Escape Under the Forever Sky (17 page)

Instantly, they broke into big smiles.

“Gimme pen?” asked the little girl. The older one elbowed her in the ribs. I guess tourism has made its way to the lower Oromo region.

The girls stood close to me and touched my shirt and my arms. It reminded me of being examined by
the lions. Had that really been just the day before? But you can bet I recognized salvation when I saw it. Somehow I had to communicate with these kids and get them to help me. I pointed at my chest. “Lucy,” I said.

The older girl pointed at me. “Lucy!” she repeated, and then, pointing at herself, “Didessa.”

“Didessa” I said, ecstatic. They got it! The younger girl told me her name was Dilla.

“Can you help me?” I asked them. Even though I knew they wouldn't understand the words, I hoped they would get my meaning. But they didn't. They just looked confused.

“Help me,” I pleaded. “I need help. Please . . . I'm sick.” I pointed to my foot and held my stomach in a desperate pantomime. “I'm lost. I need to find my mother. Mother.
Emama
.” Tears welled in my eyes. I held out my hands, begging them to understand me.

They did. Didessa wrapped her arm around my waist and Dilla grabbed my walking stick and followed us, dragging it behind her.

“Amasegenallo,”
I whispered, drying my wet cheek on my shoulder. “Thank you.”

T
HEIR VILLAGE WAS
only a twenty-minute walk away, but even though my new friends practically carried me there, I didn't know if I would make it. I was so weak from exhaustion and hunger. While we walked (well, they walked, I hobbled), Dilla ran ahead to clear away stones and branches from my path. I was so grateful for their help I kept thanking them over and over in every language I could think of: English, Spanish, French, Italian, German, Arabic, Amharic—every language but theirs, because I didn't know how to say thank you in Oromo. With rescue miraculously, impossibly becoming a reality, I felt more and more anxious. How long would it be until I could call my parents? And
how long would it take them to get here? I knew Markos had to be looking for me; there was no way he'd give up, especially since I had made him so angry. I tried to figure out how long the wait would be. There'd be no cell service, so we'd have to go to the nearest real town for a telephone. An airplane ride from Addis couldn't take more than two hours, so it all depended on how far away that real town was and whether someone had a car or even a mule to take us there.

By the time we reached the cluster of small grass huts, we were surrounded by swarms of children who had seen us coming and spread the word to their friends. Most of the boys wore nothing but short skirts that hung down only to about mid-thigh. The skirts were made out of pieces of narrow cloth that they had just wrapped around their waists a couple of times. They all wore their hair very short and shaved in front—so that they were totally bald until halfway across their heads—and then there were ring patterns shaved into what was left of their hair. The boys had on almost as much jewelry as the girls: multiple earrings, wide gold bracelets on both wrists and one elbow, and thin strings of tiny red and blue beads around their
necks. A lot of the kids, boys and girls, wore bands around the backs of their heads with two long feathers stuck into the side. Some of the girls also had metal plates sticking out from their headbands like skinny baseball cap visors.

In addition to the jewelry, some of the older kids had decorative scars all over their bodies, tiny lines or dots in columns and rows covering their stomachs, shoulders, and backs. The older boys wore bright face paint, thick bands of red with white polka dots outlining their eyes, noses, and mouths.

Hands reached out to touch my arms, my hair, my clothes. I was
ferenji
again, probably the weirdest-looking
ferenji
they'd ever seen. I felt a tug and looked down to find a toddler holding my shirt, her runny nose dripping all the way to her chin—but, hey, who was I to pass judgment on the way she looked? The kids greeted me with big smiles and asked tons of questions, none of which I could understand. I tried to be friendly, tried to figure out what people were saying, but after everything that had happened over the last four days, I was beginning to think I might actually pass out.

All the commotion had attracted the attention of the grown-ups, some of whom came over to see what the fuss was about. An older woman took one look at me and sent the kids away with a clap and a few short commands. The next thing I knew, the woman was gently guiding me to one of the nearby huts. She talked to me in a soothing voice the whole time, and I understood that there was an international language of motherhood, no translation needed. She saw a sick kid, and she was going to make her better.

The round hut was shaped like a turtle shell. It was so low to the ground that I had to stoop to get inside, and even as small as I am, I could stand fully upright only in the center. The walls were made of a mixture of mud and grass, and the domed roof was entirely thatched grass. In the middle of the packed dirt floor was a cooking area, with a covered dish, a bunch of gourds, two baskets, and some cooking utensils nearby. A few animal skins made up the rest of the contents of the house. Automatically my brain estimated the total area of the space. How many people shared these one hundred square feet? Five? Six? More?

The woman was my size, with fragile-looking bones
like birds' legs. I was surprised by how strong she was: She used those skinny arms to roll out a heavy-looking straw mat, and then she gestured for me to sit down. I thought I would faint with hunger when she opened a clay pot and spooned out something that looked like cream of wheat into a small bowl. She gave it to me, along with fresh milk that she served in a cup made from a cow's horn. It was sweetened with honey that I knew must have come from one of the barrel-shaped straw hives I had seen hanging from the trees outside. The cereal tasted heavenly, and even though I knew I should eat slowly, I couldn't help wolfing it down.

While I was eating, another woman came into the hut, younger and taller than the first. She was using both hands to balance a large black earthenware jug on top of some rags on her head. Carefully, she placed the jug over the cooking fire for a couple of minutes and then poured warm water from the jug into a bowl. What she did next surprised me. She took my face in her hands and studied it, opened my mouth, lifted my eyelids, turned my head right and left. When she moved on to the rest of my body, I realized she was looking me over to see where I might be hurt, and I
cried because it felt so good, finally, to be cared for.

The women helped me take off my clothes. It felt weird and a little embarrassing to have people washing me, but soothing at the same time. The whole experience was so unreal, my nakedness was just one more bizarre thing. Together the women washed the mud and filth from my hair and body, scrubbing when necessary and pausing to gently unwrap my wounded foot. When they saw the gash, they frowned and the older woman left the hut, returning a few minutes later with a brownish paste, which she smeared on the cut. It stung like crazy, but I didn't complain.

All this time they spoke to each other quietly, except when they found some fig remains in my pockets, and then they laughed. I sat mute, too worn out to speak. At last, when I was reasonably clean and my foot was bound with a fresh rag, the first woman handed me back my clothes. They were so dirty I hated to put them on again, but it was clear from the very few objects in the hut that these villagers were so poor they had nothing else to give me.

The women knelt in front of me with expectant expressions on their faces. I guessed they wanted me
to start, and so, pointing to my chest, I said very slowly and clearly, “Lucy. Hoffman.”

“Lucy. Hoffman,” they repeated in unison.

“American,” I said. “United States of America. U–S–A.”

“America.” They nodded.

So far, so good. I knew what I wanted to say next. I wanted to tell them my mother was the American ambassador and ask them to please call her right way. But I knew they wouldn't get any of that, so I just said, “
Emama
, Addis Ababa.” Then sticking out my left thumb and pinky and holding my hand to my ear in a gesture that I hoped resembled a telephone, I said, “Call her?”

I couldn't tell if they understood or not. The women spoke to each other briefly and then got up and waved at me to follow them outside. After the dim light in the hut, the bright sun was blinding. I shaded my eyes with my hand and squinted at the group of men who approached us. Two of them carried traditional headrests, small wooden stands that I recognized from the museum in Addis. Another had a rifle slung across his shoulder. All together,
they were pretty intimidating. I noticed one man was much younger than the rest—a teenager, actually—and he was the one who spoke to me.

“I am Bikila,” he said. He was tall for an Ethiopian, close to my dad's height, and his body was decorated with the same scars I had seen on the others. I tried not to stare, but, really, that six-inch skirt of his didn't leave much to the imagination. It's funny: My mother wouldn't let me out of the house in a skirt like that, but here you can't go out without one.

“You speak English?”
Hallelujah!

“A little. From missionaries. Go slow, please.” Bikila smiled, his teeth white and even, and I couldn't help noticing that underneath all that red paint he was really cute.

“Okay,” I said. “My name is Lucy Hoffman. I was kidnapped. Do you understand
kidnapped
?” He shook his head.

“Stolen,” I explained. “Two men and one woman stole me from my house. They took me away from my mother.”

“I understand,” said Bikila. “Say more.”

“I escaped—ran away. Now I want to go home to
my mother and father.” I took a deep breath. “Will you help me go home?”

Bikila turned to the others. I guessed he was translating what I had just told him. While they debated, I tapped my fingers nervously on my walking stick. What would I do if they said no? What could I possibly do? One man in particular seemed to be in charge. He spoke the most and everyone looked to him at the end for a verdict.

Finally, Bikila turned back to me. “We help you go home.”

I burst into tears. The men exchanged looks, thinking I don't know what. Probably regretting that they had offered to help the crazy girl. It took a lot of willpower, but I pulled myself together.

“
Amasegenallo
. Thank you,” I said, trying to sound sane. “I live in Addis Ababa. My mother is Willa Hoffman. She is the American ambassador to Ethiopia—” That got a reaction. It usually does. “Do you have a telephone? We can call her, and she will come for me.”

Bikila shook his head with a sorry expression. “We do not have telephone here. We go to different village.
But . . .” He paused.

“But?” I prompted.

“Today is holiday. We have
ukuli bula
. We go to village after.”

Ukuli bula
. The leaping over the bulls. I had seen pictures and read about it at the Ethnological Museum in Addis. It's a ceremony that marks the transition to manhood, where young boys have to run across the backs of a whole row of bulls without falling off, after which they're considered men and ready for marriage. I used to dream about being able to see something like this, but not
now
, not this way.

“Please, Bikila, please can we go now?” I begged.

He shook his head. “Abba say no,” he said firmly.
Abba
means “father” in Oromo, and it can also be used as a term of respect. I guessed he was talking about the older man who seemed to be in charge. “We go after. We go tonight.”

Tonight
. That left hours for Markos to find me. And when he did, armed with his rifle and a pack of lies, what would these villagers do? Would they believe the African man or the American girl?