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CHRISTIAN SHORT STORY COMPETITION:

FIRST PLACE WINNER

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"To Save a Life"

by Althea Barr, New Zealand

The last chords of an organ voluntary echoed round the wooden walls of the small empty church, shutting out the sounds of the African dawn. They pealed and resounded and diminished until they finally sank away into silence. Father Peter sat for a while listening to the final echoes, lost in music's ability to communicate directly with God. Then the sounds of Africa intruded into the silence; a buzz and hum of insects, the song of birds, weird cries of wild animals, the distant thunder of gunfire. The war was getting closer.

Father Peter closed the organ, stood up stiffly and walked slowly down the central aisle of his church. It was a simple wooden building, with a corrugated iron roof, but the main feature that set it apart from so many >Mission churches was the stained glass window that gleamed in the dawn light, casting coloured reflections on the white altar cloth; blue, bright as the wings of the kingfisher, red like the stain of blood.

Years ago, during his training, whilst trying his hand at painting glass, he dreamt of making a window to grace a great cathedral. His final result hadn't lived up to his dream, but he had been pleased with it. In his first job as a new curate, he showed it to his vicar who admired it politely, pointing out that in their little Norman church all the windows were filled already. So he packed it away. Many years later, when his dream had changed from cathedrals to the more practical necessities of mission work, he brought it, and his few belongings, to this troubled corner of Africa. Now at last it graced his little church, telling, in simple lines and colours, the story of the Crucifixion, to those who could appreciate it.

A loud boom shook the church. Yes, the fighting was definitely coming closer. They had wanted him to go. His village was now in the firing zone between Government forces and the rebels. Some of his congregation might be fighting on one side or the other, or both, although he doubted it. Most were too busy trying to scrape a living from the dry soil. Possibly Isaac, the son of lacob-with-one-Ieg, who had gone away to Teacher's Training College in the city, might have the time and training to hold ideals one way or the other. There was no school until he came back, for the American teacher had left with the European Aid workers, when the fighting reached their neighbourhood. Father Peter tried to take over the school for a while, but he'd never been very good with small children, and when he saw how bored they were he sent them home to be more useful to their parents. He had little time anyway, since he'd become the area's unofficial doctor.

Before he left, Emil, the French doctor, had moved his dispensary into Father Peter's vestry, given him a quick rundown on the treatments for the most common ailments, donated him his medical dictionary and clapped him on the back.

"Eh, bien, mon vieux, the best of luck! I admire you, but you, you have no family, and I have my wife and children to consider, tu comprends?"

And Emil understood that for Father Peter, this village was his family. He had been here for twenty years. This was his life's work. He'd seen the eyes of the villagers following the cars that took the white people away. How could he leave them? It would negate all that he stood for, all that he believed in, all that he had taught. If staying was what was asked of him, who was he to refuse?

That was why he had played his organ, triumphantly thundering the glories of Bach against the bass rumble of the guns, and why he now went to make himself a cup of coffee before he opened his vestry/surgery for the day.

As he opened the church door, a man stumbled through it and slammed it shut behind him, leaning on it for support. He was bleeding, and dirty, an African in the camouflage ex-Army gear of the Rebels, slung with belts of cartridges and carrying a rifle which he was using to support himself.

As Father Peter hesitated, just for a second, the man cried, "don't you know me? I'm Isaac, Jacob's son!"

Father Peter moved forward to catch Isaac as he staggered and nearly fell.

"Are you badly hurt?" he gasped as he half-carried him up the aisle towards the door to the vestry.

"Don't know. Just patch me up, Father and I'll get away. Ifthey come and find me here, you're done for."

"So are you." Father Peter opened the door and helped Isaac onto a camp bed.

He prayed silently as he peeled away the man's frayed jacket to expose the ugly, gaping wound. This was beyond his capabilities. Even Emil would have baulked at it. This man needed hospital care and blood transfusions and stronger painkillers than he had available. But the hospital was beyond the firing lines and Isaac was a rebel.

Isaac cried out once then lapsed into unconsciousness as Father Peter cleaned the wound and tried to staunch the blood that seemed to flow, and flow.

He didn't hear the first gentle tap on the door. At the second, louder tap, he jumped and went to wash his hands before he opened it a little way, peering carefully round to find the worried face of Miriam. Emil had trained Miriam in basic health care before he and his Belgian nurse left.

"Come in quickly, Miriam. It's Isaac."

She stood there, taking in the silent, bleeding form, her brown eyes huge in her gentle face.

"Is he dead, Father?"

"Not yet. We need to get him to the hospital."

"But the fighting ..." she stopped.

"We must change him, Miriam. Can you find him some clothes? But don't tell anyone..."

"No, Father, of course. But they say the Army is coming. You must hide his gun."

Father Peter looked round the vestry. Hide it? But where? He took the gun and the cartridge belt and went into the church. He considered the altar, but they would be sure to look there, and besides, it seemed sacrilegious.

He went over to the organ. He opened the top of the little harmonium and thrust the gun deep inside, followed by the belt. Something broke as he did so and he wondered if it would ever sound the same, or if it would matter.

He turned to see Miriam, on her knees, with a bucket and cloth, in the aisle. "The blood, Father" she explained, moving quickly and efficiently down the church. When she had finished they stripped Isaac.

"The Doctor left some clothes. 1put them here for you." Miriam opened one of the vestry drawers.

"They'll be too small for him."

"Many people in the village wear clothes that don't fit. But you won't be able to wear them, later."

"He needs them more than I do."

Together they dressed him in the Doctor's old shorts and shirt. Miriam shaved Isaac's chin and washed his face and hair and feet and suddenly it was the old Isaac lying there, no longer the young rebel with his gun.

"I'll burn these in the bush." Miriam gathered up the bloodstained uniform. "Has the blood stopped?"

"I don't know. I think so, a little. But it's an awful wound."

"His father had a bad wound, when the crocodile took his leg, but he survived. They're a strong family."

"Let's hope so. Can you tell old Jacob, without letting the whole village know? We shall need his bullock cart to get his son to hospital."

"We'll say an animal caught him, perhaps, Father?"

Father Peter shook his head. "No, they'll know it's a wound from a gun. We'll say he was coming home to visit his father and got caught in the cross-fire. It's a lie, but nearer the truth."

"What is more important, Father, the truth, orhis life?"

Father Peter remembered how Emil had told him, with his French flair for uncovering 'les affaires du coeur', how quiet Miriam had been after Isaac went away.

"I'm doing my best to save his life, my child," he said wearily, "can't you see that?"

She looked at him keenly. "But would you lie for him, Father, to save his life?"

Father Peter looked away. He remembered telling her in his Sunday School class, "You must never, never lie. God hates liars." After that, he'd done his best to keep to his own words and set an example. He was unused to lying; he would be a bad liar. Could he do it? What was his moral duty?

He sighed again. "I don't know. If you'll go and get rid of those clothes, I'll tell Old Jacob. We'll close the Dispensary today. Maybe we can get Isaac to the hospital tonight. Hurry!"

He found Old Jacob supervising the boy who looked after his cows while the scrawny beasts wandered through the bush. He took the old man aside and explained that his son had been shot and needed to go to the hospital. Jacob insisted on seeing Isaac for himself. He stood in silence, taking in the bleeding bandages. "When did he come?"

"At dawn this morning."

Jacob sat down suddenly, beside his son. The old man reached out a hand and tentatively touched Isaac's face. "He still lives."

"Yes, but he needs to go to the hospital. We must take him as soon as possible."

'The fighting ..." Jacob gestured towards the gunfire.

"They should let us pass. If you go and harness the bullocks..."

"My cousin has the cart. 1 will send the small boy. He should be back by tomorrow morning."

Oh, my Lord, thought Father Peter, how will we keep him alive until the morning? But what else can we do? My car died a long time ago and Jacob 's cart is the only one in the village stable enough to carry Isaac without jolting him too badly. We could organise a litter but there are so few able-bodied men left.

Aloud, he said, "then we must do what we can for him. Send the small boy for your cart, and Miriam's brother can watch your cows with his."

Jacob hobbled to the door. At the threshold he turned, "and you will pray to your God for us," he said, "I think this is a matter too strong for the old gods."

Father Peter checked the young man's pulse, then the dressing, and then he went through into his church. He knelt at his rough-hewn prayer desk and prayed, for strength for the young man and for Jacob, for skill for himself for ajob he was not equipped to do, and for the ability to carry out what must be done. And he saw against him, not the warring of Government versus Rebels or even the New World versus the Old, but the old gods fighting against the new, and the age-old battle between Death and Life.

He jumped when Miriam tapped him on the shoulder.

"He's talking, Father, but 1think he's in pain. Can 1give him an injection? And I've made you some coffee."

All that day they watched the young man, first covering him for warmth and then bathing him in the heat of midday, when his temperature soared, holding him down as he thrashed and flailed in his agony. The painkillers were not strong enough but the man's fitness and physical strength enabled him to hang on as his blood drained through the bandages. A transfusion, thought Father Peter. He needs one, desperately.

"Where's the fighting?"

"Closer. Between the river and the thorn-trees."

"It'll be less at dawn. Get your sisters to make white flags, Miriam, with red crosses on them. We'll make a stretcher, and if the cart hasn't come by then, we'll carry him, you, Miriam, and me, and the blind boy and his brother."

"I may have only one leg but I will carry my son."

"Very well, Jacob, you shall do it. We'll cross the river at the ford and walk straight towards the army and when they see our red crosses they'll stop fighting and let us through."

"And if they don't?" asked Miriam, in a small voice.

"It's in the Lord's hands, my child. We'll pray and walk...and see. Go and get your sisters sewing."

He longed to go into his church and play his organ, but that was now impossible.

Suddenly, he realised there was a difference in theworld around him. It took him some moments to realise that the gunfire had stopped. Was the battle over? Which side had won?

It was then that he heard them coming. Vehicles that drove at speed towards and through the village, to brake with a screech and a cloud of dust directly outside his church.

Slowly and deliberately, Father Peter walked down his aisle towards the church door. As he opened it, the officer in charge, flanked by his minions, reached the entrance.

One glance told Father Peter that they were Government troops.

"You're the priest here?" the officer was a big man, burly and bullying.

"I am Father Peter Robins, yes. What do you want? If you need a doctor... "

"Are you harbouring rebels?"

"Rebels?" Father Peter let his voice rise. He stared at the officer with wide blue eyes. "This is a church, General. See for yourself - it's empty."

They moved forward, guns bristling, shoving him aside as they crowded into his church.

The General glowered at him. "I asked you a question, priest! Are you harbouring rebels, yes or no?"

Suddenly Father Peter was filled with anger, rage at these men who pushed into his church, guns at the ready and blood on their hands.

"How dare you!" As his voice rang out and echoed, the soldiers stopped, shocked and startled by his response. "This is a house of God! How dare you defile it with your guns and your bloody hands? Look at them!"

They looked at their hands. Some of them guiltily put down their guns. One made the sign of the cross.

"This is God's house!" Father Peter thundered, and they felt the vein of strength, of hidden authority, that underlined his words. "What do you think will happen to you if you enter God's house with guns and blood on your hands? Don't you care what happens to your souls?"

For a long moment priest and General faced each other, then the officer barked an order and his men hurried outside.

"Now," said Father Peter calmly, letting the pitch of his voice return to normal, "I'll answer your question. I'm the only doctor around here since the proper doctor left. I'll show you the dispensary. Follow me." He led the General up the aisle. Before he opened the door he dropped his voice. "You must be quiet, please. I have a young man here. He was shot - by your forces, I believe... " as the General began to speak Father Peter continued hurriedly "he went away to the city to train to be our schoolteacher. He used to be one of my choir boys. Now he's gravely ill. I wanted to get him to the hospital but your battle was in the way. Is it over now?"

"It is over. We have won. We are looking for..."

Father Peter interrupted him again. "See!" He opened the door. "We've done our best but we don't have enough painkillers and he desperately needs to get to the hospital. Can you help us?"

Isaac lay still now. He looked very young, and vulnerable in the Doctor's old clothes that were too small for him, and the bloodstained bandages. On either side of the makeshift bed an old man and a girl stared up at the General with tear-stained faces, not in fear, but following Father Peter's lead, in trust, pleading.

The General looked long and hard at each person in the small, airless room. Then he stared at the young man's broken body. He had seen so many bodies that day and he was sick of the smell of blood and death. The war was over. He had won.

He spun on his heel and marched off through the churchtowards fresh air. Father Peter followed him.

Before he reached the door, the General turned. "He must get to the hospital fast. I'll send one of our ambulances. Get him ready."

"Thank you, General." Father Peter hoped his relief was not too obvious.

The General looked past him at the figure of Christ in the stained glass window. "Pray for me," he muttered, so low that Father Peter barely caught his words "I, too, have blood on my hands."

Before Father Peter could answer, he strode out into the sunshine.

Father Peter entered the vestry. Isaac lay so still that for a moment his heart sank. "Is he still alive?"

Miriam nodded.

"If he gets to the hospital he'll make it. They're giving us an ambulance. Make him ready."

Father Peter went back into his church, where he knelt at his prayer desk for a long time. He remained there as the soldiers brought in a stretcher and carried Isaac carefully to the waiting ambulance. Jacob hobbled out behind his son. Miriam hesitated, then she came over to Father Peter and tapped him on the shoulder.

"Aren't you coming, Father?"

He shook his head. She smiled at him, then she ran down the aisle to catch up with Jacob.

Father Peter knelt on as the light faded behind the stained glass. Before the bright colours merged into the dark of the African night he looked up at the face of his Saviour.

"Thank you, Lord," he whispered.

JUDGES' COMMENTS:

Lucy McCarraher: "[In the Christian category] this had the best and most consistent writing style (though appropriately simple) and I thought the story had more bite yet more subtlety, better characterisation and structure (professionalism) than any of the others."

Jo Holloway: "I found this story gritty and realistic, and it coped with several underlying issues other than the hardships of war and the priest's spiritual dilemma - thus it was multi-layered. I felt it painted a striking picture of life as it often is - even outside of an African war zone. It got its points across without schmaltz or over-sentimentality, choosing to be hard-hitting rather than heart-string-bound, and thus was most effective. Well done!"

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: (Photo to come)

Althea Barr: "Although I call myself a New Zealand writer, I was born in St Leonards-on-Sea, Sussex, and educated at the Anglican convent school of St Mary’s, Baldslow. As my father was in the Navy we moved every eighteen months. Home base while he was at sea was Petersfield, Hants, but his shore jobs took us to Cornwall, Edinburgh, Naples, Bahrain and Cape Town. On the sea journey to Cape Town I met my future husband, Arne. We stayed on in South Africa for five years, based in Durban and exploring the Transkei, Zululand, Swaziland, Mozambique and Zimbabwe. Thirty four years ago we moved on to New Zealand, where we settled, raised three children, and now run a Design business south of Auckland, with our son David.
          I have been writing since I was a child - poems, stories and later, novels – fitting it around running a home and working full-time. What motivated me? In the beginning, make-believe may have replaced the companions I lost by travelling but writing became a compulsion, and a way of expressing my wonder or frustration at the world around me. Through writing I can explore situations and empathise with people of other countries. It is a God-given gift and I try to use it for His praise and glory. My poetry has appeared in several anthologies in New Zealand and my poems have been read and used in churches in New Zealand, England and South Africa. I don’t take all the credit for this. They were given me to be shared. I would like to share more of my work.
         A creative writing course I attended two years ago, led by NZ writer Graeme Lay, inspired me to begin submitting my short stories to competitions. While looking for a publisher for a coffee table book my photographer daughter, Lucy, and I are working on, this year, I tried Google and Sunpenny’s name came up. I entered the Christian Short Story competition with no expectation of winning, but because of the challenge. It was a great thrill to return from a sad trip overseas and find Jo Holloway’s e-mail waiting for me.
         I intend to give part of the prize money to our sponsored child in Tanzania. The rest will go towards the costs involved in getting into print. I have a novel ready…!"

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