The Girl Who Married an Eagle Page 2

  “Kah! That is nothing! Bad Odor, do you not agree that she is the fairest maiden in the village? Her face scars are the thickest and most evenly spaced. Her front teeth were extracted without any damage to her palate. And where until just two moons ago she sported guavas on her chest, are they not mangoes now? Husband, I tell you that she will bleed when I cycle next. Believe my words, for I can smell it rising on her now. Tell the chief that he must deliver fifteen goats—all under two years of age, and twenty hens. No roosters!”

  Bad Odor could but pace for the excitement. “Yes, yes, but then we have a deal. Yes?”

  In reality Bad Odor did not even have to ask Paddle her opinion—not on anything—but Grasshopper Paddle descended from a clan of much higher rank than that of Bad Odor. Not only was she a member of the nobility, but she was a cousin of the chief. Therefore she was automatically considered to be the brighter of the pair. As usual, there had been a shortage of available females when he chose a wife, and she had cost him dearly. One values that for which one has paid dearly. One even values that thing’s opinions—even if that thing is just a wife.

  “Then we will have a deal,” Paddle said. “But remember, Bad Odor, that when Chief Eagle dies—as is the case when any chief dies—all his wives must be buried alive with him, in order to escort him into the next world. Are you prepared for that to happen?”

  Bad Odor froze. “Yala! Why must you always throw gravel in my path?” He thought for a moment. “Then it is our duty to see that Chief Eagle lives an especially long life. You personally will taste every one of his meals in order to guard against poisoning.”

  “Excellent,” said Paddle, “for I am a small eater. Now I shall no longer have to cook!”

  “Kah! I should box your ears, foolish woman.”

  “Aiyee,” cried Buakane from outside her listening hole.

  “You spoke of ears,” Paddle said, “and behold, now the walls have grown some. Quick, hand me an arrow, husband, that I might pierce the ears of our nosy neighbors—they who have taken the old crone’s place.”

  “Aiyee,” Buakane cried again. “Baba, it is only me—she who must now be buried alive, her arms and legs broken, dirt filling her mouth and nostrils, as she gasps for her last breath. Baba, do you hear me?”

  “I hear you well, you foolish child. Now get in here at once before the entire village hears you.”

  Buakane moved as fast as a pouncing leopard, so that she virtually fell into the hut just as her father opened the door. He slammed it shut behind her and then picked her up by the armpits.

  “Your mother is right; you are indeed a foolish child,” he said. “You possess many good qualities, but I am not so sure that discernment is one of them. Did you honestly think that your mother and I would let Chief Eagle’s men do that which you described? Indeed, we would not! Your mother—she who comes from the higher-caste clan—has relatives up in Basongo who will hide you.”

  “Tatu, do you mean that I am not to marry Chief Eagle?”

  “Tch, your simplicity tries my patience, daughter. Of course you will marry Chief Eagle. As long as he lives you will be well fed and you will have your own hut.”

  “And you will be rich,” Paddle said pointedly to her husband.

  Bad Odor glared at his wife. “Higher clan or not,” he said, “your mouth offends me.” He turned back to Buakane. “You will be Chief Eagle’s twenty-third wife, but you must run into the bush immediately that the chief shows signs of a serious illness. If you are questioned, say that it is to relieve yourself. Do you understand, daughter?”

  Buakane nodded, her gentle eyes now large with fear. “But, Tatu,” she said to her father, “I do not understand why Chief Eagle would want to marry me. Ours is a large village, so that there are many other girls that the chief could have selected instead. I can think of several who would be much better suited to his taste than I.”

  Paddle and Bad Odor exchanged knowing glances. Was not the daughter whom they had created together truly a marvel? Any other girl, even one only half as beautiful as she, would have been unbearably conceited. By now, such a girl would have been driven out of the village by a flock of jealous harpies. Or else such a girl might have met a disastrous end at the hand of an oversexed bachelor.

  Truly, truly, bulelele, so far it had been Buakane’s innocence and attendant good nature that had protected her from folly. Clearly, she must marry Chief Eagle as soon as possible and be under his protection. He was still a young man—as far as chiefs went (albeit not young altogether)—and as for the future, that would sort itself out.

  “You must hurry to the women’s place along the stream and bathe,” Bad Odor said. “Your mother will go with you. Then you will rub your body with palm oil until it glistens.”

  “But, Bad Odor,” Paddle said, “we have just enough palm oil left for the evening meal.”

  “Shut up, wife,” Bad Odor said. “Why must you always think like a woman? Tomorrow we will be rich! Now what was I saying?”

  “You were being harsh to the mother of the chief ’s future wife,” Buakane said.

  Bad Odor glared at his daughter, but he dared not reprimand her, for he knew how obstinate she could be. “Yes, that is it exactly,” he said. “And while you are at the stream bathing, I must go and speak with the chief.”

  ONE

  Julia Elaine Newton was young and naive, but she was not altogether stupid. She had come to the mission field fully aware that, while God was the Supreme Judge, the only one whose opinion really mattered, she was going to be judged left and right anyway. So be it; she had nothing to hide.

  She’d been born and raised in Oxford, Ohio, the home of Miami University. Her father was a professor of European History at MU, and her mother was a grammar school teacher in the public school system. Her mother was also active in the PTA, and both her parents were avid bowlers. The family belonged to a middle-of-the-road Protestant denomination, and they considered themselves to be as midwestern as one could get. In other words, Julia Newton came from a normal American family, and she probably would have stayed just “plain boring Julia,” had it not been for the Missions Day program the summer after she graduated from college.

  Julia had already been hired to teach at the high school in Oxford when the family’s minister fortuitously invited a missionary from Africa to give the guest sermon at their church. This was a highly controversial gesture on the minister’s part, because this particular middle-of-the-road Protestant church was notoriously lukewarm on the idea of foreign missions. It was a subject that made a lot of people uncomfortable, and since being comfortable was the American Dream, anything negative was to be left at the doorway of the church.

  After all, every year the congregation took up a special offering, to collect a few dollars to feed some starving children with bloated bellies in far-off Africa. Some years the offerings were diverted to emaciated children (with hollow eyes) in India. And, of course, with the money went some religious literature that was to be translated, in hopes of saving a soul or two. This was enough to make everyone feel like he or she had done their part until the following year, when the next Missions Sunday rolled around again.

  But this year was different. The guest speaker on Missions Sunday was a man by the name of Brother Zug. Oddly enough, Brother Zug did not even belong to the same pleasant middle-of-the-road denomination. Whether his visit was fate, happenstance, or God’s will, what he had to say changed the young woman’s life.

  “True disciples of Jesus,” he said, “don’t spend their evenings sitting on overstuffed sofas watching Ed Sullivan on TV. Neither do they spend their weekends at the bowling alley drinking beer with their friends, or out playing golf. No sir, true disciples give everything they have to the poor, and then they follow Jesus to the ends of the earth. If you don’t believe me, then look it up in your bibles. In the Book of Luke, verse three, Jesus tells his disciples that they shouldn’t even pack an extra set of clothes.”

  Brother Zug smelled his
armpits and wrinkled his nose, carried on like nobody’s business, but not a soul had laughed. The citizens of Oxford, Ohio, in 1959 were civilized people. They bathed or showered daily. They also changed their clothes frequently. Some, but not all of them, changed their underwear daily—just in case they were to be hit by a car.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” Brother Zug said.

  “Oh, yeah,” Professor Newton grunted. “I just bet you do.”

  “Shhh,” Mrs. Newton said.

  “You’re wondering what the disciples did about their underwear.”

  A nervous twitter rippled through the congregation. It happened so fast, however, that Julia couldn’t tell which of the many stony faces had reacted to Brother Zug’s surprisingly off-color humor.

  “Well, I’ll tell you,” the visiting preacher shouted in a voice that rumbled like thunder. “They probably wore nothing under their tunics—just like the Scots wear nothing under their kilts. But now that I have your full attention again, let me remind you of something: it is our responsibility, as Christians, to see to it that every person, in every distant land, has the opportunity to hear the good news of salvation before they die. If not—well, those who die in sin will spend all of eternity in hell, screaming in agony as they dodge flame after flame. Tell me something, do you want that on your conscience?”

  Brother Zug pointed to Mrs. Crabtree, who always insisted on sitting in the front, center pew, even though she wasn’t hard of hearing. Mrs. Newton claimed that it was because Viola Crabtree had the vanity of a peacock and spent hours getting ready for church every Sunday morning. After she’d gone to all that trouble, she damn well better be seen. Especially by the reverend.

  “You,” Brother Zug said, still picking on Viola Crabtree, “are you prepared to pick up your cross and follow Jesus?”

  Viola whimpered something to which neither Julia nor anyone in her family was privy. She was probably asking if there were hair dryers in Africa.

  Brother Zug continued to press his point. “Are you prepared to follow him through mosquito-filled swamps, where the trees are festooned with snakes and where cannibals lurk in the shadows, armed with their bows and poisonous arrows?”

  Poor Viola. Julia almost felt sorry for her. Mrs. Crabtree was squirming like a worm on a hook and had actually managed to scrunch down about two inches. At the same time, Julia was growing intensely envious of the old lady. How she would love to be asked those same questions! A quick disclaimer, though: Julia detested both snakes and mosquitoes, but the words festooned and lurk—oh my stars, were they ever so romantic!

  Now you can bet that most of these middle-of-the-road church members, many of whom were already thinking of Sunday dinners followed by afternoon naps, did not want to have a guilt trip thrust down their throats. A few of them were polite enough to stick it out until the end, but the majority of them simply got up and walked out. To be fair, Julia would hasten to add, no one booed, and not one of those who stayed said anything rude to Brother Zug.

  All right, that’s not quite true. Julia’s mother did say, “How very interesting,” as she shook the visiting preacher’s hand. Anyone who knew Mrs. Newton well would recall that she was originally from Charleston, South Carolina, and therefore recognize her comment as a scathing rebuke clothed in velvet.

  Of course Julia didn’t know what Brother Zug thought about this, just that he smiled at her mother and nodded. Julia’s father shook the guest preacher’s hand but said nothing. Julia, however, babbled like a maniac, because suddenly it seemed like she’d found her life’s purpose—the reason God had put her on this earth.

  Julia begged off eating her mother’s Sunday pot roast—which she dearly loved, by the way—and joined her preacher’s family for dinner, since they were hosting Brother Zug. It was common knowledge that the preacher’s wife was a terrible cook, but strange as this may sound, it too may have been part of God’s plan. Instead of eating, Julia and Brother Zug talked about the grave need for missionaries in deepest, darkest Africa.

  There was a tribe of former headhunters called the Bashilele, Brother Zug said, that practiced both polygamy and polyandry. Julia knew what polygamy meant, but Brother Zug had to explain that polyandry meant that a woman was allowed to marry more than one husband. Apparently this practice was a response to the fact that the powerful, rich men like the chief and his elders could afford many wives. The result was that other men had to be content with sharing wives. In fact, because of the shortage of available single women, it had become the practice to marry children.

  The Bashilele were a tribe of warriors who’d resisted outside influence until 1950. That was when a courageous Mennonite family, Russell and Helen Schnell and their four children, leased land from the Belgian government upon which to build a mission station from scratch. Not only did they build a church, but a school, and Mrs. Schnell presided over a boarding school for the runaway child brides of these fierce Bashilele warriors.

  “She is a very kind, gentle woman, with a heart of gold,” Brother Zug said. “There is no doubt that the Lord has his angels guarding her every step.”

  Julia expressed her deepest admiration for Mrs. Schnell, declaring her a true heroine for modern times. Brother Zug waved his fork with great excitement, oblivious to the piece of rubbery roast that clung precariously to the tines of his fork.

  “Yes, yes, and you can be the next Helen Schnell, don’t you see?”

  “How?”

  “We have built a new station to the north, perhaps some sixty kilometers distant. That territory is still Bashilele, but it is ruled by a different chief—one who claims to be half eagle, and that is his name: Eagle. Chief Eagle.

  “We had two couples assigned to that mission station. One of the men is the station’s builder and mechanic, plus runs the boys’ school, and the other missionary handles most of the preaching and evangelizing. In the Belgian Congo, boys take precedence, I’m afraid.

  “The preacher’s wife is a nurse—oh my, is she ever kept busy handing out sulfa pills and what have you—and the other woman was the girls’ school principal.”

  Julia’s minister gently pulled the hand wielding the waving fork down to the table. “Brother Zug, what do you mean by was?”

  “This woman—her name was Elizabeth—died two years ago, and we’ve had a hard time keeping a replacement. You see, this is a very primitive, remote mission, and the job is not without its potential perils.”

  “Perhaps you should help us see better,” said Julia’s minister.

  “With God’s help,” said Brother Zug. He closed his eyes briefly. “Bear in mind that these little girls who are taken in and sheltered are also the wives of grown men. And these men are warriors, who are armed to the teeth with machetes and carry six-foot bows that shoot razor-sharp arrows. They also live by hunting. Believe me, these Bashilele men know how to kill.”

  “Brother Zug, please,” said the preacher’s wife said with a shudder. “Do you really think this sort of blunt talk is appropriate in front of a young lady?”

  “Yes, sister, I do,” Brother Zug said. “We are discussing female children half her age, who are forced to engage in sexual relations with men in their forties. If I can convince this young lady to go to Mushihi Station and save a few of these girls from their so-called husbands, then maybe we can stand a chance at saving their souls.”

  The preacher’s wife turned the color of rhubarb pie before fleeing the table. Julia felt awful for her, but really, Brother Zug was right. If Jesus had called on his followers to save souls, then surely that was more important than having a pleasant dinner conversation. And to be honest, it was also more important than sparing one’s hostess’s feelings. After all, no one could be more blunt about it than the Lord himself in chapter 14 of the Book of Luke.

  “I’ll go,” Julia said. She’d needed surprisingly little persuasion. It just felt so right, somehow. Maybe the Holy Spirit really was moving in her heart, and this was that “call” she’d heard so much a
bout.

  “Whoa, there!” said her minister, he of the middle-of-the-road church. “Julia, you haven’t even asked your parents—or me!”

  “I don’t have to; I’m twenty-one.”

  Brother Zug beamed. “I always said that when God moves, he works incredibly fast. Praise the Lord!”

  “Amen,” Julia’s minister said, “but really, Brother Zug, this isn’t the place to recruit your foot soldiers.”

  “Foot soldiers?” Julia asked.

  “For the Lord’s army,” Brother Zug said. He winked. “Although I see you rising through the ranks to lieutenant in no time at all. What are you doing this summer?”

  Julia’s face burned with embarrassment. “Uh—I still haven’t lined up a summer job.”

  “Perfect,” Brother Zug said. “We have a missionary on loan who can handle things until the end of the year. In the meantime, you should go to Cincinnati to study the Tshiluba language—that is the regional tribal language—with one of the retired missionaries who was born and brought up in the Congo. The natives call her Mamu One of Us, because she speaks the language without any accent. I can arrange this if you like—at no cost, I assure you.”

  Julia’s heart raced. She was so filled with joy and anticipation that she wanted to burst out singing. So when Brother Zug, who was either a mind reader or a superbly gifted manipulator, began to sing “Onward, Christian Soldiers” in his rich baritone, the young woman joined in without hesitation in her warbling soprano.

  TWO

  Julia Newton’s first stop in the Belgian Congo was Leopoldville, the capital city. However, she was to remember almost nothing of that place because she slept like a hibernating woodchuck for two days. On the third she awoke drenched in sweat under a mosquito net and was so disoriented that she wished either to wake up from this nightmare of her own creation or else to find a hidden door in the room that would allow her to step into nothingness. Unfortunately, this feeling of “what I have gotten myself into?” was a familiar one, for Julia Elaine Newton’s most outstanding talent seemed to be that of getting herself into trouble.