Dave Eggers - What Is The What

It was not long, though, before more white people, and aid workers from all over Africa, began to descend upon Pinyudo. From a distance I could see the delegations walking through the camp briskly, always guided carefully by one of the Sudanese elders. We were sometimes made to sing for the visitors, or to paint vast banners of greetings. But that was as close as we got to them. The visitors never made it deep into the camp, and usually left the same day they arrived.

Supply trucks soon came three times a day; we began to eat at least twelve meals a week-it had only been seven before. We gained weight, and projects were underway all over the camp: new wells were dug, medical facilities opened, more books and pencils arrived. With relative contentment and full stomachs came thoughts of return. Moses was one of the first boys to suggest going back to Sudan.

— We have food here, and things are stable, he said.-This means things are safe at home. We should go home now. Why should we stay? It's been a year since we left.

I didn't know what to think. The thought seemed mad, but then again, just as Ajulo had questioned our existence in this place, I began, too, to wonder why we were not on our way to some other place, or home.

— We won't have any elders with us, though, I said.-We'd be killed.

— We know the way now, Moses said.-We'll get twenty of us. That's enough. Maybe one gun. Some knives, spears. Put some food in bags. It won't be like before, like coming here. We'll have all the supplies we need.

Indeed, there was much talk among the boys of whether or not the war was over. Many thought it was time to return, and they were dissuaded only when the rumors of our plans reached the elders. An enraged Dut came to our shelter one night. He had never come inside our home.

— This war is not over! he barked.-Have you lost your minds? Do you know what awaits you in Sudan? It's worse there than ever before, you fools. Here you are safe, you're well-fed, you'll soon be educated. And you want to leave this, so you can walk through the desert alone? Some of you boys are no bigger than cats! Already we've heard of two boys who have left the camp in the dark of night. What happened to them, do you suppose?

We knew the boys who had left, but did not know their fate.

— They were killed by bandits just over the river. You kids wouldn't even make it past the Anyuak!

He was gesticulating wildly. He paused to collect himself.

— If any of you are thinking of leaving, leave, because you're too stupid to remain here. I don't want you. I want only the boys with brains. Leave now, and when school begins in the fall, I expect only the boys who are smart enough to know what they have here and what they don't have in the desert. Goodbye.

He strode quickly from the shelter, still stammering as he walked away. Some of the Eleven didn't believe the story about the bandits, because they could not imagine what the bandits would want from small boys, but after Dut's outburst, our general restlessness diminished dramatically. The prospect of school actually beginning was a fantasy that we wished dearly to believe. Moses, though, was not convinced. There was an anger growing within him and it would drive him to adventures worse than the one that brought him to Shendi and back.

— Valentine!

I was walking to Mass one day, always held under a certain tree near where the Ethiopians lived, when someone threw this name to the sky. I had not heard that name in so long. I turned and a familiar man, a priest, came toward me. It was Father Matong, the priest who had baptized me in Marial Bai. He had been visiting other camps in Ethiopia, he said, and was now checking on the boys at Pinyudo. He was the first person I had seen at this camp, outside of Dut and Moses, who I had known from my life at home. I stood for some time, silent, staring at him; it felt, for a moment, that the world in which I had first known him, my hometown and all it held, could regenerate itself around him.

— Son, are you okay? He placed his hand on my head. It felt wonderful. Still I could not manage words.

— Come with me, he said.

I walked with Father Matong on this day and other days, during the two weeks he stayed at Pinyudo. I don't know why he spent time with me alone, but I was grateful for the time with him. I asked him questions about God and faith; perhaps I was unique in the attention I gave to his answers.

— Who was Valentine? I asked one day.

We were on one of our walks, and he stopped in his tracks.

— You don't know?

— No.

— I never told you? But he's my favorite saint!

He had never told me this. Nor had he told me why he had given me this name.

— Who was he? I asked him.

We were walking past an airfield. A group of soldiers were unloading enormous crates from a cargo plane. Father Matong stood for a moment, watching, then turned and we walked back in the direction of the camp.

— He was alive so long ago, son. Before the grandfather of your grandfather. Before his grandfather and his grandfather. Before more grandfathers than there are stars. He was a priest like me, an ordinary priest named Valentine. He worked in Rome, in a place now called Italy, far north from here, where white people live.

— So he was a white man? I asked. The thought had not occurred to me.

— He was. And a selfless man. He preached to his flock but also took a particular interest in prisoners. At the time, many men in Rome were imprisoned under questionable circumstances, and Father Valentine did not want to deprive them of the gospel. So he went to these captives and he spoke the word of the Lord, and these men were converted. The jailers did not appreciate this. They resented his presence and the light he brought to lives of the prisoners. So he, too, was punished. He was jailed, he was beaten, he was sent away. But again and again, he found ways to speak to the prisoners, and soon he even converted the blind daughter of the jailer himself.

As we had been walking, we hadn't realized that we were so close to the barracks of the Ethiopian troops. We heard voices, and were soon upon a group of soldiers crowded together, watching a struggle on the ground before them. It seemed like some sort of wrestling, though only one of the participants was in uniform, and only one seemed to be moving. One of the wrestlers wore a garment of an Anyuak color, and let out a womanly cry. Again we altered our course.

— He visited the girl often; she was no older than you, my son. They prayed together and they spoke of her blindness. She had been blind since she was very small. Again he put his palm on my head and again it felt like home.

— But when the jailer found out about the priest's efforts, he was furious. His daughter brought the word of God into her father's house and that was the end of Valentine. He was jailed, he was tortured. But the daughter knew where he was being held, and she came to visit the priest. He was chained to the floor, but still they prayed, and she slept just outside his cell for many nights. And it was on one of those nights, when they were praying together before sleep, that a brightness came into the cell. It blasted through the bars and swirled around Valentino and the girl. The priest was not sure if it was an angel but he held the jailer's daughter close and after the brightness flew about the cell, circling like a swallow, it finally left through the barred window whence it came. The priest and the jailer's daughter were again in the dark.

— What was it? I asked.

— It was an envoy of God, my son. There is no other explanation. The next morning, the girl awoke and she could see again. Her eyes had not worked since she was a baby but now she could see again. For this miracle, Father Valentino was beheaded.