On the ninth day, just before sunset, she sat down beneath an acacia tree and leaned her head against the trunk, feeling exhaustion in every inch of her frame. She closed her eyes and concentrated on breathing, her mind blank. She didn’t sense the presence until she heard a low growl like a tremor in the wind. She opened her eyes and was seized by terror.
A male lion stood ten feet away.
Her first instinct was to run, but she rejected it swiftly, certain that it would lead to her death. Instead, she sat perfectly still, watching the cat. She had heard stories of lions in the bush, but she had never seen one. She studied the beast and saw its bony shoulders and scrawny legs. It was hungry. It was then that she had a thought:
Stand up and talk to it. Tell it to leave you alone.
She didn’t know where the idea came from, but it was better than nothing.
She stood up slowly and stared down the lion. “I know you haven’t eaten in a while,” she said in Somali, “but I am not good food. Do you see these arms and legs? I have no meat left on me.”
The lion growled again, its mane shining like copper in the light of the setting sun.
Feeling desperate, she switched to English. “There is nothing here for you, just skin and bones. It is spring. There are other animals that will taste much better.”
The cat lowered its head and pawed the ground, gazing at her through fearsome yellow eyes.
Another thought came to her:
Leave your sack and back away.
She stepped slowly to the side of the tree. “I’m going to leave now. You can have my food, but you can’t have me.”
She took one step backward, then another. At once, a gust of wind blew through her
abaya
, and it billowed outward like a sail. When the lion saw this, it looked at her strangely. She continued to back away, her heart throbbing in her chest. As soon as she left the shade of the tree, the lion moved toward her sack and put its nose into the opening.
That’s right
, she thought.
Take all you want.
With the beast momentarily distracted, she glanced over her shoulder and saw another acacia nearby. She threw her hands around the lowest limb and pulled herself up. The lion roared in anger, but by the time it reached the tree she was fifteen feet off the ground. She felt like she was moving through glue, so heightened were her senses, but she climbed onward, her arms and legs scorching from the strain. The cat leaned on the trunk and roared in frustration, but it made no attempt to follow her.
From her perch on the highest limb, Yasmin watched the sun sink toward the horizon, turning the clouds pink and casting long shadows across the grasslands. It took a while for the lion to lose interest in her, but eventually it returned to her sack and dragged it into the bush.
She sat quietly, holding on to the trunk, until the sky was as dark as the land. The thought of leaving the tree terrified her, but she knew she couldn’t stay there. She had four days of walking left before she would reach Dadaab. With her food gone, she had to hurry.
She dropped to the ground and collected her water jug, seeing no sign of the cat. It had taken her sack toward the northeast, which was fortunate. She saw the full moon rising in the east and turned in the opposite direction, toward Sirius, the brightest star in the heavens. She took off at a fast clip, spurred on by the residue of adrenaline and by her unwavering dedication to the goal.
Sometime in the early morning hours, her energy ran out. She tried to sit down, but her legs were so weak that they collapsed beneath her. She fell in a heap, knocking the side of her head against a rock. She stared up at the sky for a long time, her thoughts wrapped in gauze. She saw the belt of the Milky Way twinkling above her and Scorpio stretched out behind the moon. She thought she heard a faint sound, like the crackle of radio static, but it faded out and she forgot about it.
Eventually, she turned on her side and looked west. The Maiden was there calling out to her, as she had from the banks of the Juba, but Yasmin didn’t have the strength to take another step. Her journey would have to wait until daylight. She closed her eyes and fell into a dreamless sleep.
She awoke when her subconscious registered the sensation of something splashing on her face. It went on for half a minute before she opened her eyes and saw the rain. By the time she struggled into the sitting position, her
abaya
was drenched. The rain fell harder, turning the dirt into mud. She had such a hangover from sleep that she almost forgot to refill her water jug. After she washed it out and topped it up, the rain slackened and the clouds parted, revealing the sun. She was shocked to see it high in the western sky. She had slept for many hours.
After drinking deeply from the jug, she stood up with painstaking effort and looked into the distance. The land here was almost completely barren, its scrub trees low and stunted, like moles on skin. She imagined it in the dry season, baked by a merciless sun. It was why she had never tried to escape before. She took a hesitant step and felt pain radiate from her ankles and knees.
Three more days
, she thought.
I don’t know if I can make it.
Her heart, however, rebelled against her weariness. She pictured her mother’s face.
You will survive. Death is not an option.
She used the sun to locate a landmark to the southwest—a plane tree. She fixed her eyes on it and began to walk. The first mile was excruciating, but the second mile wasn’t so bad, and by the third mile she hit her stride again. She felt hunger gnawing at her insides, but she ignored the discomfort and concentrated on the tree. She passed it in an hour and replaced it with another landmark. She went on like this until sunset and then followed the stars until the moon reached its zenith. At last, she stretched out on the hard earth and slept until she woke again.
The next day, she found it much harder to get up. The pain was like a cloud around her, suffocating her when she tried to move. She gritted her teeth and stood anyway, casting off the fetters of hunger and fatigue. She took a drink of water and shuffled forward, managing a decent gait. The hours passed by without account. She no longer had the energy to talk to herself. Her mind was like a balloon, floating from one sensory impression to another. Occasionally, she recited a verse from the Quran to boost her morale, but that was the extent of it.
She rested at midday and fell asleep until evening. When she woke again, she put the jug to her lips and drank thirstily. Then she realized something. The afternoon was gone and it hadn’t rained. In fact, it had been a day and a half since the last shower. She swirled the jug and heard water sloshing in empty air. Food she could live without, but not liquid. She felt the despondency creeping in, like the vultures that continued to track her.
Allah
, she thought,
have you let me come this far only to die?
On a whim, she decided to perform the
Maghrib
prayer. She had allowed her piety to lapse during the journey. Her prayers had become irregular, then optional. She picked up a handful of dirt and used it to cleanse her hands and face in accordance with the prescription. Then she spoke the
takbir
and proceeded through three repetitions of standing, kneeling, prostrating, and sitting. At the end, she spoke her petition.
Please take me home to my mother and my brother. They are all I have left.
After this, she slept again.
The next time she opened her eyes it was dawn. She pulled her body upright, slaked her thirst with the last of her water, and started to walk. For most of the morning, her legs acquiesced to her will. But then she tripped on a rock and sprawled face-first across the ground. She struggled to her feet and stumbled on, but it wasn’t long before she fell a second time. She sat in the shade of a bush and nursed her bruises, watching the bright sky and seeing no sign of clouds.
Get up!
she commanded herself.
Go on!
And she did, for another hour, before she collapsed again and didn’t have the strength to rise. The weight of exhaustion dragged her eyelids closed, and she slipped into a state somewhere between consciousness and sleep.
Eventually, she heard a sound in the background, a noise like a motor that cycled in and out. After that, an unknown amount of time passed. Then she heard another sound, like the crunching of gravel. A shadow passed over her, and she heard a shout. She was so far gone that she didn’t feel terror, just the dull prod of concern. She felt herself being lifted and placed in a flatbed truck. There were faces all around, faces connected to bodies wearing military fatigues.
Al-Shabaab
, she thought.
It’s over.
The truck began to bump along, and more time passed. Someone put a canister to her lips and drizzled water onto them. She heard words being spoken in a fog. Nothing made sense. In time, the bumping stopped and hands grabbed her again, carrying her into shade. Shadows moved around her, touching her feet and arms. She opened her eyes to see what was happening to her and caught the blur of a red headscarf.
Who is it?
she thought, not understanding. Then she heard a woman whisper in her ear: “Yasmin. I’m here. It’s going to be all right.”
She opened her eyes wider and stared into the loveliest face she had ever seen. She mouthed the word once, twice, before she found her voice. “
Hooyo
,” she said.
It was Khadija.
The Renaissance
I held it truth, with him who sings to
One clear harp in divers tones,
That men may rise on stepping-stones
Of their dead selves to higher things.
—Alfred, Lord Tennyson
Paul
Annapolis, Maryland
May 12, 2012
Derrick parked beside the row of Tuscan pines and sat for a moment, staring at the house. He still didn’t know what to think about Vanessa’s invitation. She had called him a week ago out of the blue and asked if he would like to join her family for a spring cookout and sailing on the Chesapeake. He was so astonished by the offer that he hadn’t answered right away.
For years, he had avoided cultivating personal relationships with the families of hostage victims. The emotional dynamics were tricky; the past was an ever-present backdrop; and he had obligations to the Bureau that sometimes conflicted with the family’s wishes. With the Parkers, however, he had been swept into their orbit by circumstances out of his control, and he had forged a bond that he couldn’t easily sever, even if he wanted to—which he didn’t. He felt an unusual camaraderie with Quentin, along with the urge to protect him. And Vanessa was . . . She was . . . He didn’t want to think about it.
“Is there an occasion?” he had asked at last.
“Nothing formal,” she replied.
“Was it Quentin’s idea?”
She took a breath. “He wants to remember what happened. He thinks hearing your voice might help.” She went on quickly: “But that wasn’t the only reason. He’d like to hear you play again.”
“And you?” Derrick asked. “How do you feel about it?”
Her voice softened. “I’d like to hear you play again, too.”
For days, he had tried to purge his mind of those words. They didn’t mean anything; they couldn’t mean anything. She had a fond recollection of the song he had played and the way Quentin had responded, nothing more. But something inside of him didn’t want to let go of her voice. Playing Chopin in her living room had been one of the most poignant experiences of his life.
At last, he left his car and walked to the door. She met him in the foyer clad in sandals, capris, and a navy-blue sweater with dots that looked like stars. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail.
“Paul,” she said with a smile. “Come in. Quentin and Ariadne are getting the boat ready. Can I get you anything to drink? Water, lemonade, coffee?”
“I’m fine, thanks,” he said, following her into the living room and admiring the antique map of Rome on the wall. “I love the print. I didn’t see it before.”
She came up beside him. “Daniel had a fascination with maps.” She fixed her green eyes on him. “I should warn you—Quentin hates using the motor. We’ll be at the mercy of the wind.”
He laughed, trying to ignore how fetching she looked. “It’s good for me. According to my sister, I don’t know how to relax.”
Vanessa smiled warmly. “I know what you mean.” She grabbed a sailing jacket off of one of the chairs and tossed it over her shoulder. “Come on. I want to introduce you to someone.”
He trailed her out the back door and saw a man with silver hair tending the poolside grill.
“Ted,” Vanessa said, “this is Paul Derrick. Ted is my stepfather and our chef du jour. He makes the best tenderloin on the East Coast.”
“Somebody’s got to cook the food,” Ted said with a smile, looking Paul up and down. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you don’t look like a G-man.”
Derrick smirked. “Nobody’s ever said that to me before.”
“Whoa, you have a sense of humor, too. I’m going to have to check your badge before I let you go out with my daughter.” Ted grinned. “On the water, I mean.”