouse. They would tend the fire, replenishing it with the loads of wood the women brought in from the bush. This was a man's world. They ruled in a way and to an extent that few, if any, American women would accept. I could just hear Nelda if Jim ordered her to bring wood while he sat on his dignity and watched.

I shook Poo off, then proceeded on, rounding a corner and then ducking around several more corners to lose my annoying Poo-shadow. I reached the edge of the jungle and followed the worn path. The trail climbed past patches of taro and sweet potatoes grown on the steep mountainside. Bush knives and fire had been used to clear the trees and undergrowth. The larger timbers were used for low erosion barriers.

I'd give the men this much: they worked hard when they worked.

Sago palms grew in profusion. From these trees the villagers made sago powder, thin flour that they mixed with hot water to make glutinous gel globules they garnished with grated coconut, fish, or boiled greens. I had yet to develop a taste for the dish.

Here and there I saw small gardens planted with green onions and pumpkin, which, according to Sam, our own Frank and Eva had introduced.

A thatched hut served as a drying area, filled with bundles of drying tobacco leaves, which thrived in this area. A stand of tall, slender betel-nut palms stood on my left, and on the right women in various stages of undress fished the shoreline or gathered shellfish in buckets. My brows arched, not because I was startled at the women's state of undress, but because I realized I wasn't. Sam had said I'd get used to things here. I'd doubted him, but apparently, at least where the women were concerned, he was right.

While not pretty or even attractive by American standards, the women of the village carried themselves with a proud stance and seemed happy and eager about their work.

As the trail narrowed and I passed the women, I looked back to see if Poo was still following. She was.

I strolled along, as if going nowhere in particular, until the foliage grew denser. Running, I ducked around an outcropping of rock and slid down a steep incline. At the bottom I stopped and listened, holding my breath. No sound except the twittering birds in the bush.

No sign of Poo.

Pleased at how fast I'd evaded her, I wandered deeper into the bush. Here the foliage was varied in color and texture, and birds with bright plumage chattered overhead. Sam was right — once you were clear of the village, the island was a garden of Eden. My earlier reservations about the jungle had vanished. Between Sam and Mary and Eva, my eyes were being opened to the natural beauty of this land.

Now that Poo was no longer underfoot, I let the solitude saturate my mind. A fallen log beckoned, and I sat down to rest, ignoring the wet seeping through my jeans. Indiscriminate rays of sunlight sifted through the canopy of thick branches overhead. The jungle floor was alive with insects, but a careful inspection revealed no ants. After a while a sense of unrest invaded my aura of peace. The others were back in the village working; I should be there too. But I wasn't ready. Not yet.

I stared up at the towering trees, at the stray shafts of sunlight. Here the trees formed a restful canopy. From the air the leaves must look like flowers. I sat for a moment in the coolness, admiring a large ceiba tree covered in vivid red flowers. Hummingbirds and insects swarmed around the tree. Orchids in varying shades and sizes — small and yellow, big and pink — drew my eyes.

Dead leaves littered the jungle floor; the animals blended well, which made them difficult prey. Moths, tree frogs, and katydids were numerous and camouflaged themselves well, looking like leaves — dead or alive.

As I took it all in, I found myself talking to God.

“I know I should be witnessing, working among the villagers, gaining their trust. You created them too, and we're all your children. Or I could be helping Eva and Mary or rolling bandages for the clinic. But, Lord, these people stink. Literally.”

If God had wanted me to serve the villagers, either he shouldn't have given me a queasy stomach or he should have given them a bar of soap. I don't know how the others stood without complaint the stench of unwashed bodies and fetid breath.

Something moved overhead, and I shifted my focus to find two monkeys staring down at me. I had to grin. They looked so inquisitive. Something about their attitude reminded me of Poo. Poor little girl. She just wanted to be friends. She didn't know she was so aggravating.

The sun's rays disappeared and cloud cover darkened the jungle. A fine mist started to fall, dampening my hair and clothing. I'd never seen such changeable weather — so different from Saginaw. I got to my feet; it was time to return to the village. Sam would be going to the hut for lunch, and I wanted to be there.

I started working my way back through the thicket, following the thin path. After at least a half an hour of branches slapping my face, I paused. The village was to my left, wasn't it? I'd followed the trail so I couldn't be lost.

Or could I …?

I swallowed back panic. Lost in this jungle? Sam and the others had no idea where I'd gone; I was supposed to be handing out candy bars.

An hour later, I was still walking, still fretting, following a path that seemed to lead to nowhere. Ahead, something blocked my way, like a thick rope. I stopped, my full attention on the foreign object.

Snake! A very large snake.

Every horror story I'd ever heard or read about poisonous snakes raced thorough my mind. What kind was this? Cobra? Fer-de-lance? What kind of snakes made their home in Papua New Guinea? Whatever kind lived here, they came big.

I backed away, holding my breath. As soon as I could no longer see the serpent, I broke into a run, not caring if I followed the path. I only wanted to put distance between me and the reptile.

An hour later I was sure I was no closer to the village, and terror had become my constant companion. Rain pounded now. Hungry, drenched, I fell to my knees.

“Oh, God, let Sam find me!”

But Sam had no idea where to look for me. I'd slipped away from everyone. What a foolish, childish thing to do. Monkeys chattered overhead. They didn't seem so amusing now. Insects skittered across the jungle floor. Darkness seeped around me as the sun sank lower in the branches.

My prayer had dissolved into disjointed sentences, “Help me … God, I'm scared … help me.”

My thoughts darted here and there, like the bugs in their aimless patterns on the ground beneath me. I would die here. Alone. No one would find me, except maybe a headhunter. Would my head be hanging on a pole by this time tomorrow? I ripped my Bible out of my pack and hurriedly let it fall open.
Strength, Lord. I needed strength and assurance.
My gaze fell on the words of Hebrews 9:27: “Man is destined to die once, and after that to face judgment.”

I swallowed. How did people gain so much comfort from the Bible?

I closed my eyes. I didn't want to die here, so far from home, from …

Mom and Pop.

Sam would have to inform them.
Why
had I come out here like this? I sank to the ground, burying my face in my hands.

A caress, light as the brush of an angel wing, touched the top of my head. I opened my eyes to see Poo. Solemn-faced Poo. In her hand she held the Millets' can opener. My fear dissolved, and I broke into tears, latching onto the child like a drowning woman grabbing a life ring. When I recovered enough to think straight, I took the can opener from her. I shook my head.

Poo smiled, took my hand, and led me to a path. Was she rescuing me or leading me deeper into the bush? I'd not been very nice to this child, and no one could blame her if she chose revenge. However, since I had no idea how to escape my self-imposed prison, I had no choice except to trust my life to this strange little girl.

After what seemed forever, I caught a glimpse of the taro and sweet potato fields I'd passed earlier. The little girl led me past the shed of drying tobacco, into the main part of the village. Sam saw me before I saw him. I heard his jubilant shout. “Johanna! Oh, thank God, she's been found!”

I turned loose of Poo's hand and ran to meet him. His arms closed around me, hard and fast. So comforting. I leaned into him, drawing strength from his solid form. Our eyes met and he ran an unsteady hand down the side of my face. “If anything had happened to you … We've been looking for you all afternoon.”

“I'm sorry. It's my fault; I shouldn't have wandered so far into the bush alone.”

“No, you shouldn't have.” The tender relief in his eyes eased his scolding. “Don't do it again! If you want to go exploring, take me or someone with you. I don't know how you managed to find your way out.”

“I didn't. Poo rescued me.” And tomorrow I'd go through my luggage and find something nice to give her to show my appreciation. Suddenly I realized I still held the Millets' can opener. Eva would be thrilled to see it. Maybe having it back would make up in some small part for the problems I'd caused.

Before I left, I gave Poo a bear hug. I could see the child's flashing grin long after I got into the boat and the men rowed us to the huts.

Exhausted, I headed straight to my tiny cubicle to strip off my wet clothing and take a sponge bath. When I removed my jeans I found black slick-looking things stuck to my legs.

Leeches!
I must have gotten them when I sat on the wet log.

I pulled one off and it turned and attached itself to my finger. I grabbed it with my free hand, stretching the body like a rubber band until it turned loose — then I couldn't get it off my other hand.

I screamed so loud Eva and Mary ran into each other coming to my rescue.

FIFTEEN