On the riverside of promise (7 page)

“I think I’ve wasted enough time with you
already, Mr. Owls. Go back to your room and be thankful there are
people who care, like the mother superior. People tolerant enough
even to the likes of your kind.”

“Ah, vultures you mean? You make it sound
like this whole bloody mess is my fault.”

She shrugged and said, looking suddenly
morose instead of angry: “I just don’t see how taking pictures of
death, destruction and starving children can do any good.”

Ethan replied in a very serious tone, in an
almost dangerous display of frankness, “Would it do any good if I
was carrying a rifle instead?”

She paused for a moment, looking at Ethan
with a set of piercing blue eyes that seemed to be trying to peer
beyond those last few words of his:

“We wouldn’t even be talking if that was the
case. Now please, haranguing me like that won’t get you anywhere. I
have much more pressing matters to attend to,” she said and made to
leave while Ethan’s gaze floated around until it met her left arm,
where a piece of gauze stuck out from under her sleeve.

“Like that arm of yours? You’re injured
yourself, aren’t you?”

“You think you have a keen eye for misery? If
only you were so thoughtful of everyone else as well,” she said
with evident disapproval.

Ethan just threw his hands in the air and
said:

“For God’s sake, you haven’t even given me a
chance, right from the start.”

Nicole was looking at him when she suddenly
smiled ironically and said: “You think it’s unfair?”

Ethan waved a hand above his head and
replied: “This whole business is unfair to everyone here. Shouldn’t
you allow for some leeway, even when dealing with vultures?”

She paused for a moment, as if measuring
everything about Ethan with a casual glance from head to toe:

“If you want some leeway and if you’re
willing to really apologize and make amends, then come lend a hand.
You can carry things around without taking any pictures, can’t
you?” she said, following her question up with a smile that might
not have been as ironic as the last one.

“The lighting’s all bad anyway,” replied
Ethan with a grin that came across as a bad touch.

“I find your sense of humor out of place,”
said Nicole flatly.

“I try, but I always end up in the wrong
place for some reason,” said Ethan and nodded to himself. Nicole
replied with a frank voice:

“You’re a complex man, Mr. Owls.”

Ethan smiled thinly before he crossed his
arms and said:

“I thought I was a vulture.”

“You might still prove to be just that.”

“I can’t really change your mind, can I?” he
said and shook his head.

As she pulled the curtain to the nursing
station aside, she showed the way inside and said with what seemed
to be her genuine smile:

“You can try.”

* * *

Purple and red hues of dawn sheepishly tried
to blossom far away, the earth still wet and napping, the chill
humid breeze unusually refreshing. Nicole’s gaze wandered around
the monastery’s rock and mud walls for a moment, before it focused
on the bell towers. One was set facing the east, the other towards
the Vatican; from the weary look on her face, both directions
looked equally distant in any measureable way, whether it were
space or time.

Ethan approached her casually without any
hint of their former quarrelsome chat. He offered her a cigarette
which she silently accepted. He lit it up, and they both sat on a
stone bench near the wall, letting the morning wind carry away all
the weight of the night before.

Helping Nicole with her rounds had mellowed
her somewhat to the point where she no longer considered him a
vulture. Not only had she admitted being too quick to judge, but
she had also been openly impressed by Ethan’s quick-and-dirty
first-aid knowledge, turning any simple item into a tourniquet or a
splinter. It struck her as odd but Ethan had managed to explain
that any journalist that wanted to get alive out of a war zone had
to be a medic as well. She had smiled at that and said with just a
hint of mischief: “My, my; and you can type as well”.

But nothing on her face that morning came
close to that austere, quirky nurse with the outspoken dislike of
journalists and other vermin that seemed to feed on human misery:
As she sat there smoking, she struck Ethan as a very familiar face,
someone close but yet so distant in memory. Like a long lost friend
or perhaps, a lover. He kept trying to remember and was soon
enthralled by the warmth of her face, lost in his own little box of
memories.

As she took another puff from her cigarette,
she casually looked around and caught Ethan with his gaze fixated
on her, his eyes out of focus. She asked him then, with just the
right amount of disapproval in her soft voice:

“Anything you particularly like, Mr. Owls?”
to which no answer came. She asked again, this time less
pretentiously:

“Richard? Lost somewhere?” she said, and
broke the spell.

“Hmm? Sorry.” he finally managed to answer
before he himself asked in earnest: “I must’ve been woolgathering,
what were you saying?”

Nicole shrugged and said, “Nothing. You just
stood there and kept looking at me,” before she added all
high-browed yet smiling slightly, “Looking for something in
particular?”

Ethan smiled with a corner of his lip in a
bitter fashion before exhaling, the smoke swiftly vanishing away in
little curls and twists. He sounded somewhat reticent and
weighed-down when he said:

“That’s a funny thing to ask; you could say I
am, but it’s not you. Though you do remind me of someone. I just
can’t put a name to it; it’s a slippery thing.”

The bells started to chime then; it was time
for the morning prayer. A few sisters could be seen around the
courtyard, hurriedly but quietly moving about for the mass. It
struck Ethan as odd then how similar it all looked to a roll call:
quiet, practiced, efficient. “Unto God’s own image,” he said then
half to himself while he pointed to the shuffling silhouettes of
the nuns.

Nicole turned around to look and through a
small window the first cautious rays of sunlight caused her to
squint even though she sat in the shadow of the walls. She shook
her head and said, “Such a waste,” before she put out her cigarette
and folded her arms.

Ethan frowned and asked her:

“You mean, the nuns?”

She half-turned around to look at him, while
warm sunlight made her hair glow as if from within and said: “I
mean God.”

Ethan let out a small laugh before he
replied:

“That’s a funny thing to say for someone
working in a monastery. It’s almost a joke, actually.”

Her eyes suddenly took on that earlier
piercing glint that conveyed her annoyance instantly. She
retorted:

“’He’ is the joke. It’s just that people
don’t seem to get it, more often than not. In a sense, it’s better
that way. Imagine if these nuns were used as forced labor, sold and
exchanged like cattle. At least the lie they live in doesn’t make
things any worse.”

“I’ve always wondered. Don’t you people
believe in anything?”

She frowned, cocked her head sideways and
asked him: “What do you mean, ’you people’?”

“Atheists,” he said and put out his own
cigarette, stamping it on the red soil.

She laughed heartily despite herself and said
with a grin:

“For a moment there, I thought you would’ve
said ’communists’.”

“I try not to mix politics and religion.”

“Aren’t they the same?”

“Not quite. I mean, no one actually believes
politicians, right? At least I hope not.”

“I wish it was a laughing matter, but it’s
really not.”

“So you place all your trust in man then?
Look around you. We’re not exactly doing a bang up job, are
we?”

“I have faith in man. The sisters here have
faith in God. And I do not consider myself an atheist; I just have
a grudge against people who think God has anything to do with this
life,” she said and brushed a lock of her hair away from her
cheek.

Ethan looked at her in a pensive mood. What
an interesting woman, he thought. He lowered his gaze to his feet
and said:

“I’m not a church-going fellow myself, not by
a long-shot. But sometimes, some things just make you wish for
something to grab and hold on.”

“Like a woman?” she said, her grin almost
meant to tease. He laughed and waved `no' with his hands.

“Heaven forbid, no. In any case, I meant
something. Not someone. Like an idea, a symbol, a flag. Maybe a
flag. You know, something to-”

“Idolize,” she filled in on cue and made him
nod.

“Yeah, you might call it like that.”

“Look around you, it’s everywhere. What the
sisters hold on to.”

“I wouldn’t know anything about nuns.”

“What happened to a journalist’s keen
senses?” she said, and pointed with an index finger to the church
bell tower. On top of it stood a plain iron cross. Ethan smiled
thinly and shook his head.

“Ah. Well, I guess that was blatantly
obvious. Perhaps I should think about a career change.”

“Maybe. Sometimes I think like that
myself.”

“Really? It gets to you, doesn’t it?”

“I try to think of the larger picture. That
I’m helping save lives. But it doesn’t always work. That’s why
sometimes I need this,” she said and showed Ethan a chain around
her neck, a simple unadorned St. Andrews cross on it. It looked
familiar. He felt the urge to take a closer look.

“A cross? May I?”

She nodded and took it off. Ethan took it in
his hand and it immediately felt more than familiar - he turned it
around and he saw the letters `A.N.W.’ etched on the backside. Andy
Nathaniel Whittmore. This was Andy’s cross.

Thoughts and wishes mingled in one as they
raced to take control of his mouth. He tried but he couldn’t
remember the last time he had actually been at a loss. His face was
motionless, unable to look anything other than utterly
confounded.

Nicole saw that and couldn’t help asking:

“What is it? What’s bothering you?”

“That cross. That’s Andy’s cross. My
brother’s.”

“Your brother’s? That’s ridiculous,” she said
and looked scornfully away, unabashedly dismissive in her
expression.

He didn’t give it a second thought. All the
constructed facade he had went to some considerable effort to
create suddenly felt completely worthless and immaterial.

“It’s not,” he said and took off his own twin
cross and showed it to her. It wasn’t as polished and there was a
silver-grey patina all over it, but the initials ’E.R.W.’ stood out
clearly.

“That’s for Ethan Roiel Whittmore. And that
cross of yours has Andy Nathaniel Whittmore carved on its back.
That’s my brother’s cross.”

“But… You said your name is Richard Owls.
What’s this all about?”

“Where did you get that cross?”

“That’s my husband’s cross.”

The connotation made Ethan blink twice. He
almost stuttered when he asked:

“Andy? Andy got married? You’re his wife?
Where is he, what happened?”

Ethan’s face became a mask of anxiety,
contorted and flushed. His breathing became shallower, as if he was
about to jump into an ice cold ocean of fear and doubt. Nicole’s
stare was fixed on the cross as she traced its edges. She spoke
then with a low, uneven voice, as if she was telling a story better
left unsaid:

“Our camp was attacked. Tribal lords. Little
more than feral men, they came one day and wanted to loot
everything. Including the women. Some of us tried to put up a
fight. Perhaps it was a mistake. During the shooting, a few had the
chance to run away. Andy with some of the guides stayed behind to
buy us time. He was bleeding when… He… He gave me this cross. He
was a believer, you see. Funny, no?”

Tears welled in her eyes but she did not cry,
even though it seemed like she should. Ethan saw how easily her
facade of a strict, haughty nurse had crumbled away when she
mentioned her husband. Thoughts about that camp ran around Ethan’s
head. A strange forlorn feeling of an idea formed up in his mind.
He told her then in his most steady, thoughtful voice:

“I’m looking for Andy. All this, it’s just a
cover. I need you to tell me everything that happened that
day.”

Her face suddenly became a bit pale. She
looked disturbed, stricken with sudden anxiety.

“But Andy… He has barely mentioned you. What
is this? Some kind of sick joke?”

“I’m being dead serious. I’m risking my hide
for this. I just want to find my brother, don’t you? You can’t give
up on him. We just can’t.”

“But Andy’s… He was bleeding from his leg,
looking all pale when we… No, he’s just as good as dead. Those men
wouldn’t just… Animals, not men. You don’t know what it was
like!”